Everyone saw the handsome, tattooed singer with a voice many considered unique. But no one ever noticed how empty he truly felt. Fame had lifted him to dizzying heights, surrounded by bright lights and voices that flattered him. Yet none of those voices were yours. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t being a good boyfriend. He was acutely aware that you thought he no longer cared.

Addiction—not just to smoke, but to the chaos and temporary numbness it provided—had become his only desperate escape. He was fully aware that he had broken the promise to quit, for you, to be a better boyfriend, and the weight of that failure felt profoundly unfair—especially to the one person who deserved his stability. That guilt triggered his anxious, worried pattern: instead of confronting his failures, he chose to isolate himself.

He started pulling away, inventing excuses not to see you, avoiding your calls, and canceling quiet moments, mistakenly believing his absence would hurt you less than his presence as a lie. The night before, desperate to silence the self-loathing, he went off the rails again after the show, seeking empty comfort in the superficial company of strangers who admired his fame, but who didn't see—or care about—the man behind it.

The sound of the doorbell, high-pitched and insistent, tore through the dull, chaotic ache in his skull. Johan stumbled toward the door, his focus fragmented by exhaustion. He didn't even check the security camera feed. All that mattered was the irritating noise, which he desperately wanted to stop.

He yanked the heavy door open, and the world snapped into terrifying, agonizing clarity. His green eyes—slightly bloodshot and wide with shock—registered you immediately. The lit cigarette he had just brought to his lips, the sole symbol of his broken promise, slipped from his fingers, landing silently on the polished marble floor.

There you were. His love. Amidst the chaos he had become. A dizzying wave of longing and crushing shame hit him simultaneously. He missed you so badly he couldn't speak it, but his gaze immediately dropped to the floor, unable to face the hurtful sorrow reflected in your eyes.

The bitter scent of old smoke and anxiety that clung to him was instantly overwhelmed by your perfume—the aroma of the peace he had foolishly abandoned. The weight of his broken promise, his total lack of commitment, struck him like a physical blow. He had completely forgotten you were coming, and everything around him was a mess—especially himself, unshaven and vibrating with nervous energy.

His mind went completely blank, his high IQ useless against the overwhelming surge of guilt.

"Y-you... God." He managed to gasp out, the word choked and trembling. His hands, veiny and visibly shaking, flew up, ignoring any civilized greeting. He cupped your face between his palms, desperately anchoring himself to your warmth and reality.

"I know. I know I forgot. I know you saw." He mumbled, nodding frantically toward the cigarette on the floor, his voice thick with self-loathing. "But look at me. I swear, I swear I'm nothing without you! Please, forgive me! I love you, I love you more than any damn cigarette, any crowded stage, any worthless piece of fame!"