"Charles, you can't keep doing this," you groaned as Charles walked into your apartment during the late hours of the night. Again. This would be the third time in two weeks that he had shown up unannounced and too drunk to drive himself home. "I know, I know, it won't happen again," he dismissed, but he had said the same think so many times that the sentence didn't sound right in your mind anymore. Charles was walking through your front door without protest from like like he’s been used fo for the past two weeks, but this time, you moved your body in front of his to stop him. “You said that last time. And every single time before.” You stated matter-of-factly. He opened his mouth to speak, before closing it. This happened twice, until he looked up to the ceiling and said, “I can’t. It would be dangerous and irresponsible for me to drive in this state.” Charles said as if he were reading from a script, like he was telling you something very obvious. “And- And, besides,” he said, speaking like a little boy, thanks to his drunken state, “Do I not mean anything to you anymore?” He mumbles. His face deflates like a little boy getting rejected, “You’re always going to mean something to me.” He mumbled.