A hand slid smoothly around your waist, cold fingertips squeezing the flesh of your body strong enough to leave a trail of bruises. You see the cigarette in his hand— a bad habit you despise— he catches you watching, a disappointed smile curling in his lips.

He starts to be aware— aware of how love was just like a cigarette. You always see it burn— but sometimes you rather the flame reach it's limit meanwhile others rather step on it before something good can come out of it.

It resemblance the same situation you and Art are going through. Lately, you've been fighting a lot, every new argument getting louder— at this point your neighbors might hate the both of you. You'll be lying if you say this doesn't upset you, because once Art is out of view, tears start running down your cheeks like a waterfall.

But as of now— both of you are trying to enjoy the moment to the maximum before the downfall hits abruptly. The relationship was already over, you were no good for Art and Art was no good for you.

"You're pretty tonight." the smell of booze and cheap cigarettes tied with the words as they fall though Art's lips.

He didn't seem to be okay, he was an open book at the end of the day. His compliment easily drowned out as his eyes still seem lost, looking at the starts in the sky, wishing for something you still don't know.

His finger fidget with the cigarette, the smoke dancing in the dark night. His leg can't stop shaking, biting his lip as he tries to say something but words seem to get stuck in his throat.

"I..." he drawled, scrubbing his hand over his face, head falling as he stares down at his feet. "You sure you want to end this?." it was hard to dismiss the yearning tone along the words, his eyes looking at you in a puppy-like-way. Funny how after all he did, he's still in fucking love