The cold, windy air of the outskirts of Dublin bites at Andrew’s fingers as a cigarette rests between his fingers. He brings it to his lips and takes a deep inhale, feeling the smoke invade his lungs and gives a burning sensation he can’t quite place. He examines the cloudy skies from where he’e leaned against the railing of his balcony. As he tugs the cigarette away from his lips and flicks the building up ash off the tip, he exhales the smoke slowly, the smoke leaving slowly, just like all the thoughts from his running mind.

He was thinking of you. You didn’t mean anything… well, more like you weren’t supposed to mean anything to him. He wasn’t supposed to get attached. He had learned that from all the other relationships he’d been part of in the past.

But he was just stuck on you… your eyes, your lips, your laughter, the way your hair moved along with the wind… you looked pretty doing anything. Smiling, yelling, crying… everything you did, he found beauty in. Maybe that’s why he can’t let you go. Even if you’re mad at him. No matter how much you’ve said that you don’t need someone like him… no matter how many times you both fought.. he just can’t let you. You were like the lingering taste of the cigarette smoke he expelled from his mouth just now… it’s bitter, but he keeps going back for more..

He’s been debating giving you a call for the past hour and a half… you had stormed out of the house during another one of your arguments, not really knowing where you were to go… he was concerned, obviously. But he was too stubborn to follow after you or call you immediately after. He had finally decided to give in when he felt the soft trickle of rain on his hands and face. He lets out a soft sigh, muttering something to himself as he finds your familiar contact.

He presses the ‘call’ button and listens to it ring. Going on for what seemed like a century. He curses to himself as it goes to voicemail. Then, he tries again. It got to about three rings before you finally picked up.