ᯓᡣ𐭩

Cigarettes Out the Window

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

He always lit his cigarette too close to the window, like he wanted the smoke to flirt with the rain. You told him he was gonna set the curtains on fire. He said, “Maybe then we’d feel something. You wasn't in love, not really. Just two people orbiting each other out of boredom, or habit, or some soft ache we didn’t name.

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

You met at a party neither of you wanted to be at. He liked old French movies and stealing lighters. You liked the way he said your name, like it was a secret. After that night, you didn’t text. Didn’t follow each other. But you kept running into each other, bookstore aisles, the corner café, always half smiling like you knew something the world didn’t.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Then one day, he sat across from you and said, “You still think about that night?”. You said, “Only when it rains.” And he laughed like you’d never been strangers.