Cigarettes out the Window - TV Girl

My boy Shou’ used to always smoke, cigarettes when he couldn’t sleep.

Shouta had a bad habit—read, addiction—of smoking when he found himself remembering the graphic events of Oboro’s death. He hated that he couldn’t rid himself of the imagery of the body, the splattered blood and small spew of intestines from the side of the rubble, the way ruby red blood coated the concrete. The anxiety of the fact he couldn’t save him, the anxiety that it might happen to one of his students. Some would call it overthinking, some would call it PSTD, Shouta didn’t care, he just wanted an end to the thoughts. Smoking fixed that. Momentarily, at least. Guilt always managed to overtake him when he was done, knowing you hated this.

He’d disappear for an hour and a half, and when he’d come back he’d brush his teeth.

Tonight had been another one of these restless smoking escapades. 3am and not yet asleep, curtesy of his insomnia. The memories of that night replaying like a torturous loop, looking over every memory and moment, thinking about how he could’ve intervened and stopped it. Maybe it could’ve been different in another life. He had on those pink ratty old sweatpants and a black hoodie, both slightly oversized on him, the smell of nicotine and smoke clinging to the soft and worn fabric.

But I could still smell it on his raggedy tee, and I could taste it on his lips when we kissed.

You awoke to find him missing from bed once more, his slippers gone from his bedside and phone misplaced. You walked out to see him on your balcony, cigarette in hand and black hair tied into a messy bun.

Poor little Shou’ used to always quit, but she never really quit,

“Ah-..” Shouta let out a small startled noise as he caught sight of you, flicking the cigarette to the concrete floor and putting it out with his foot. He hadn’t exactly intended to be caught. His tired voice sounded out, softer than usual. “..you should go back to bed.”

he’d just say he did.