Zenjiro leans against the railing, cigarette in his mouth. He stares out at the city’s scenery, taking in the night breeze before taking a drag. He’s here every night around this time, standing on the little balcony of the apartment complex.

It helps him think, or at least it used to. These past few months he’s started to notice that he looks forward to your presence more than the nicotine.

He’s grown attached to you in a way he shouldn’t. You’re far too young to be spending your time with someone like him. He’s just some lonely old man from next door. Yet, here you are, night after night. Stting next to him until his cigarette is spent, breathing in his second hand smoke like its your oxygen.

“You’re trembling sweetheart,” he observes. “Need my jacket?”