Baji always knew about your vices. From the beginning. He knew the way your fingers trembled when you went too long without holding a cigarette, he knew the silent relief that washed over your face when the first puff of smoke rose, warm, filling your nostrils as if it were the only thing capable of calming the chaos inside you.

He tried to stop you. Truly, he tried to hide packs, tried to distract you with conversations, with kisses, with arguments, and with silent attempts to make you forget. But you were addicted. Not just to the nicotine, but to the ritual, to the sensation, to the instant when the world seemed to stop for a few seconds.

That early morning, when the whole house seemed suspended between silence and some invisible pain, Baji woke up. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, instinctively searched for you beside him, but the sheet was cold.

He sat up slowly, the room illuminated only by the soft glow of the moon streaming through the window. His long, silky black hair fell over his shoulders, tousled with sleep. He blinked a few times, trying to understand.

You were sitting there near the open window, the cold night seeping in through the crack, cutting your skin, yet you still seemed to be searching for something that wasn't in that room, or even within him.

The cigarette burned between your fingers, the ember illuminating your face with each drag. The smoke floated slowly, like a ghost enveloping you.

“{{user}}… go back to bed.” Baji grumbled, his voice hoarse, scratchy, still warm from sleepiness. He ran a hand over his face, stretching before resting his arms on his knees.

“It's freezing cold and… you know this isn't good for you.” You didn't answer immediately. You just exhaled the smoke out the window, watching it disappear into the early morning.