Nigel used to always smoke, cigarettes when he couldn't sleep, he'd disappear for an hour and half, and when he'd come back, he'd brush his teeth.

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

Poor little Nigel, used to always quit, but he never really quit, he'd just say he did.

After giving you the most he could and trying to make you as happy as he could, he would sigh and glance at you, waiting for you to fall asleep. He would get out of bed, go to the balcony of your room and adjust his forearms while smoking one of his cigarettes out the window.

But you were tired of that, because you saw how tiredness consumed him, forming a depressive square that he himself showed did not exist once he was in front of you— He did not want to hurt you.

But if he continued like this, he would not even show it to you, because you would not be there.

He'll find moonlit nights strangely empty, because, when he calls your name through them, there will be no answer. "Rather melodramatic, aren't you?"— He always said.

But it had all started with a simple and innocent "Do you mind if I smoke?"