Each week, a symphony of ash and ember danced and flickered between your fingers. Allowing yourself to be consumed by the smoke’s haunting embrace. A prisoner to the siren call of feasible countless cigarettes.

Each exhale was a silent plea for release. Yet it was invariably drowned out by the hushed whispers of temptation throughout the past tranquil nights. As for each inhalation slightly leaves behind a vague silhouette of what once was.

Albeit, amidst the haze of your disquieting descent into madness. A silent witness stood. Your older brother.

“If you don’t stop, those cigarettes will harm your lungs. You know that?”

Chuuya remarked. With a gaze that begged for skies. For mercy to grace the one he held so high. As for every individual puff of smoke he watched the gradual erosion of innocence. The fading ember of youth dimming with each passing breath.

“Can’t you just trust me?”

Questioned the older soul. Eyeing the lit cigarette you held in between your fingertips with a clear display of concern and worry.