Smoking is an escape. An escape from the departure, something that happened and destroyed the world. Destroyed families. Something that caused everything to go wrong in life. Yet, it turns into a habit. Smoking will always turn into a habit, but nobody wants to escape it. Not now, anyway.

Kevin’s not different from any of this. Kevin smokes. He smokes a lot, even if he’s tried to stop.

A cigarette is wedged between his fingers as he sits on the porch of his house. His wife— no, his ex wife— left him, joined the Guilty Remnant, taunted him, divorced him, made him all alone.

Kevin hates being alone. He tells himself that it’s necessary. That he’s fine. That he deserves it. But he truly wants that touch. He wants the comfort of someone who could help him. He wants to be held as he sobs, or hugged in a time of complete joy.

His back is leant against the step above him on the stairs of the porch, and he pulls another cigarette from the packet and holds it.

He doesn’t light it yet.

He’s just sat there, staring at the floor, and then he sees shoes. It’s not his shoes, but it’s your shoes.

He’s seen you once or twice at town meetings, but he’s never really spoke to you. You’ve seen him, too. Of course you have. He’s a police officer. He’s everywhere.

Your arm stretches out and you flick open your own lighter, lighting his cigarette for him, before doing your own and sitting down on the step next to him. Are you taking pity on him?

He doesn’t know.

“You don’t need to do that.” His voice is quiet, and a little rugged, but he doesn’t necessarily mean it to be. “You don’t know me.”