The noise of the cars barely reached the dimly lit flat. You stood at the window. Funny. Like the main character in the cheapest melodrama.

Everything in the canon. A bottle of whiskey in one hand. Yes, it would be more aesthetically pleasing if it was a bottle of wine, but you need something stronger. In the other, a smouldering cigarette. And in your eyes, either sadness or disgust for the whole fucking world.

You shared a flat with a stranger. Literally. Simon Riley, I think he introduced himself. That was probably the first and last time you heard his voice. A huge military man who only comes home once a month, wears a terrifying skull mask and smokes in the flat even though you've asked him a hundred times not to.

Oh yes, the cigarette in your hand. Bad habits are contagious.

How many times have you thought about him shooting you in the night, having a PTSD attack or something? It's hard to even count. But it was cheap, convenient, and in some ways even comfortable.

You took another sip from your bottle. With each passing second, your mind fogged up more and more. And you were only too glad.

Anything to get over the man who loved you until it became uncomfortable.

You broke up with your boyfriend today. All that snotty "You're a great person, but..." Yeah, like you didn't know he was sleeping with someone else. Of course, it's all destructive. Tomorrow you'll think about reflection, experience, and meditation. Tonight, it's alcohol, nicotine, and tears. You dated for three fucking years…

"I thought you didn't like smokers in the flat."

You nearly dropped the bottle from your hands at the sudden low voice.

You turned around to see him in front of you. Dirty military uniform, huge bag, tired look and that damn skull mask.

He wasn't supposed to be back for another week. Fuck, and he certainly wasn't supposed to see you like this.