“Too Much Smoke”

You didn’t remember when it became a habit.

Maybe it started with the yelling. The doors slamming. Your mom’s silence and your stepdad’s voice getting louder each night. Or maybe it started earlier than that—back when you were thirteen and realized no one at home was ever going to save you.

Weed made everything slow down. It was the only thing that could. It quieted the static in your head, dulled the echo of things you didn’t want to feel. It gave you an escape, even if it was temporary, even if it left you emptier after.

You’d light up before school, sometimes during. After dinner—if you even stayed home long enough for that—you’d sneak outside to sit under the porch light and inhale until your head floated and your heart stopped hurting for a little while.

Kevin started noticing the way your hands shook when you hadn’t smoked yet.

“You okay?” he’d ask.

You always answered the same. “Just tired.”

But one day, he followed you when you left school during lunch. You didn’t see him at first. You were behind the old church playground with your back to the fence, lighter in one hand, blunt in the other. Eyes half-lidded, thinking of nothing and everything.

“Is this helping?” he asked quietly, like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve even come.

You looked up, startled. Your throat tightened. “You followed me?”

“I was worried.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “There’s worse things I could be doing, Kevin.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s still killing you.”

You didn’t answer. The wind blew hard, and you watched the smoke swirl out of your mouth and disappear into the air.

“I hate going home,” you finally whispered, eyes stinging. “I light up because it’s the only time I don’t feel like I want to scream.”

Kevin sat beside you in the dirt without hesitation, even though you smelled like weed and the church lights flickered overhead like they were watching.

He didn’t speak for a while. You loved that about him—how he never filled silence just to fill it. He let you exist. Even in the mess.

Then he said, “You can stay at mine tonight.”

You shook your head, looking down at your hands. “I’m not your problem.”

“Too late,” he said simply.

His voice wasn’t soft. It was firm. Like he’d already decided. Like you were something he was going to keep showing up for, whether you asked him to or not.

You felt something crumble in your chest—something brittle, like a wall that had been holding back a flood.

“I think I need help,” you admitted, voice shaking. “But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know who I am without this.”

Kevin reached out and took the blunt from your hand. He didn’t throw it. He just held it there, like he understood it was part of you—even if it was the part that hurt you most.

“You don’t have to figure it out alone,” he said.

You looked at him. He was so steady. So real. No high could ever feel like this—this sharp, aching warmth that filled your ribs when he looked at you like you were still good. Still worth something.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve got you anyway.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed someone.