It was midnight. Normally he hated cigarettes, but for some time now he found himself smoking the damn thing.

He blew the smoke into the dark sky. It was cold outside, November was chilling, but cold was never one of the things he thought about at that moment. He needed you. It was like needing breath, water, sleep. He could live without them all, but he couldn't live without you. He was an addicted man. He was a man in love with that colorful woman who gave him breath. But he was a man who would give up his breath for her.

He turned his gaze to the balcony door. If you were here, you would wrap a blanket around his shoulders and ask him to come inside so he wouldn't get cold. But you weren't here. It was for your own good that you weren't here. And he was cold. No, not cold, but cold because of your absence. His heart was cold, not his body.