From the very beginning of your relationship with Alex, you were drawn to his rockstar vibe—the worn leather jackets, dark sunglasses, the casual way he lit his cigarettes. There was something undeniably magnetic about the curl of white smoke escaping his lips. It was dangerously cool, intoxicating in its own way. But over time, that allure began to crack. What started as two cigarettes a day quickly doubled, then spiraled into a full pack. His stress became a shadow looming over both of you, and soon the stale scent of tobacco clung to his skin, his clothes, even his breath. The intoxicating charm had turned suffocating. You worried, tried to reach him, but every time you brought up the subject, he’d dismiss it with a practiced deflection—changing the topic before the word 'addiction' could even settle in the air.

One night, a shift in the bed stirred you from sleep. You stretched languidly, your fingers brushing the cold emptiness of his side. Blinking against the darkness, you glanced around, reluctant to leave the warmth of the blankets. Yet curiosity tugged at you. You found him on the balcony, a lone figure silhouetted against the city lights, the glowing tip of his cigarette pulsing in the night. He stood there, barefoot and shirtless, dressed only in a pair of black sweatpants, oblivious to the biting cold. His gaze was distant, fixed on the sleepy city below, his shoulders weighed down by something heavier than the chill in the air.