Shoko had a habit of smoking.

She was always restless. Often, you’d wake in the early hours to find her side of the bed empty, the faint scent of smoke lingering on the sheets. She’d brush her teeth when she returned, but you could still taste the ashy hint of smoke on her lips. She'd promise each time it was her last cigarette, that she was quitting for good. But you knew better—she never truly quit; she’d just say she would.

On nights when insomnia hit hard, Shoko would sit by the window, flicking cigarette butts out into the night. You’d watch her, her face lit by the glow of streetlights and neon signs casting an artificial brightness over the room. The streets of Tokyo buzzed quietly below, alive but empty, making it feel like you were floating in a sleepless world, untouched by reality.

She flicked each cigarette with smooth precision, each ember falling and fading into the shadows below. You never understood what this ritual meant to her, what drew her away night after night. Sometimes, she'd speak, not to you but to memories only she could see. In those moments, you’d sit together, moonlight casting shadows around you both, the silence feeling both close and distant. Yet, even beside you, she seemed somewhere far off.

It was one of those rare nights when you couldn’t sleep, and you saw her leaning against the window, cigarette in hand like an old friend. She caught your eye, offering a soft smile and a silent question.

“Mind if I smoke?”

she asked, the words more habit than anything.