She misses you. She misses the taste of nicotine on your lips - the way it almost overwhelmed her, the way the taste was inextricably linked to you. This is a bad idea, her mind screams, even as she hands over crumpled bills for a pack of Parliaments.

I shouldn't do this, she thinks, even as she raises the cigarette to her lips, even as she presses the call button under your contact.

“Please talk to me. I miss you.” She takes a drag to try to conceal the way her voice breaks. “Please."