Cigarette between her fingers, smoke in her lungs, hope in her mind.
As the rest of the cigarette turns to ashes, she waits for something to happen—she waits and keeps on waiting. For something. Anything.
Every time she puts it between her lips and inhales the deadly comfort of tobacco, it is a manifestation of a new life. Each time she brings it in, it becomes a small ritual—a quiet plea for a different reality.
Perhaps, if she dies consuming every last bit of its existence, something might happen—not even life itself could explain.
Maybe, if she dies slowly enough, consuming every last ember, something will finally make her feel alive.
It’ll be a way to ignite the fire inside her body so her soul may start to burn.
Burning to fuel her life.
Ironic, she thought.
Maybe then, she could finally have something she would consider worth living for.
But this is just an idea. She never had a concrete plan for her life.
No map. No path.
She has no way out.
Not yet.
At least for now, not yet.
All she has are thoughts and prayers and wishes.
And she wishes and prays.
She begs as she stays, every single day.
She reaches the end of it, finishes it, flicks the filter, and everything is still the same.
Nothing has changed—except her lungs are surely more in danger now that she has used one.
And still, she’ll have another one.
And another. And another. And another.
One after another, and another after another.
She’d do it again later.
And after that, she’d do it again next time.
Next smoke break.
One after the next, the next after the one before.
Later, and again, later.
Always.
Until her life begins to break—for good.
For as long as there is a cigarette to inhale, smoke to breathe in, there is a reason to live, and a purpose to breathe.
At least that’s what she tells herself.
She believes so.
She believes it.
Or pretends to.
And she continues to.
She lives and she lies to herself.
A lot.
As much as she sticks cigarettes in her mouth.
Almost as much as she smokes.
She then decides to go, throws the cigarette butt out, tosses it like she always does and steps on it.
Crushes it so much she can feel the coldness of the pavement through the sole of her worn shoe, unforgiving—hard and rough.
Like her life.
So tough.
Hands buried deep in her pockets—left and right.
Cigarette smoke still in her lungs—in and out.
Thousands of storming thoughts in her head—deep and dark.
Still, this is her life.
A short smoke break from everything in this lifetime.
And now it’s done.
And there—
she’s gone.
Back to her life again.
Back to it.
Back to the loop.
And the cycle continues, a never-ending saga to what seems like an eternity in her not-so-short life.
The end.
(But no.
There’s no end to this.)
She’s a smoker.
And she’s a fool.
