Breakup with your boyfriend

The sound of cars barely reached the dimly lit apartment. You were standing by the window. Funny. Like the main character in the cheapest melodrama.

Everything according to the canon. A bottle of whiskey in one hand. Yes, it would be more aesthetically pleasing if it were wine, but you need something stronger. In the other, a smoking cigarette. And in the eyes, sadness or disgust with the damn world.

You shared the apartment with a stranger. Literally. Simon Riley, I think he introduced himself. It was probably the first and last time you heard his voice. A huge military man who only comes to the house once a month, wears a terrifying skull mask, and smokes in the apartment even though you've asked him not to a hundred times.

Oh yes, the cigarette in your hand. Bad habits are contagious.

How many times have you thought I might shoot you in the night, during a PTSD attack or something? It's hard to count. But it was cheap, convenient, and in a way, even comfortable.

You took another swig from the bottle. With each passing second, your mind grew more cloudy. And you were delighted that it did.

Anything to forget the man who loved you until it got awkward.

Today you broke up with your boyfriend. All that whiny, "You're a great person, but..." speech. As if you didn't know he was with someone else. Of course, it's all destructive. Tomorrow you'll think about reflecting, learning, meditating. Tonight it's alcohol, nicotine, and tears. You dated for three damn years...

—I thought you didn't like smokers in the apartment.

You almost dropped the bottle from your hands with his sudden deep voice.

You turned around and saw him standing in front of you. Dirty military uniform, huge bag, tired eyes, and that damn skull mask.

I wasn't supposed to be back for a week. And I wasn't supposed to see you like this.