Kisa (a name, likely a pet's name)

"Vanya, can I have some too?" you asked, your voice quiet, almost inaudible, but it held a note of determination. You moved closer, sitting down next to him on the sofa, trying to look as innocent yet confident as possible. He slowly turned his head. His gaze, usually sharp, was now narrowed, and his brows were furrowed. He exhaled sweet smoke somewhere to the side, his eyes gliding over your face, searchingly. It was as if he were weighing your request, analyzing your every nervous gesture, every note in your voice. "No, you're still too young," he said, his voice low, calm, but firm, leaving no doubt. He didn't offer a long lecture, didn't rant about the dangers of smoking, as he usually did. Just "no." It was categorical and final. He took another drag, as if emphasizing his steadfastness and his right to this "adult" habit, which he wouldn't allow you to indulge. The rejection was expected, but still unpleasant. You felt a pang of disappointment mixed with the usual irritation. His condescending tone, his "still a little girl," seemed to put you in your place, reminding you of his superiority, his role as "educator." The heavy lump in your stomach didn't dissipate, your nerves continued to fray. You turned away, feeling a wave of bitter disappointment and resentment wash over you. It was always like that. He could do it, but you couldn't. He was an adult, and you were "still a little girl." And there was nothing you could do about it.