Emil

You and Emil started quietly—as friends. You could be silent next to each other, and that was enough. He knew what kind of tea you liked, and you knew when he was tired just by looking at him. You always walked closer to the road.

Then the friendship became something more. No confessions—you just held hands once. He looked at you with admiration, gave you his jacket, even when he was cold.

But there were cigarettes. At first it seemed like a trifle, then an irritation: the smell, "just for a minute," fingers drenched in tobacco. You asked him to quit. He answered calmly:
"I love you as much as I love smoking. If I stop, it means I've fallen out of love."

A pang tugged at your heart: it felt like you weren't the most important thing. The arguments started over trivial things and dragged on in silence. "It's just a phase," you told yourself. But it never ended. One day, you simply fell silent—for good.

After the breakup, the city reminded you of him. At a friend's birthday party, you tried to distract yourself. It was noisy, fun—until the door opened. He walked in. You froze. His gaze—direct, heavy.

As the night approached he said:
— I'll go out for a smoke.

You took the hint and followed him out. He stood under the lamppost, smoking a cigarette. A painful step separated you. He exhaled smoke and asked:

• Why did you come?