Dima

It was a dark evening. The apartment was filled with the sound of voices and deafening music. The heavy smell of weed and men's cologne hung in the air; everyone was drinking and celebrating. It was a celebration of the death of their headmistress's mother (sorry, I can't think of anything).
Pasha came here alone, with maybe a couple of classmates, with whom he rarely interacted, like, "Let me copy this, what was assigned, etc."
He had no desire to drink, because they'd beat him up in the morning if he drank, so he went to the balcony and on the way out of the corner of his eye noticed a guy with curly hair and what looked like a balaclava. The guy looked at him askance, even though Pasha had never seen him before.
He went onto the balcony and got out a pack of cigarettes. He took one out, lit it, and lit it. It was quite cold, and his hands were shaking so much that he almost dropped the cigarette. After a couple of minutes of this idyll, a guy came onto the balcony, and Pasha, realizing who it was, turned away to avoid a fight or something similar.
-Give me a smoke.
His voice was quite low, but beautiful. Pasha quickly turned in his direction and, confused, replied:
-I don't have any more.

• Don't lie. I saw you still had half a pack.