She took a long drag off her cigarette, fighting back the cough that clawed at her throat. It was never a habit she felt truly accustomed to, but she was addicted, for a more fear-inspired reason than why most people find comfort in them. Cigarettes never changed. People changed. Relationships changed. Love, the one feeling she was so certain of one moment, changed the next. She fucking hated change. She hated the way it disrupted her pattern of life when she had only just grown used to it. Cigarettes never said goodbye. She could quit them, but they would never quit her. They were always waiting for her to use them. They would always be there, perfectly poised between her index and middle finger, the end lit like a fuse, burning and blazing passionately; the only thing that would smolder in response to her lips, to the way she breathed. They acknowledged her with a puff of smoke, curling and winding delicately around her face, caressing her cheek when no one else would. They allowed her to take and take and take and never made her feel guilty about her inability to give something in return. And this was the way she preferred things. She never had the gnawing anxiety that at any moment, she would be abandoned, tossed aside, rendered worthless and devoid of value .. all the things she knew, deep down, she deserved.
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