The first time I saw her, I had a cigarette in one hand and a whiskey glass in the other. She walked into the dimly lit bar like she didn’t belong there, like the world outside had pushed her in by accident.
I was addicted to the burn of alcohol, the numbness of smoke curling in my lungs. But the moment she looked at me, something shifted. I don’t know if it was love or some cosmic trick, but suddenly, whiskey tasted bitter, and cigarettes smelled like regret.
She became my addiction. Mornings were filled with her laughter, nights with conversations that stretched till dawn. I never needed another drink, another puff—just her.
But fate is cruel. One day, she left. No fight, no anger—just a quiet departure. “Some things aren’t meant to last,” she whispered before vanishing into the kind of goodbye that lingers.
Now, I walk through the same streets, sober and hollow. And sometimes, just when I think I’m moving on, I catch her scent in the air—soft, familiar, impossible. It’s in the rain-soaked pavement, in the pages of an old book, in the breeze that brushes past me when I’m alone.
Maybe she’s gone.
Maybe she never truly left.