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Fuck, she thought. I only have four cigarettes left, and it's just Sunday morning. 2 am, Sunday morning, for a more annoying clarification. How are these supposed to last? At least it won't kill me to run out of cigarettes, literally. She's supposed to quit smoking, soon, but that's a hollow promise, as it is with all chain-smokers, who are so unable to control their substances, both licit and illicit. It's also a hollow promise to her friends, who've watched her quit, numerous times, even give away packs of cigarettes, then, not able to finish them, but days later out to buy a fresh pack. And it's never "now"; It's always "soon".

Her boyfriend didn't know how to comprehend this, also. He smoked as well, and now had to decide whether he should quit, so he could be supportive to her, so it wouldn't tempt her, and so perhaps he could do himself a little good to his health. She never asked him to quit as well, or quit with her. She didn't want to impede. But really, she did long for that; for good health, for her boyfriend to stay with her, and for the two to live long and healthy lives together. She realised the risk she's put herself in with every drag of the cigarette that she's taken, the momentous times she's had with her boyfriend, which so happened to involve a plethora of substance use, and finally realised what it would take to stop.

She pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and dragged.