I walk into the area that they call the smoker’s lounge and greet a couple of kids I used to know. Smoking on campus is against the rules, but after all, rules were made to be broken.

I lean against the red railing, my feet crunching the cigarette-butt-littered asphalt beneath me. I can see my breath coming out and curling away into the crisp morning air. Even though the sun has risen, it’s still freezing out here.

I just stare at the sun for a couple of minutes, which is a pretty stupid idea, and it kid of blinds me, but it’s pretty. Streaks of purple fly across the sky as if chasing something. Or worse. Running away. It’s all so lovely, but it never lasts.

I fumble with the new package of cigarettes in my denim jeans, and finally get it open. I’ve never done this before, and I will never do it again.

I hate them too much.

It’s then that I see a typical jock walking towards me. Ace. I recognize him only because he was my crush in the eighth grade, but he was “too cool” for me. He looks so out of place here.

Surprisingly, he stops at the railing next to me and leans against it, his arm brushing mine, and his baseball cap threatening to fall off of his head. I take out a cigarette and a blood red lighter and succeed in lighting my first (and last) cigarette.

“Hi.” I say, taking a drawl.

“Since when do you smoke?” He looks at me as if I’m a child. I turn away.

“I don’t.” I blow smoke into the distance. He laughs.

We just sit like that for a bit, each of us watching as the sky lights up like a firecracker. I need to explain myself to him.

“This will be my first and last cigarette,” I start, taking in another puff. “I just want to remind myself how stupid people can be, becoming addicted to some leaves in a paper roll. And then I wanted to remind myself that everyone is stupid, and that sometimes a roll of paper can look like the light at the of the freaking tunnel. And then I wanted to remind myself that I never want to look at one of these paper rolls again.” I finally stop talking and cough out a cloud of smoke.

Ace nods slowly.

“Want one?” I say after an awkward silence.

He looks at me warily. “You’ve changed,” he says.

“No,” I say. “You just never knew me.”

At that I let the cigarette go through my fingers, and when it hits the asphalt, my Chuck Taylor slams down on it, extinguishing the flame. “Bad lung cancer,” I whisper. The jock chuckles a bit. I slam the box of cigarettes at him.

“What an experience,” I say. “You should try it.”

And with that I take my leave, the last tendrils of smoke going away.

As I’m walking toward the school’s front doors, I realize that I’ve been a hypocrite. I accused Ace of not knowing me and judging me, and though he probably didn’t care, I still kinda feel bad. You want to know why? Because before just now I had never tried (or known) cigarettes, either. I said I hated them, but I had never even knew one.


Ace had never known me, or my personality.

I had never known the cigarette, or the addiction.