She knows it was foolish. She was foolish. She lays back into her seat, bringing the cigarette closer to her face, before she stops and stares at the burning tip. The chuckle that escapes her lips is bitter, and she hates it more than the pastel taste that her cigarettes leave in . Her gaze drops onto her phone, the screen is pitch black, and there are no signs of any missed calls or unread messages. What has she expected anyway?

She feels like crying, but the voice in her head scoffs in pitiful spite, “you don’t even have the right to cry over your self-inflicted pain, moron. You broke your own heart.”

She sighs, but her breath is shaky, and the back of her eyeballs sting from all the unshed tears. She rests her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, watching the smoke’s faint shadow on the white washed walls of her room. She was a fool, a weak and impulsive fool, and now she suffers the consequences of the she has let slip out of her lips in a moment of anger.

She tries to think of all the bad things that now she doesn’t have to put up with anymore,, but her brain knows nothing but to reply the scene of her smiling down at her, before closing the gap between their lips. She spins around in her seat, staring at her bed, yearning for the comfort it would usually provide her when she’s beating herself over her fouls, but she can’t even crawl into her bed and curl up in a ball without thinking of her smell, and the way