The Smoke Belongs to Me
I’m wrapped in a towel, covering my body and my damp hair. The atmosphere feels calm, but every move I make carries intention. I light a cigarette slowly, savoring the way the smoke rises and claims the space around me.
I take a deep breath, let the first drag slip out lazily, and then I pull the towel away from my head. My wet hair falls freely over my shoulders, heavy and shining, like a quiet statement. I keep smoking with ease, each gesture steady, each glance aware of its weight.
There’s no rush, no need for embellishment. The moment builds itself naturally, between the freshness of water dripping from my hair and the firmness of the smoke I draw into the air. It’s simple, almost ordinary, yet I turn it into mine—a scene where everything bends to my presence.
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