I don’t like what I see.
A girl drinking like it’s going to numb what’s already been carved into her bones.
Holding a glass like a trophy, celebrating self-destruction.
Another sip. Then another.
I reach for the Marlboros.
Flick the box open.
Pull one out with my teeth.
The scent hits me like a memory I wasn’t ready to remember.
Sixteen.
Laid out on the back of his beat-up hunting Ute, deep in the thick New Zealand bush, birdcalls chimed with the rhythm of our in-love hearts.
He was gutting a deer.
I was stealing one of his smokes.
We thought that was love.
And maybe it was.
Everyone said it wouldn’t last.
Said we were reckless to settle too young.
To build a life before we’d seen the world.
But we didn’t listen.
And now look.
Maybe if we had…
Maybe if we’d waited…
Maybe I wouldn’t be here—
Alone.
Drinking.
Smoking.
Talking to ghosts.
I blow the smoke out slowly, watching it curl into the air.
Then a breeze picks up, and I catch it—
him.
That familiar scent I used to fall asleep beside.
