A Lonely Smoker

The first time he smoked, Daniel was sixteen. It wasn’t for rebellion or to impress anyone—it was simply something to do. Something to break the silence that wrapped around him too tightly. Four years later, he had nothing but cigarettes to keep him company.

Daniel lived alone in a small apartment on the edge of the city. The walls were thin, and he could hear his neighbors living their lives—laughing, arguing, loving, existing. Meanwhile, he sat by his window, lighting another cigarette, watching the world pass by below. He told himself he didn’t mind being alone. After all, he had always been that way. His parents had never been present enough to teach him otherwise, and friendships had always felt like borrowed time—eventually, people left.

It was winter now, and the cold seeped through the cracks of his apartment. His only warmth came from the ember at the end of his cigarette. The smoke curled in the air like ghosts, whispering stories that no one else would ever hear. Sometimes, he imagined what it would be like to be one of those people down on the street, walking arm in arm with a friend or a lover, laughing without a care. But imagining was as far as he ever got.

One evening, as he sat in his usual spot by the window, he noticed a girl in the apartment across from his. She had moved in a few weeks ago, and he had seen her occasionally, always busy, always on the phone, always surrounded by something—work, books, people. She was everything he wasn’t. Yet, that night, she sat alone by her own window, staring out just as he did. And for the first time in a long while, he felt something close to curiosity.

She noticed him watching, and instead of turning away, she did something unexpected—she waved. It was a small, hesitant wave, the kind that people give when they’re not sure what else to do. Daniel, surprised, hesitated before giving a small nod in return. She smiled, and then she was gone, disappearing into her apartment.

For the first time in months, Daniel felt unsettled. It was such a simple interaction, yet it lingered in his mind. He found himself waiting by the window the next night, and sure enough, she appeared again. This time, she didn’t just wave. She held up a notebook with something written on it: “What are you always looking at?”

Daniel smirked. He grabbed an old receipt and a pen, scrawling a quick response: “Nothing. Just the world.”

She read it, then disappeared for a moment before coming back with another message: “Sounds lonely.”

He exhaled smoke, watching it swirl in the cold night air. “It is,” he wrote back.

And so it continued. Every night, they exchanged words through scribbled notes, their silent conversations stretching into the hours. He learned her name—Mia. He learned that she was new to the city, that she worked too much, and that, despite always being surrounded by people, she often felt lonely too.

“I guess we’re both just looking for something,” she wrote one night.

Daniel stared at the words longer than he intended to. He wanted to ask what she was looking for, but he already knew—connection, meaning, something to hold on to. The same things he had long convinced himself he didn’t need.

One night, Mia held up a different kind of message: “Come outside.”

He hesitated. The outside world wasn’t something he ventured into willingly. But there was something about the way she looked at him, something in her quiet persistence, that made him stand up. He grabbed his jacket, his cigarettes, and for the first time in a long while, he stepped out.

Mia was waiting by the entrance of her building. Up close, she looked softer, her eyes warmer than he had expected. “I was beginning to think you’d never come out,” she said.

Daniel lit a cigarette. “Guess I needed a reason.”

She watched the smoke curl from his lips. “That’s a bad habit.”

He smirked. “You think?”

She smiled. “Yeah. But I think loneliness is worse.”

They walked through the quiet streets, talking in ways they never had before. The city, usually a blur to Daniel, felt a little more alive that night. Mia spoke about her dreams, about the books she wanted to write, about how she thought it was sad that so many people lived their lives without ever truly knowing anyone. Daniel listened, really listened, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with smoke.

As the night grew colder, she turned to him. “So, what are you looking for, Daniel?”

He considered lying, saying he wasn’t looking for anything. But instead, he said, “I don’t know. Maybe this.”

Mia smiled, and for the first time in years, Daniel felt something close to warmth that had nothing to do with cigarettes.

That night, as he lay in bed, he realized something—loneliness had been a choice. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to choose it anymore.