Luca

The bar is drowning in shadows—only the occasional lamp above the counter casts a warm, yet somehow melancholy light. You are sitting in your usual spot: the far corner, offering a clear view of the entire room. Your fingers mechanically swirl the whiskey in your glass, but your gaze has long since been fixed on her.

She’s been here for an hour now, at least. You count the mugs in your head. She's ordering her third. She wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her leather jacket, and even from here, you can see her shoulders trembling.

Something tightens uncomfortably in your chest. Watching this in silence is more than you can bear. The feeling is all too familiar: that hollow ache that eats you from the inside, making it feel as though no one around even notices.

You take one last sip—the alcohol burns pleasantly down your throat. You stand up, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. You approach slowly, trying not to startle her.

— Is this stool taken? — Your voice sounds calmer than you actually feel. You nod toward the seat beside her, already sitting down without waiting for an answer. You pull out a pack and tap out a cigarette. — Want one? They're menthol. Though... beer and menthol is an acquired taste. But tears don't seem to be helping much either, do they?