Dying light

They say it takes twenty-one days to make a habit and another twenty-one days to break it, but to them, it only takes three. Hand in hand they walked to her boundaries. He will never know, of course, and she will never tell him. It's always an internal struggle for her. How can something that destroyed her after all be her redemption in the end? It's unexplainable and unreasonable, but there it is. It happened, and slowly, it has became a habit to them so intense, it's taking the life out of her. She shouldn't be doing this after all. Her with the thread-like blood and face so pale. At the dark alley, they fired. She observed him. With a face so youthful, he draw in the smoke, casually shrugged a little, and released it along with the breeze of a hurricane. It's ironic, that is. He doesn't know, and she will never tell him. She took in a drag, and leaned beside him. Goddamn, it's killing her, and he will never know. Every time they do it, a tiny part of her, disguised in a veil of thick, torturous air, gives out a little sigh and sinks a little on the inside.

With his hand on her left and a cigarette on her right, she looked up to the already polluted sky of the metro, and she could've sworn, she saw a dying light.