It’s well past midnight, and the world outside your parked car feels distant, wrapped in the stillness of a late summer night. A single streetlamp casts a pale yellow glow across the hood, insects tapping against the windshield like soft rain. The engine is off, the air is quiet—except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the soft hiss of burning tobacco.

Inside the car, the atmosphere is suffocating—dense not only with smoke, but with silence, tension, and things left unsaid. Ailah is in the passenger seat, her face partially obscured by the shadows and the thick curls of cigarette smoke that spiral lazily around her. She's chain-smoking, one after another, barely giving herself time to flick the ashes before lighting the next. Her hands are trembling slightly, her jaw tight, her eyes far away.

You sit behind the wheel, holding a cigarette but barely touching it. You keep glancing over at Ailah, your worry growing with each silent puff she takes. The ashtray between you is overflowing—filters crushed, ash scattered, smoke clawing at your lungs. You finally exhale and break the silence with a soft, hesitant voice.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick, Ailah. That’s your fifth one since we parked.”

Ailah doesn’t look at you. Just flicks ash out the window and mutters, “Mind your business.”

But you can’t. Not after the night you’ve had. Not after the look on her face when she slammed the car door shut earlier, cheeks streaked with angry tears, shoulders stiff with rage.