She leans back against the wall, stuffs her cold hands into the pockets of her coat and watches the smoke rise from his mouth. The cigarette in his hand glows red in the dark.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore”, he says without looking at her.
She snorts. “Bullshit.” She steps closer. “Besides”, she looks around at the small buildings that make up the refugee camp, “where do you plan to go?”
He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t meet like this anymore. Your parents –“
“- are way too busy to notice. And it’s not their business anyway.” She moves to take the cigarette, but he moves it out of reach.
“I’m not a child!” she snarls.
“I know.” His face is calm and serious. She wants to hit it.
“Then stop treating me like one.” She snatches the cigarette from his hand with a quick movement (pushing away the thought that he let her take it) and inhales deeply. The smoke burns in her lungs and she coughs. He moves to take it back, but she steps out of the way.
“It’s over.” This time he looks at her. His eyes are dark and unreadable.
She shrugs. “What’s over? There wasn’t anything.” She looks at him but he doesn’t say anything. She looks away. “Fine. Whatever.”
She turns and walks away. She expects to hear him call after her, but he doesn’t.
It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. She doesn’t even care.
She bites down on her trembling lips until she can taste blood. The cold air is biting at her tear-streaked face.
It hurts. It hurts.