You buy your own cigarettes now. It’s a habit I like to think I helped start. Watching you pull out that tan cardboard box and pack them expertly is one of my biggest accomplishments. I’ve trained you well. But as proud as I am, I’m beginning to see that my time with you is running out, much like that tan pack in your front pocket. Your addiction used to depend on me, and I was unashamed to fuel it. I found myself buying extra packs at the store, spending money I didn’t have on items I wouldn’t even get to use. But those four-to-six minutes alone with you on the balcony were satisfying, to say the least. Even when we didn’t speak, it was worth it just to watch you in the moonlight. To see your eyes scan the parking lot, to imagine where your mind goes, to envy the cancer-stick you bring to your lips every 10 seconds or so. Those seven dollars I’d never see again were made worth it. I had something you wanted, even if I truly have nothing you want. And I could trade the tiny white cylinders for four-to-six minutes of your time, because it was what you needed. Each pack represented twenty chances to pick your brain, twenty chances to guilt you out of your jacket, and twenty chances to have you to myself. Even you began to recognize what those minutes meant. You’d use them similarly: when you wanted to talk to me one-on-one, or when you’d use the chance to light my cigarette like a true gentleman. Because “pretty girls don’t light their own cigarettes”.
"I suffer from BPD." "What's that?" "Borderline Personality Disorder." "Oh my god, what is that?" I love this conversation. I've had it so many times I've lost count now, and it always brings me the same bittersweet satisfaction. On the surface, even those who have known me for a while sometimes cannot tell that I struggle with serious mental health issues. To them, I seem quirky, hyper, and frequently dramatic. I have been told I am entertaining.