First attempt of writing?

I swore i’d stop. I’d sit and share the last cigarette with him and convince myself that there wouldn’t be a fresh pack tomorrow. I’m not addicted to them i’d say, they just give me something to do in awkward times. What an excuse. “Just something to do in awkward times? So what you’re saying is that it’s awkward to be with me?” he’d reply jokingly. As if he was only speaking to prolong the conversation which we both knew had no point from the very beginning. I tried to giggle and give a reply but ended up chocking on the smoke which had been half inhaled, half swallowed.

He looked away, proving he didn’t care what my reply was. Blowing the remainder of the smoke into the air and flicking the ashy tip of the ciggarette into the can turned ashtray I said “No, it’s not awkward being with you at all”. But it actually was. Awkward in the sense that I like you and you don’t like me. The awkwardness where you’re not yourself when you’re with him but instead someone you think he wants you to be. He gave a half hearted smile and continued to stare at the passing world which had caught his attention a few moments after realising the conversation was heading nowhere.

Then it hit. The silence we were trying to avoid. It hit hard and what’s worse, the cigarette had about two puffs left to save me from actually having to have a real conversation