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You held the lit cigarette delicately between your fingers, a huff of smoke coming out of your mouth as you lean your head back. A street lamp casts a bright white upon your figure as you hold the cigarette up to take another long drag. Snow upon snow piles up on your head, shoulders, and even around the bench you sat on. You closed your eyes as you breathed in the cold air. It was cold, freezing even - yet you couldn’t muster enough energy to move.
Smoking wasn’t something you thought you were going to take up, hell, you used to despise people who did it. You thought it was dumb that people were wasting away their lives just for a bunch of, what you would call “cancer sticks”. Yet now, it was you who was sneaking out to the rooftops or to the very back of the building to take a smoke break.
With each slow inhale, you could feel everything around you fading away. Your life wasn’t pretty, you thought you had everything under control - and yet, nothing in your life was going your way. You were always everyone’s last choice, always overlooked by everyone and never being included or considered by anyone. You always went above and beyond for others, giving them gifts and showering them with all your love, despite that, not even one person looked out for you. Everything you did, every compliment, every gift, every time you spent for others - it was all just you wishing someone had done the same for you.
To say: you felt underappreciated was an understatement.
Snowflakes fell onto your face as you tried to numb the agonizing thoughts that ran rampant within your head. Yet, you couldn’t think of anything else. That loneliness feeling that you were oh so familiar with envelops you yet again. Now, you couldn’t shake of that dreadful thought that had always haunted you: Were you really that insufferable?
Your hand raises up to caress your cheek as you try to feel again - yet everything feels numb.
You weren’t enough of.. anything. You weren’t pretty enough, you weren’t smart enough, you weren’t manly enough. You were always short on something, and it seemed like everybody around you acknowledged this. They’d comment on your appearance, your personality, your intelligence. You didn’t know what you were good at, but you were always aware that you were bad at something. It damaged the way you looked at yourself, you kept comparing yourself to all the other guys, how much more handsome, more likable, how much better they were compared to you. You were nothing compared to them. The thought haunted you, to the point you physically couldn’t look at any mirrors or pictures that contained you - it pained you to see what stared back.
You raised the cigarette up to your mouth again, lips forming a curve as you slowly inhaled, before a cloud of smoke escaped out of your mouth. Your mind slowly numbing out and you could feel the creeping thoughts that plague your head slowly fade.
You yearned, yearned for that warm feeling of love. But, you were never able to receive it. Now, you are grieving over something that you never had in the first place.
It was chilly, your body was trying its best to raise its body temperature to fight the cold winter air. Despite that, your fingers felt numb to the point you couldn’t feel them anymore. Your body felt desensitized to everything, as if you weren’t even there in the first place. Is this what it feels like? To die? When your body is numb until you’re inevitably dragged back into the inky darkness of nothing. Where you didn’t have to feel, nor suffer for anything. You didn’t even have to think. Even the thought of it sounded inviting to you.
“What’re ye doin’ out here, lad?” A voice sounded, with a distinctly Scottish accent you noted. You opened your eyes, giving it a bit of time to adjust to the bright light above you before looking over to the origin of the sound.
The man wore a thick wool sweater with a scarf wrapped around his neck, and a beanie that sheltered his head from the snow. Even with the thick material the sweater was made of, you could tell the man had a rather burly figure. Your weary eyes drifted up to his face as you could see his troubled expression.
“What?” You responded. Thin wisp of smoke rose from the cigarette. The man sighed, a white mist escaped his lips as he looked down at you.
“Aren’t ye cold?” He asked again, ignoring your question.
“What’re you doing out here?” You said, obviously annoyed that your alone time was interrupted.
“Could ask ye the same, I mean, who sits out on a night like this?” He said, a worried look plastered the man's face as he raised his hand to brush off the snow that piled up on your shoulders. You didn’t stop him.
“Ye shouldn’t be out here, it’s bloody freezing!” He exclaimed. “And by the looks of it, yer must be freezing too.” He sighed, his head shaking slightly as he got moved closer to you.
“Go home? Please?” You looked away from him, your hand instinctively raising up so your mouth could wrap around the blunt once again. The last thing you needed was to be berated by some stranger.
“Can’t. Not when ye are out ‘ere. Freezing yeself to death.” He said softly, he sounded distressed. Why was this man so pushy?
You didn’t respond, your eyebrows furrowed as your gaze drifted at the ground. You felt him sit next to you on the bench, your expressions scowled as you got more annoyed that the man, a complete stranger, was so persistent on making sure you were okay,
“Lad.” He said, his hand reaching down to grab your other hand.
He was warm, his hand was warm. You could feel the hard pad at his fingertips brush against your frigid skin, he held your hand as if it was made of glass. Not pressing too hard, as if he was afraid you were too fragile and frail. Yet, you couldn’t help but savour the feeling of his hand enveloping yours.
How someone with such a calloused hand could have such a soft touch was beyond you.
“Yer very cold. Shite, yer goin’ ta freeze me with just this hand of yer.” He joked, hoping to lighten the mood.
He slowly removed his hand away from yours. Instead of the warm air that exudes just from his hand, your hand was now exposed to the bitter cold air yet again. His gaze slowly drifted from your hand up to your face.
He didn’t say anything, neither did you. Still, you could feel his gaze fixated on you, but you couldn’t look at him. Not when you were too ashamed by the way you look, you couldn’t even muster up the courage to see how he looked at you.
The man shifted yet again, this time to get closer to you. He brought his arm around your shoulder, you could feel his strong arm pull you into his shoulder. The man was like a furnace, even through the thick wool of his sweater, you could feel how warm he was. He held your trembling body close to his, his chest rising up and down as he took deep breaths in a steady rhythm. You slowly leaned into his body, your body leeching off the warmth he radiated. The man didn’t seem to mind as your head sat on his shoulder. It’s almost comical that you were just trying to push him away, yet now you were already leaning into the man’s touch.
“Thank you.” You murmured, and the man smiled.
“John, John Mactavish.” He chimed in yet again, his Scottish accent dripping just from his words. “That’s.. me name.” You looked ups t him once, more a smile growing on your face.
“Thank you.. Johnny.” The both of you sat quietly as snowflakes fell upon you. It didn’t feel as cold anymore.
You were warming up to him.