NICK
The drive from the hospital to my apartment was a mechanical sequence of turns and paces.
My body knew the route by heart, navigating the uneven pavement and the press of Monday commuters while my mind remained elsewhere, filing away the day's debris.
The city at this hour was a study in collective fatigue. I watched the faces passing me, slack-jawed, dull-eyed, carrying the specific, heavy exhaustion of the start of the week.
I felt none of it. Instead, I felt a low, persistent itch. It was a sensation I couldn't cleanly categorize, which in itself was an irritation.
I stopped at the convenience store a block from my building. I didn't need groceries, but I needed the ritual. I stood at the counter and waited for the clerk to look up.
"Two packs," I said, pointing to the shelf behind him.
He didn't comment. Nobody ever commented to my face about the cigarettes.
