By Saket Tagade

I bought my last pack of cigarettes today.

Not because I’m quitting. Not because I’ve suddenly developed a sense of self-preservation. I bought my last pack because I don’t need them anymore.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

The man at the convenience store doesn’t care about any of this. He scans the pack with the same detached efficiency he applies to every other purchase – ramen cups, instant coffee, cheap whiskey. His hands move without thinking, and for a second, I envy him. I wonder what it would be like to move through life like that, absent-mindedly, without hesitation or regret.

‘That all?’ he asks.

‘That’s all,’ I say.

I don’t buy a lighter. I already have one. I have too many, actually. One in my jacket pocket. One on the nightstand. Another in the drawer with old receipts and foreign coins I’ll never use. Some people collect books or postcards. I collect lighters.

I step outside, tear the plastic off the pack and pull out a cigarette. There’s something comforting about the ritual of it. The flick of the lighter. The inhale. The first rush of smoke curling into the cold air.

She used to say that smoking felt like pressing pause on time. A small, stolen moment in the middle of everything. We met that way – standing outside a club in Piccadilly, both lighting up at the same time.

She was wearing a black coat, her hands bare despite the winter chill. She held her cigarette loosely between her fingers like she wasn’t really thinking about it. Like it was just something to do.

‘Got a light?’ she asked.

I flicked my lighter open and cupped my hand around the flame. She leaned in, her face close to mine for just a second. I remember the way her eyes flickered, half amused, half tired.

She took a slow drag and exhaled. ‘You look like you have a lot on your mind,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. You should smoke slower.’

I laughed. ‘Is that medical advice?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just don’t rush through it. Feels like a waste.’

That was how it started.

Some people fall in love over candlelit dinners or handwritten letters. We fell in love over cigarettes.

She was different. She didn’t talk too much, but she always said the right things. She had this way of looking at you like she already knew what you were going to say next. Sometimes she’d smile before I even spoke, like she had already read the conversation in my head.

I liked her. I liked her too much.

I liked how she never rushed to answer a question, how she always thought about her words before she said them. I liked how she laughed like she wasn’t used to doing it. I liked how she sat on the railing of my apartment balcony, swinging her legs like a kid, unafraid of the drop below.

And I liked how it felt homely with her.

Not in the way of soft furniture and warm blankets. But in the way that, when she was there, I never felt like I was waiting for something. I didn’t feel restless. I didn’t feel like I had to fill the silence.

We smoked together all the time. In the mornings, drinking coffee, her hair still a mess from sleep. At night, walking aimlessly through the city, passing a cigarette back and forth like it was a secret. In the rain, under the awning of a tiny ramen shop, the smoke curling up into the cold air.

And I always gave her my last drag.

She never asked for it. Never expected it. But every time we smoked together, I would take my second-to-last inhale and then hand the cigarette to her. She would tilt her head, give me that half-smile of hers, and take the final breath of smoke. Then she’d flick the butt away, exhaling slowly, like she was making a wish.

It became a habit. A quiet ritual. Something that felt like us.

And then one day, she left.

No warning. No dramatic argument. No smashed dishes or teary goodbyes. Just a note on my kitchen table, written in her small, careful handwriting.

I think I have to go now. Don’t forget to breathe.

That was it.

I smoked a lot after that. More than before. More than I wanted to.

Every time I missed her, I lit one. Every time I thought about calling her, I lit one. Every time I walked past a place we had been together, I lit one.

And still, I saved the last drag for her.

It was stupid. I knew that. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t coming back. But every time I smoked, I would take my second-to-last inhale, then hold out the cigarette like I was passing it to someone. Like she was still beside me, waiting for that last breath of smoke.

I could almost hear her voice in my head.

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Pretending I’m still here.’

Tonight, I sit on my balcony, the city stretched out below me. The lights blur together, red and yellow and blue, smearing across the wet pavement like an old painting. I pull a cigarette from my last pack.

I take a slow drag.

I think about how she was like a cigarette.

She burned bright. She burned fast. She left behind something I could never quite wash out. And no matter how tightly I held onto her, she always slipped through my fingers, curling into the air, fading before I could catch her.

The cigarette burns down to the filter. I hesitate.

Then, just like always, I leave the last drag untouched.

I let the smoke rise into the night, watching it disappear.

I close the pack.

Tomorrow, I will buy my last pack of cigarettes.

About the Author

Saket Tagade is a Chemical Engineer who studied his master’s from the University of Manchester.  He grew up in a traditional Indian household where studies meant everything. His father was a principal in high school and was a reader, and Saket started picking up on his father’s habit of reading. When he was 17 he started working at a local theatre as a translator who translated Shakespeare into Marathi, and from then on started his long time love for writing.