Dinner. 6 PM.
Neither ate much. Just pushed food around their plates.
Isabella smoked. Watched them.
The girl stared at the cigarette. At the smoke curling up. At Isabella's calm as she exhaled.
"Can I—" The girl stopped. Started again. "Can I have one?"
Isabella paused. Cigarette halfway to her lips. "A cigarette?"
"Yes."
Silence. Atlas looked at the girl. This was new. Unexpected.
Isabella studied her. "You've never smoked before."
"No. But I—" The girl's hand trembled slightly. "I need something. Something to hold. Something to do with my hands. Something to—to steady me. Something to make me breathe. To see the breath come out of me."
Her voice quieter on that last part. More raw. More honest.
Atlas understood. She needed proof. Proof she was still breathing. Still existing.
