Nocturne.

One night, Ryan takes a walk. He slips out of the front door as his room-mate watches American sitcoms in the living room, knowing how much he’ll worry but finding himself unable to care. He doesn’t leave a note. He doesn’t take his phone. Just himself, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter in his back pocket.1

The stairs of the flat block are empty and smell of piss. There are cigarette butts littering every step. You’re not supposed to smoke in here, but everyone ignores the signs and does anyway. Except Ryan, who never breaks the rules. Except Ryan, for whom a B is a rebellious failure. Flight after flights of stairs, the little crimes pile up. But it’s not Ryan’s place to judge.2

He leaves the block through the side door, landing in an alley. The kind of alley that most parents would never let their kids go down, most certainly not live next to. But Ryan’s used to it. It doesn’t bother him, and he doubts it would bother his estranged parents. He turns left along the alley, until he gets to the open street where not even the streetlights dare to show their faces. Those which ever did have had them smashed irreparably. On the street, he turns left again, and keeps walking.3

Ryan’s never really liked the dark, its uncertainty, but somehow this darkness comforts him. This isn’t a safe neighbourhood, but it’s quiet, almost abandoned, so cars never drive past, they don’t make their shadows on these walls. Everything’s black and flat, and everything is entirely aware of its blackness and flatness. Everything is sure. Walking along the dark street that doesn’t scare him, honest it doesn’t, Ryan begins to wonder whether everything just got turned backwards, and really, light’s the enemy. But then he’s where he wants to be, where he always goes, and he sits. 4

His jeans rested on the dirty floor and his legs stretched out in front, reaching into the road, he pulls the cigarettes out of his pocket, sticking one between his lips and pushing the lighter’s flame into it. The lighter so close to his face means that for a second, he can see the tip of his nose. Then it’s just the glowing paper, the heat on his fingertips, the thousands of carcinogens, and the dark. Ryan likes this dark.5

A couple of streets away, there’s a pub. Ryan can hear the shouts and yells and festivities of Friday evening, so close, and remembers when his own voice joined those. So long ago, he thinks, but it’s only been a few months. Time drags on, and Ryan drags on the cigarette.6

He isn’t sure where she comes from, because he doesn’t hear how her heels click on the street, but suddenly there’s a girl standing in front of him, in the road.7

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is quiet but loud, at the same time. Small in volume, big with meaning. “Can I have a cigarette?”8

Ryan regards her for a moment, taking in the too-short skirt and tights, the bitten fingernails, the vintage jewellery. Then he slips the packet out again, gives her a cigarette, and pushes the end against his own. He holds it out to her, and she takes it in her fingers. Somehow the object doesn’t quite fit with her grip, and she looks awkward with it.9

“Can I sit next to you?” she whispers, yells.10

“Yeah,” he murmurs. His voice crunches in his throat, he hasn’t spoken in a while. Sound is foreign to his vocal chords. It’s been so long since he even needed to make a sound. 11

She sits down, and Ryan isn’t entirely unconscious to the way her leg presses against his. Slowly, carefully, she presses the cigarette to her mouth, breathing in too deep, too long. She coughs, pulling the stick away again. Ryan watches the glow as it travels through the air.12

“I don’t really smoke,” she explains, after the coughing subsides. “I mean, I never have. I just… I wondered what it was like, and I saw you, and you looked like the person to tell me.”13

“Oh,” says Ryan, because really, what do you say to that? He just stares at the cigarette burning away between his fingers, and thinks, that one alone probably cost three, four pounds? And it’s just burning away in front of him. He considers taking it from her, finishing it himself, but then she presses the stick to her lips again and inhales. She doesn’t cough this time.14

“It’s overrated,” she murmurs, staring into the darkness. “I’m Katie, by the way.”15

“Oh. Hi.”16

They’re both silent for a bit, Ryan breathing through the filter paper, substituting oxygen for carbon dioxide. And then she speaks again.17

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name? Or… was that your name? Mr. Oh?” She laughs quietly. Shyly.18

And he can’t think of anything to say, so he says nothing.19

She looks at him in the darkness, considering his profile. Ryan can feel his entire face lit as he brings the cigarette back to his lips to puff, then lowers it again. She keeps staring, and Ryan feels so small under her scrutiny. “So… what brings you down to this wild, wild two-person party?”20

“It was only one until you showed up.”21

“Oh.” Her voice is flat, deflated, suddenly. Ryan feels a pang of guilt followed by pity. Not many people can make his conscience wake up, but this girl…22

“My name’s Ryan.” He murmurs, glancing at her for a moment then turning away to stub the cigarette out on the street.23

“I like it,” she replies, still staring at him. She leans back, leaving her weight on her wrists as her hands press into the dirty pavement. Ryan suddenly wants to know how that touch feels, how the gravel presses into her skin, if she can feel the dampness in the stone. But he doesn’t ask, because the quiet is too quiet. Too peaceful.24

Midnight washes over both of them. Nothing is better or worse, yet, but it’s changed.