Youji always wondered why I hated his smoking. It was simple really; it brought back memories. Memories better buried deep. I could stare at that swirling grey mass and it would transport me back in time, every single cigarette, I would see everything all over again. Back to standing in front of a smoking house, a lost girl in my arms, lost lives around me, lost soul inside me. Or even worse, something earlier than that. So I hated the smoke, and I hated him. Hated him almost as much as I hated Taketori and myself.

I wish I could still hate him. I have to admit, at least to myself, that it would be much easier. Well, not easier, because nothing is ever easy in this life, but less complicated, more concrete. Youji was trying to mix the black and white in my mind and make it all grey. You know what? It’s working. Damn him.

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