I can smell the cigarettes he likes. I have no idea about how it might affect someone's body when they've been through what he's been through, but basically? He's an adult, and he's aware of the risks, and he's been through enough crap already. He can do what he likes.

I put my bag on the table, and heft the little bakery bag in my hand. I head over to the bathroom, and open it, leaning on the doorframe.

Can't help but smile when I see him, but it's not like I'm trying not to. "Hey, Emi. It was... okay."

I don't really see the point of studying art history, but I guess I had to do one more recreational subject. My favourite subject at the moment is French, though I'm only barely passing.