Inhale / Exhale by Alona Yakovenko

Summer. 4 AM. Khrushchevka. 5th floor. Room 14.

This was the time and place where Valentyn stepped out onto the small balcony, committing a familiar sin. A flick from the lighter briefly lit up the gloom, casting a warm glow around him and making him visible to the sleeping world. He brought the flame to a freshly pulled cigarette. The smoke breathed life into his lungs.

He closed his eyes, letting the scent take over — warm, resinous tobacco with woody undertones. The aroma of adolescence, of inexperience, of mistakes. The aroma of twenty.

“Want to see something cool?” Leonid offered.

“Would you point at your face?”

“Not this time, I promise.”

“Then lead the way.”

We jumped off the low parapet near the entrance to my building. Leonid led me through the courtyards to a hidden nook behind the neighbouring house. From there, a covered staircase led deep underground.

“Looks like no one’s there,” Leonid said.

“You said the same thing last time.”

“Yeah, and we didn’t get caught last time,” he snapped with a smirk.

We slowly descended, glancing around every few steps to make sure no one was watching. At the bottom, we found an empty, dark room that must have once been a grocery store. It had clearly been abandoned for years — but oddly, not everything had been taken.

We decided to look around, wondering what we could scavenge. Packages of chips, dusty bottles of soda, and various household items still sat on crooked shelves.

“Anything unused?”

“Personal care stuff?”

“Yeah. At least those.”

“Then never mind.”

I didn’t say anything else.

Seventeen minutes later, after a long and noisy search, we stumbled upon a single, unopened cigarette.

“Told you — they didn’t take everything.”

“Yeah, especially not the trash,” I snorted.

“Well, I’ve got matches. We can try it out. Not a waste of time after all.”

Leonid lit the match quickly, almost too eagerly. The cigarette glowed to life, light, misty smoke curling in the air.

He took the first puff, then doubled over coughing.

“Come on, give it here.”

I grabbed the cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to look cool, to prove I wouldn’t choke. I was wrong.

My coughing was louder than his — louder than a sick dog’s bark. But our laughter echoed even louder. Two idiots, getting their first taste of life. Hilarious, really.

“Remember what happened with the beer?” Leonid grinned.

I said nothing, just smiled.

How good it was, how light we were, unburdened by the weight of adulthood that was just beginning to creep in. I’m 44 now, and I could say the same thing — but I’d rather not. Just thinking about that path I walked brings back the taste of burning, bitter smoke from a single cigarette shared between two friends.

And just the memory of that cigarette makes me want to go back and smoke it again.

Back on the balcony, I finish my own cigarette. The ember dies. The light fades. The smoke vanishes like a memory.

Valentyn steps inside and goes to bed, saturated with the aroma of a bitter cigarette and the years it carried.