"We need to talk."
Those are probably the four scariest words in human history. Especially when they come from your boyfriend.
"Yeah?" I replied. We were sitting on his bed. Our Netflix show had just finished. He closed his laptop slowly. Crap, this was going to be serious. "Um, what's up?"
"There's something that's been bothering me for a while," he began, not looking at me. My stomach began sinking. "I haven't said anything, but I can't sleep lately, and I can't concentrate, and -" He cut himself off, reaching over and taking my hand in his. I looked up at him, feeling tears welling in my eyes. I didn't even know what this was about, but I was scared already. "It's... well, it's about the smoking."
"Oh," I said faintly, feeling like my throat was filled with glass. We'd been dating for seven months, but only a month ago had I tried my first JUUL. I hadn't expected my boyfriend to understand, but when he'd found out, he'd taken it surprisingly well. Or maybe, as I was learning now, not so well at all.
"It's so bad for you," he was saying in a rush, "and you're already addicted to the nicotine, and I know you think it helps you but it really doesn't. It's terrible for your health and the side effects haven't been researched nearly as much as they need to be, you could wake up one morning with cancer or something worse, and -"
"Hey," I interrupted him softly. "I'll be alright. Seriously.
He just looked at me, brown puppy-dog eyes filled with worry.
"It helps me concentrate," I explained. "Calms me down." I still hadn't told him about my father. About the drinking. But he didn't need to know - couldn't he just accept that this was part of who I was? "It's really important. To me."
"I know, I know you like how it makes you feel," he said in exasperation, squeezing my hand. "But please, just listen to me! I'm so worried about you, I can't sleep, I can't do anything. Please."
I felt tears escaping and rolling down my cheeks. It hurt me, somewhere deep inside, to see him like this. Helpless. Begging. But in that same moment there was another part of me that knew how the smoking made me feel: weightless and alive. Carefree. And I could never forget that feeling.
"I - I can't promise anything," I said, my voice breaking. He looked at me, and for once, a speck of hope shone in his eyes. "But I can try."
"Thank you," he said softly. He pulled me into him, wrapped me in a hug. "Thank you."
I buried my face in his shoulder and let the tears fall out.
Because this is what I knew:
I'd never choose to give up something that made me happy.
I'd never throw away those fleeting moments of carelessness.
And this meant I'd just lied to my boyfriend.
