The Smoking Room. Three Jobs, One Burden | by Zi | Aug, 2025

The smoking room was too cold for a tired human body. The AC blew hard, forcing cigarette smoke to dance briefly before disappearing, as if everything present in that room was nothing more than temporary shadows. I sat in the corner, a book open in my hands—The Solitary Mystery. The page had been open for a long time, but my eyes just kept rereading the same sentence without moving forward.

I lit a cigarette, staring at the tip whose red glow felt more alive than I did.

Before I could sink back into the page that never seemed to end, a hand reached for my lighter from the table. The movement was quick, as if the thing belonged to her.

I looked up.

A woman stood beside me, her hair tied carelessly, her face plain, her gaze sharp. She lit a Camel Connect, took a deep drag, then her eyes immediately fixed on the book in my hands.

“Are you seriously reading that?” she said. Her tone wasn’t small talk; more like an expression of genuine surprise.

I just nodded.

“Wow, that’s rare,” she continued while exhaling smoke. “I thought it’d be cheap motivational stuff or cheesy romance novels at most. The Solitary Mystery, damn. Bold of you to bring that to a place like this.”

Before I could say anything, she had already pulled up a chair and sat across from me. Her movement was spontaneous, without permission, as if the chair had been set there just for her.

I briefly thought, oh great, here’s some lady trying to sell me credit cards or insurance. Her behavior was too familiar for a stranger. But she looked too relaxed to be carrying promotional folders.

She pointed at the cigarette in my hand. “Hey, you smoke Camels too? Same here. Rarely meet someone with the same cigarette taste. I’m usually alone.”

I just smiled slightly, not knowing what to say.

“My name’s Stefanni,” she said, tapping ash into the ashtray. “I usually shock people because I’m blunt. But hey, I can’t pretend to be sweet. Life’s complicated enough without having to make small talk—I’d run out of time.”

I mumbled my name quietly.

“Ah, the quiet type, huh?” she chuckled softly. “Perfect, I like to talk.”

We were silent for a few seconds. She stared at the large window behind me while I pretended to read my book again.

Then she started again. “You reading that because you like mysteries, or because you need an escape?”

That question made me close the book slowly. “Maybe… both.”

Stefanni nodded, then smiled thinly. “Same here. I used to read a lot of books, rarely now. My work eats up too much time. Morning shift at the tire shop, afternoon selling mattresses at the mall, weekends as a barista.”

Her tone was light, like casual conversation, but I could hear the exhaustion clinging to every word.

“Three jobs?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“Yeah,” she said, sighing deeply. “Crazy, right? But… I need the money. For my dad. He’s seriously ill, hospitalized on government insurance, but you know how it is—lots of things aren’t covered. Extra medicine, diapers, vitamins. So expensive.”

She lit another cigarette, this time with slower movements. “Sometimes my body feels like it’s about to collapse. But I keep going. No other choice.”

I looked at her, trying to find words, but Stefanni got there first.

“Funny, me talking like this to a stranger. But somehow it’s easier. Strangers won’t judge like family or neighbors do.”

I nodded.

She then told me about the mall. How she often fooled herself with fake smiles, offering mattresses while pretending to be enthusiastic. About the small café where she made coffee, pretending to be friendly to customers who didn’t even remember her name.

“Sometimes I’m jealous,” she said while twisting the tip of her cigarette, “of people who can go home, sleep soundly, or hang out casually. Me? I go home and still have to take care of dad.”

I cleared my throat softly. “Do you… love him?”

That question made her pause for a moment. Then she smiled wryly. “Good question. I don’t know.”

She looked at me intently, then leaned back. “I hate my dad so much. He used to be the most hedonistic person I ever knew. Drinking, wasting money at clubs, hiring girls to show off to his friends. And—” she swallowed, her voice trembling slightly, “—he once sold me. When I was a teenager. To pay off debts.”

I was stunned, unable to speak.

“Yeah, sold. Imagine that. His own daughter.” Stefanni laughed shortly, bitterly. “Since then I could never look at him without feeling disgusted. But now I’m the one taking care of him, feeding him, buying his medicine. Ironic, isn’t it?”

The atmosphere suddenly became heavy. The AC kept hissing, but the room felt heavier.

“I’m often confused,” she said then, her voice quiet. “Am I being sincere or just afraid of what people will say. You know that legendary line: *no matter what, he’s still your father.* If I stopped taking care of him, everyone would definitely call me an ungrateful child. Neighbors, extended family, everyone.”

I looked at her, feeling a bitterness I couldn’t even imagine.

“Sometimes I think,” she whispered, “it’d be better if I just abandoned him. Get it over with. But every time that thought comes up, I feel like a monster.”

I finally said, very quietly, “Maybe you’re just human.”

She turned to me, then smiled bitterly. “Standard answer. But… somewhat comforting.”

After that, she returned to a lighter tone, as if realizing she’d gone too far in opening old wounds. She told stories about weird customers at the café, about young couples fighting over mattress choices, about coworkers who liked to sneak naps. I just listened, occasionally laughing softly.

But even in her light stories, I could see the tired lines on her face, the dark circles under her eyes, hands that trembled slightly every time she lit a cigarette.

Her face turned serious again when she added, “I often have nightmares. Dreams about the past. Wake up sweating, gasping, sometimes crying alone. That’s when I think about leaving dad. But another voice always says: don’t. You’re his child. If you’re heartless, you’re worse than he is.”

I didn’t answer. What could I say to someone whose life was that messed up? All words of comfort sounded fake.

We finally just sat in silence. I opened my book again, though not reading. Stefanni stared at the window, her eyes empty.

A few minutes later, she got up, grabbing her bag. “Thanks, yeah. For listening. I wasn’t trying to sell you insurance or anything. I just needed a stranger’s ears.”

I smiled thinly. “At first I thought you were going to do exactly that.”

She laughed softly, this time genuinely. “Nah. If I were selling, I’d definitely be richer than I am now.”

She walked toward the door. Before leaving, she turned back once more. “If we meet again, don’t pretend you don’t know me, okay? I really hate people who become strangers again.”

I nodded.

And when that door closed, I realized: I had just heard one of the heaviest stories from someone who might never be close to me. But her shadow would keep clinging, along with the cold AC and cigarette smoke hanging in the air.