Frigid Night.

"The wind whipped at her hair, making it fly about her face. It was one of the first truly frigid winter nights, though time was well into December, and she shivered beneath her woefully thin jacket. She fought the wind; one step closer. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, watching the tobacco burn bright orange under the flame. The cigarette burned merrily and she thought briefly of Christmas, before her expression turned sour. The cold bit at her hands. 'I've got to stop smoking,' she mumbled, though she knew it was a promise she wasn't likely to keep. She took one final drag and threw the cigarette on the ground, stepping on it and extinguishing the last of its glow. She stood in front her building, looking up at it, unready to enter despite the freezing cold. Entering meant her night was over, and over she was still not comfortable with.
It had been a decent night, for once. It was a night spent with friends. She was alone, of course. Always alone, wherever she was, but she had the illusion of company for a precious few hours. She knew it was her own fault. She wasn't even present for the last hug she gave, her mind somewhere else entirely. It pained her, the way this detached person she had become could not even let her guard down for one of the few people in the world that meant something to her.

Inside she went. She'd grown used to the frigidity, but it occurred to her that she really wasn't any less alone outside."

(I find myself reading this time and time again...)