Reader’s Note
This isn’t the screenplay of a film that already exists. It’s the screenplay for a film that might briefly exist, privately, in the reader’s mind.
It starts with a straightforward, uncomfortable question: when we talk about “good habits,” are we referring to health or to control?
The directions on these pages are not meant for a crew. They serve the narrative: what is seen, what is heard, what the body does, often without noticing itself.
The short film unfolding here is composed of movements, like irregular breathing. Sound—the hum, beeps, coughing, and crackle of plastic—builds the invisible landscape of everyday pressure. The camera stays on small gestures: a thumb turning a wedding band, fingers smoothing a nicotine patch, a hand covering the warning image as if hiding something private.
If you can, read this aloud, even quietly. See the peeling yellow rectangle on the ground. Hear the lighter fail. Feel, on your own arm, the edge of the patch starting to lift.
Cinema, here, is simply this: a discipline of attention.
* CHARACTERS: Anna, August, Damian, Clara, the Smoker, the Clinician, the Doctor, the Groundskeeper, the Man Under the Blanket, the Child, and many others who go unnamed.
I. The Promise, Undone
1 INT. WAITING ROOM — MORNING
Cold light. The HUM of a fluorescent fixture vibrates in the low ceiling.
Plastic chairs. A water cooler DRIPS.
A delayed electronic display blinks numbers that don’t advance.
On the wall: a blackened lung.
“STOP SMOKING.”
Beside it, crooked and peeling: “SUFFER NOW TO LIVE BETTER LATER.”
Someone COUGHS. Someone clears their throat.
A phone starts to ring and dies halfway.
ANNA (28), in a supermarket uniform, with a worn name badge, holds a crumpled bag. Her shoulder strap has carved a groove into her skin.
The mark stays.
She opens her bag. A thin wallet.
Coins. Not many.
She counts them with her thumb, slowly, one by one.
The display BEEPS.
METALLIC VOICE (O.S.)
Number forty-seven.
Anna stands.
The chair emits a damp, suction-like sound from the floor.
2 INT. EXAM ROOM — CONTINUOUS
A cluttered desk. Stacks of paper. A worn rubber stamp.
An old computer takes its time responding.
The printer CHOKES—metallic whine, like teeth chewing.
THE DOCTOR (50), white coat, a pen in her pocket, writes without looking up.
DOCTOR
How long have you been smoking?
Anna opens her mouth.
ANNA
Since—
She stops. Doesn’t finish.
The doctor has already checked a box —trained neutrality.
DOCTOR
Breaking the cycle lowers cardiovascular risk.
You’ll see benefits within weeks.
She slides a tri-fold pamphlet across the desk.
Illustrated lungs. A list of “benefits.” A phone number.
Anna takes it with both hands, as if it were a letter she isn’t allowed to crumple. She holds it the way one holds a promise.
A small nod—to herself, not to the doctor.
The doctor indicates a line.
Her short nail comes down to the paper and stays there.
DOCTOR
Sign here.
Anna signs without reading.
The printer SPITS out another sheet.
The doctor STAMPS
TACK.
Anna takes the paper and stands.
The chair scrapes the floor.
3 EXT. BUS STOP — MIDDAY6
Heat without shade. Asphalt gleaming like metal.
A bus speeds past. Doesn’t stop.
A cloud of DIESEL cuts the air.
Anna leans sideways against the bus stop pole, keeping herself from tipping into the street.
She opens her bag. Takes out the coins.
Counts.
Puts them away.
Counts again.
The numbers don’t match.
The pamphlet surfaces among her things—a white corner, insistent.
She pulls it out and folds it in half to make it fit her hand.
CRACK.
She folds harder. The paper resists. She insists.
As if the paper has to learn how to fit her life.
Anna takes a cigarette from the pack. The pack is soft, tired.
She tries the lighter.
CLICK. Nothing.
She shakes it.
CLICK. A brief spark. Dead.
Her mouth tightens—an old, learned gesture.
She uses the pamphlet as a shield, an improvised wall against the wind.
Tries again.
The flame catches. Flickers.
The paper trembles in her hand.
The cigarette lights.
A short drag.
She holds it.
Releases.
ANNA (V.O.)
I keep borrowing from the future.
I never know when it comes due.
A bus finally stops.
The doors open with a pneumatic SIGH.
People push off. People board without looking.
Anna steps on, the crumpled pamphlet in her hand.
The turnstile CHOKES on a coin.
Another slips free and ROLLS down the aisle.
Anna bends and retrieves it quickly.
Doesn’t complain.
Moves toward the back.
Doesn’t look behind her.
She’s done this before.
4 INT. KITCHEN — NIGHT (PAST)
Yellow light. An old fan creaks, useless.
On the refrigerator: a child’s drawing held by a magnet.
A crooked sun. A house. Three stick figures.
AUGUST (73), shirt unbuttoned at the chest, coughs into the sink.
A deep cough. An old one.
On the table: a full ashtray. A cup of cold coffee.
And a pamphlet identical to Anna’s—creased along the same folds.
August picks up the pamphlet. Unfold it carefully.
The paper makes a dry sound—
CRACK—
as if it were still alive.
Dried coffee stains the illustrated lung.
In the margin, a phone number was scribbled in pen.
Beside it: an OLD LIGHTER, heavy, scratched.
Worn metal. A tired spring.
August looks at it as if it belonged to someone else.
Picks it up.
Weighs it in his hand.
He opens a drawer.
Pushes the lighter to the back, behind the cutlery no one uses.
Closes the drawer with too much care.
He takes a cigarette.
Stops halfway through the gesture.
Look at the drawing on the refrigerator.
His hand lingers in the air a beat too long.
He opens another drawer. Takes out an empty glass jar.
Begins placing the cigarettes inside, one by one.
No hurry. No relief.
Contained violence, as if storing something dangerous.
The lid closes.
CLOC.
A child (Anna) runs past the hallway in the background, glancing in.
We only see her hair. A short laugh. Light footsteps.
August holds the jar for a moment, still.
Looks upward, as if measuring a distance.
He stretches his arm.
Places the jar on top of a cabinet.
Stands motionless.
His hand lowers slowly.
5 INT. SMALL BEDROOM — NIGHT (PRESENT)
A cramped room. Stained wall.
A fan that doesn’t help.
A box of clothes. A mattress on the floor.
On the bedside table: a past-due notice, folded and opened again.
Anna opens a drawer.
Inside: the OLD LIGHTER—heavy, scratched, worn metal.
The same tired spring.
A creased passport photo of August.
Anna picks up the lighter.
Doesn’t light it.
Just press the mechanism.
CLICK.
She lets go as if she’d burned the tip of her finger.
She touches the photo with her fingertips, as if it might tear.
From somewhere far off, the neighbor’s TV: canned laughter, outsourced joy.
Anna puts the photo back.
Closes the drawer.
6 FLASHES:
Coins clinking (a thin metallic chime) / The pamphlet trembling in the flame (CRACK, a faint hiss) / The glass jar filling (CLOC) / August’s cough / A coin rolling down the bus aisle / The passport photo / A coin rolling again / The CLOC of the jar lid.
SMASH CUT.
SMASH CUT.
7 EXT. BUS STOP — NIGHT (PRESENT)
A different street. The same gesture.
Anna leans against the shelter wall.
Lights a cigarette. The flame flickers—holds.
Behind her, on the glass, a torn poster.
All that remains: “…OP SMOKING.”
She inhales. Air in. Air out. The cycle continues.
The bus arrives.
Doors open.
Anna steps on.
The doors close.
The engine sound pulls away, taking with it the little air she had.
What’s left is emptiness—and the city’s distant hum.
II. The World on Shift
8 EXT. FACTORY GATE — DAWN
8 EXT. FACTORY GATE — DAWN
Low sky, a dirty gray.
Wet ground. Puddles slicked with old oil.
A bus brakes—a long metallic hiss.
The doors open with a pneumatic sigh.
People step down in silence.
Footsteps. Turnstile clicks. Handrails. Backpacks scraping.
A metal gate.
A faded sign.
In the guard booth, a digital clock blinks the wrong number.
DAMIAN (42), name stitched across his uniform.
On his wrist: a stopped watch.
He looks at it—
not to check the time,
only to confirm there is none.
On his finger: a worn wedding band, deeply scratched.
He turns it once with his thumb.
A small rotation. Unnoticed.
He holds a plastic lunch container—lid warped.
And a crumpled pack of cigarettes, damp at the corner.
He leans against the wall.
Takes out a crooked cigarette, the tip bent.
Searches his pocket for the lighter. Impatient. Automatic.
CLICK. Nothing.
He shakes it.
CLICK. A brief spark. Dead.
Wind.
He cups his hand around it.
His hand trembles—cold and hurried.
CLICK.
Now it catches—a small, unstable flame.
The paper sticks slightly to his lip in the damp.
He adjusts it with his teeth, careful not to bite.
First drag—short. A test.
He coughs once—dry, contained—
and swallows it, glancing sideways,
as if coughing were a minor offense.
On the pack, the warning image is shown.
His thumb covers it without thinking.
Inside: a forklift BEEP, metal clanging, a short alarm.
Out here: the sound of his own lungs working.
His phone vibrates in his pocket.
He doesn’t take it out. Just feels it.
Another drag—deeper now—
as if pulling his body back into itself.
Ash falls into a puddle.
Turns to gray mud.
He crushes the cigarette underfoot, hard.
And goes in.
The sound of the factory swallows everything.
9 EXT. BUS STOP — MORNING
A scratched acrylic shelter.
An old advertisement peeling at the edges.
Light rain. Diesel in the air.
ANNA (33), supermarket uniform, badge crooked.
A bag with bread and a pack of diapers.
The heavy purse digs into her shoulder.
She steps two paces away from the group—
as if asking the air for permission.
The hand holding the cigarette is drier now, more worn.
A pale ring on the skin—
a mark where something once was.
She takes out a cigarette carefully.
Not from delicacy.
Because the pack is nearly empty and the cigarette breaks easily.
The lighter fails.
CLICK. CLICK.
A flame appears. The wind kills it.
A short exhale through her nose.
No broad gestures.
There’s no room for that.
CLICK.
This time it catches.
She inhales, watching the far end of the street—
where the bus should be.
The smoke slips from the corner of her mouth.
Not for elegance.
So it won’t drift toward the baby beside her.
The baby cries.
Someone rocks the stroller with a foot, without looking.
Eyes fixed on a watch.
A bus speeds past, sending up a gust of wind and dirty water.
The gust slaps the smoke from Anna’s mouth.
She closes her eyes for half a second.
Opens them quickly, as if rest were dangerous.
A deeper drag.
The filter nears her fingers.
Her hand carries the smell.
10 INT. SMALL APARTMENT — NIGHT
Old-building silence: pipes ticking, a neighbor walking,
a low television somewhere far off.
Cold kitchen light.
A full sink. A damp dish towel left out.
Anna is in sweatpants, hair loose with exhaustion.
She washes a pot quickly—so it won’t make too much noise.
The sponge scrapes the metal.
She opens the window only as far as her body needs.
Air comes in: distant frying grease, rain that’s been sitting around.
She lights a cigarette on the sill.
The flame flickers. Catches.
She inhales and holds the smoke for a second.
Not pleasure.
Suspension.
From the bedroom: a child’s breathing.
In the dark hallway: a toy on the floor.
Anna nearly trips.
Stops.
Looks.
Just a second—love, irritation, fatigue, all at once.
She doesn’t pick it up.
Keeps going.
She exhales the smoke outside,
trying to make it disappear before it can exist inside.
Ash falls onto the sill.
She runs a finger through it.
The ash sticks to her skin.
She wipes it on the dish towel.
A new stain.
She puts out the cigarette in a chipped saucer.
Slowly. Without sound.
Closes the window.
The glass makes a small *toc* against the frame.
In the quiet, it sounds loud.
She switches off the light.
Dark.
Only the dish towel was left on the edge of the sink.
Old stains.
The new one, still fresh.
In the dark, Anna braces her hands on the sink.
Still.
She presses the finger where a ring should be,
as if checking whether it still exists.
She rests her forehead against the cabinet for a moment.
Breathes in through her nose.
Lets the air out through her mouth, without a sound.
And walks away into the dark.
11 FLASHES:
Damian’s stopped watch / A thumb covering the pack’s warning image / Ash turning to sludge in an oil puddle / The strap gouging a groove into Anna’s shoulder.
SMASH CUT.
SMASH CUT.
III. Good Habits
12 INT. OFFICE BREAK ROOM — MORNING
12 INT. OFFICE BREAK ROOM — MORNING
The coffee machine: PSHHT.
Paper cups lined up.
Napkins folded with care.
On the wall, a motivational poster:
GOOD HABITS, GOOD LIFE.
CLARA (35), impeccably dressed, opens a “clean” lunch:
salad cut evenly, fruit in a container, and her own utensils.
Before she touches a cup, hand sanitizer.
She rubs slowly until it dries—like a rite.
Her phone vibrates.
Group: “Condominium / Block B.”
She reads without changing her expression.
Only her eyebrow lifts a millimeter.
She puts the phone away with the same precision she used to snap the lunch lid shut.
A sip of coffee.
An inhale.
As if beginning the day “right.”
13 EXT. BUILDING ENTRANCE — LATE AFTERNOON
A blue sign:
SMOKING AREA.
On the ground, a peeling yellow rectangle.
A SMOKER stands inside the yellow boundary, leaning back.
The flame flickers. Holds. He inhales.
Clara approaches with grocery bags.
Slows.
Looks at the sign.
Looks at the rectangle.
She makes a small sidestep, avoiding the yellow.
Avoids it the way one avoids something that stains.
As she passes, she holds her breath for half a second—
without realizing she has.
She adjusts her coat with her fingertips,
as if protecting the fabric.
Two steps later, she exhales.
A brief, private relief.
Her face doesn’t celebrate.
It simply confirms.
14 INT. LOBBY / SANITIZER DISPENSER — CONTINUOUS
Automatic doors: PSHHT.
A steady hum of air-conditioning.
Clara steps inside.
The smell of the street stays behind; the smell of smoke tries to follow.
A MAN stops at the sanitizer dispenser.
Two pumps.
He rubs his hands methodically, staring ahead,
as if observing a rule no one needs to state.
Clara passes him
a little more upright than before.
15 INT. ELEVATOR — ASCENDING
A crowded elevator.
Clara steps in and takes her place near the doors,
hand on her bag.
The SMOKER enters right after.
A YOUNG WOMAN pulls her backpack to the front of her chest,
like a shield.
Farther back, someone retreats a centimeter:
a foot shifts, a knee locks—and holds.
Clara presses her floor button.
Without looking, she also presses the fan button.
The fan light comes on.
A neighbor steps in.
Clara smiles at him.
A clean, quick, competent smile.
The display climbs: 3… 4… 5…
No one speaks.
16 INT. HALLWAY — CONTINUOUS
White light.
Carpet that swallows footsteps.
Clara walks to her door.
Before going in, she takes a small spray from her bag.
Two bursts:
PSSHH. PSSHH.
She inhales.
Her face relaxes a millimeter.
She enters.
17 INT. LIVING ROOM / SOFA — NIGHT
TV low.
On the table, a glass with melting ice.
Clara scrolls.
A short video: someone smiling into the camera.
Caption: “Discipline is self-love.”
She likes it.
A heart appears.
Another video.
Another tip.
Another “good habit.”
She likes that one too, unhurried.
A notification from the building group chat.
Clara opens it and types:
CLARA (TEXT)
Hi, everyone… Please, the smoke has been drifting up into my apartment.
There are children and an elderly person here. Thank you.
She sends it.
Within seconds: reactions, little hearts, “agree,” “exactly.”
Clara holds the phone as if receiving a small certificate.
She rests her head against the sofa back.
Closes her eyes for a moment.
Breathes.
18 EXT. SMOKER’S WINDOW — NIGHT
A window opens just a hand’s width.
The SMOKER leans halfway out,
trying to be invisible.
He smokes quickly.
Short drags.
His phone vibrates.
On the screen: “Condominium / Block B.”
He looks.
Doesn’t open it.
He stubs the cigarette out halfway in a saucer.
His hand lingers in the air for a second,
uncertain what to do with the rest of the gesture.
He closes the window.
19 INT. HALLWAY / NOTICE BOARD — NEXT DAY
Clara comes out with a folder.
Stops at the notice board.
She tapes up a printed sheet:
REMINDER:
SMOKING ONLY IN THE DESIGNATED AREA.
PLEASE RESPECT THIS.
She smooths the paper with her palm, pressing out the bubbles.
Smooths it again.
Once more.
As if closing the matter.
20 INT. LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
Clara’s phone lights up: more reactions,
more “thank you for the notice.”
She turns the phone face down on the table;
a gesture of closure.
Takes a sip of water.
Breathes.
A micro-smile, meant only for herself.
SMASH CUT.
IV. The Garden and Its Limits
21 INT. SMALL EXAM ROOM — LATE AFTERNOON
White light. A noisy fan.
A Formica table scarred with old marks.
A jar of cotton balls. A box of patches.
The CLINICIAN opens a drawer.
The plastic packaging gives a dry sound.
Anna sits with her hands in her lap.
Short nails. A pen mark on one finger.
She pulls her sleeve up without ceremony.
Cotton on her arm.
A dry touch against skin.
The clinician applies the patch and smooths it with two fingers,
counting without speaking.
Anna watches the gesture.
The way one watches a wound being sealed from the outside.
The clinician points with a finger, no drama:
CLINICIAN
If you get dizzy, take it off. Water. Sleep without it.
Anna nods.
She puts the box and the pamphlet into her bag,
pushing to make it fit.
In another room, a phone rings.
Someone answers.
A baby cries somewhere far off. Stops.
Anna stands.
The plastic chair squeaks.
22 EXT. CLINIC EXIT / SIDEWALK — CONTINUOUS
The door closes with a tired click.
Traffic. Dust.
A bus roars past.
Anna steps down from the curb.
For a second, the white edge of the patch shows beneath her sleeve.
She crosses the street, avoiding a pothole filled with dark water.
On a pole, a street sign:
CHICO MENDES STREET.
The sign hangs crooked, bent at one corner.
Anna doesn’t look.
Her body is already elsewhere.
23 EXT. PLANTER IN FRONT OF A BUILDING — NIGHT
Streetlight.
A carefully designed planter,
contained by concrete borders.
Leaves shine with moisture.
A GROUNDSKEEPER, thick gloves on, trims the shrubs.
SNIP.
SNIP.
Branches fall. Leaves fall.
He gathers them with a shovel
and pushes them into a black trash bag.
Two meters away—almost out of frame—
a man sleeps curled beneath a thin blanket.
A cough comes from inside the blanket.
Small. Persistent.
The groundskeeper doesn’t look.
He takes a spray bottle.
Squeezes.
PSSHH.
The leaves take on a new shine.
24 INT. ANNA’S KITCHEN — NIGHT
Dim light. A sink full of dishes.
A damp dish towel left out.
The neighbor’s television bleeds through the wall.
Anna enters and drops her bag on a chair.
The chair creaks.
She takes out the pamphlet and leaves it unopened on the table.
Her sleeve rises: the patch is there— one edge lifting from sweat.
She presses it down with her thumb, firm,
|as if holding something that wants to slip away.
From the bedroom: a child’s breathing.
Anna opens the refrigerator.
Almost empty.
Closes it.
Sits.
For a moment, her hand rests on her arm,
feeling the patch through the skin.
Her phone vibrates.
She reads the message.
Doesn’t answer.
She takes a cigarette from the crumpled pack.
Stops halfway through the gesture.
Looks at the patch.
Looks at the window.
Searches for the lighter.
CLICK.
Nothing.
CLICK.
A brief spark. Dead.
CLICK.
It catches. The flame wavers.
She lights it.
A short drag.
She exhales quickly out the window,
as if erasing a trace.
Outside: a distant siren.
A dog barking.
An engine is climbing the street.
25 EXT. PLANTER — NIGHT (RETURN)
The groundskeeper ties the black trash bag.
He pulls.
The bag drags across the pavement—
a rough, scraping sound.
He walks away.
The planter remains immaculate.
Still.
Shining.
The coughing beneath the blanket continues.
26 INT. ANNA’S KITCHEN — NIGHT (RETURN)
Anna stubs out the cigarette in a chipped saucer.
Her nail scrapes the ceramic.
She rests her forehead against the cabinet for a second.
Breathes in through her nose.
Lets the air out through her mouth, without a sound.
Her hand returns to her arm.
Presses the patch down once more.
As if trying to hold something in place.
She switches off the light.
Dark.
V. The Still
27 INT. ANNA’S KITCHEN — PRE-DAWN
Blue darkness.
Her phone vibrates.
Anna silences it without checking the time.
From the next room: a child’s breathing.
She walks barefoot.
The floor is cold.
On the table: the box of patches,
the folded, crumpled pamphlet.
Anna pulls up her sleeve.
The old patch is still there; one edge lifted.
She peels it off slowly.
The skin beneath is marked:
|a pale rectangle, clean in the middle of her arm.
She opens a new one.
The plastic crackles softly.
Applies it.
Smooths it with two fingers.
Presses the stubborn edge until it holds.
Anna lowers her sleeve.
She stands still for a moment,
as if waiting for her body to agree.
28 EXT. BUS STOP — DAWN
Cold.
A streetlamp was still lit.
People are waiting with backpacks and coats.
No one looks at anyone.
Anna arrives.
Leans against the pole.
Her bag is heavy.
She takes a crumpled pack from her pocket.
Takes out a cigarette.
Stops.
Her hand hangs there for a second.
She puts the cigarette back in the pack.
Slips it away.
From her bag, she takes a small, dark object, worn from use.
Raises it to her mouth.
A short pull.
A small light glows, then disappears.
Vapor drifts out, faint, dissolving quickly in the cold.
The bus arrives.
Doors open.
Anna steps on.
29 INT. BUS — CONTINUOUS
The ticket reader BEEPS.
Bodies swaying.
Anna leans into the window.
The glass is fogged.
She wipes it with her sleeve,
clearing a small circle of view.
Outside: the street waking up,
people walking fast,
a dog nosing through trash.
Inside: the silence of tired people.
Her hand goes to her arm by instinct
and presses the patch,
as if confirming it’s still there.
The bus drops into a pothole.
JOLTS.
Anna closes her eyes
for half a second.
Opens them.
30 EXT. BUILDING ENTRANCE / SMOKING AREA — LATE AFTERNOON
Blue sign.
A peeling yellow rectangle on the ground.
The SMOKER stands inside the boundary.
Cigarette lit.
Shoulders slumped.
The wind pushes the smoke toward the entrance.
CLARA (the woman from the condominium) approaches with a grocery bag.
She makes her usual detour:
circles the yellow as one circles a habit.
She is about to keep walking.
Stops for a second.
Looks at the man—
not quite at his face,
more on the outline of him.
Then looks at her own hand gripping the bag,
as if remembering its weight.
She moves on.
31 INT. ANNA’S KITCHEN — NIGHT
Dim light.
A sink full of dishes.
The damp dish towel is in the same place.
The neighbor’s TV bleeds through the wall.
Anna comes in and drops her bag.
The chair creaks.
She rests her forehead against the cabinet for a second.
Breathes in through her nose.
Lets the air out through her mouth, without a sound.
She takes the small object from her pocket
and sets it on the table
as if setting down a key.
She pulls up her sleeve: the edge of the patch is firm now.
She smooths it once with her thumb.
She opens the drawer.
The crumpled pack is there.
She looks.
Closes the drawer.
She rests her forehead against the cabinet again.
Breathes in through her nose.
Lets the air out through her mouth, without a sound.
She switches off the light.
Dark.
The distant HUM
of a fluorescent lamp.