I hadn’t boughten a pack in maybe over six months. My ecig fits the bill. Mostly.
Something felt missing as I was making my way home. Not like a fundamental thing but more a minor detail, a bow on a present, a knot on a shoe. A sentence without a period.
Regardless of the horrible taste, the everywhere ashes, the smoke in my eyes — smoking feels right. The cigarette felt right in my hand. It felt right on my lips. The smoke felt right in my lungs. I felt right with the world.
And that feeling of “right” terrorizes alcoholics and addicts their whole lives once they’ve tapped into it.
There’s no going back. Something will always feel missing because we know.