I can guess your old schedule

We've never met, and I can still guess your old day. One soon after waking. One after meals. One before the call you dreaded. One on the way home. One right when the evening tipped over. Swap a slot or two and it fits most people who've been hooked. Those weren't choices. They were appointments.

Ask why those hours, of all hours. They're not the ones you'd pick if pleasure were the point. They're the hours your body learned to expect a dose. Waking, eating, stress, winding down. The wanting ran like a city bus, same stops, same times, rain or shine. A taste changes with your mood. A timetable doesn't care.

You defended your right to choose. Meanwhile the choosing had already happened out of sight. The cigarette set the timetable, then let you write the excuses. Long day. Rough call. Nice evening. All true, all beside the point. The bus came whether you wanted a ride or not.

Look at today. An old slot might still knock, but it no longer gets the last word. The morning is yours before you're even awake enough to defend it. The hour after dinner belongs to you and whoever's at the table. God handed you back the clock. Pick your old worst slot and fill it with something good on purpose. A walk, a call, a real dessert. Let the bus roll past. You've got plans.