Meet yourself an hour from now

An hour from now, you'll be in this same day. Same room. Same dishes in the sink. Same show paused on the screen. The only thing up for grabs is who's standing there. Someone who gave in, or someone who waited. You're picking between them right now.

Walk into the first version. The cigarette is gone, and your word to yourself went with it. It promised a better hour and delivered the same one, with a new hook in it. Now the other version. Same sink, same show. The urge came and went, and there's a small, stubborn pride in your chest.

Text a friend one line right now. Check on me in an hour. It makes the second version real, because now somebody's waiting on the story. No one to text? Tell God. He's already in that hour, holding your place.

Then spend the hour on something ordinary. Do the dishes. Finish the show. Let the minutes do their work. This urge will have come and gone long before anyone checks in. Go meet the one who waited. You're going to like them.