Name one. Just one.

Name one. One cigarette you could tell a story about. Where you were. What it gave you. Why it was worth the price that day. Not a phase of your life, not a mood. One moment. Give it an honest minute. Watch how quiet the minute gets.

Maybe the first one surfaces, for the novelty. Maybe one from a night that was already great for other reasons. The rest are gone. You've waited at hundreds of red lights, and you can't name one of those either. The cigarette ate hours of your life and left nothing worth keeping. Your memory kept the trip and the people. It skipped the stops.

That's no verdict on you. Nobody chooses a groove. It wears in while you're busy living, until repeating feels exactly like wanting. You weren't weak. You were consistent, at something that paid you nothing back. Aim that same steadiness at a life worth replaying. God keeps handing you days worth remembering. This time you'll be there for all of them.

Today, put yourself somewhere you'll still be able to name a year from now. A long walk with someone you love. A game you play instead of watch. A kitchen crowded with people. Breathe one line on the way in. Let me be all here for this. Your memory's about to get a lot busier.