Nobody's coming to sign this

You're holding a paper ticket in a waiting room. Number 47. Nobody's calling numbers. You're waiting for someone in a white coat to say the word. Or a day count that finally feels different. Or a morning you wake up unmistakably done. Meanwhile, when anyone asks, you say you're trying. You're waiting for a signature, and it isn't coming.

There's no office. No board reviews your case, and no letter is in the mail. Plenty of people who got free started saying so before they felt ready. Nobody handed them the title. They claimed it, and their ordinary evenings kept agreeing with them. The cigarette never waited for permission to move in. You don't need any to move it out.

You've had the order backwards, and it's an honest mistake. You think the words come after the change, like a summary. Saying it is part of how the change finishes. Once it's said, every plain Wednesday counts as proof instead of one more day of trying. The only signature this ever needed was yours. God's already seen enough to countersign it.

Find an index card or the back of an envelope. Write it in the present tense. “I'm free. I don't smoke.” Date it. It might feel early. Sign it anyway, full name. Tape it inside a cabinet door you open every morning. The pen was in your hand the whole time.