The part you're allowed to miss

You could pass a test on what it cost you. The money. The mornings. Being bossed around by a habit. You meant every word. And you still miss it. That part embarrasses you, like it proves you never wanted out. It only proves the thing gave and took at the same time.

Look closely at what you miss. It's rarely nicotine itself. It's the hall pass. Permission to step out of the day for five minutes, no questions asked. The breather at the worst hour of a bad day. The cigarette put its name on that pause and then held it hostage.

The missing makes sense. You're grieving a real good that came in bad packaging. God holds the whole ledger, the comfort and the cost, and He isn't confused by either column. You're allowed to mourn something you were right to leave. And the pause itself never belonged to the cigarette. It walked out the door with you.

Take a hall pass today and mean it. Five minutes at the worst hour, hands empty, eyes on the farthest thing you can see from a window. No explanation owed. Let the sadness tag along if it wants. It's company, not the boss. The pause was always yours. Only the supplier is gone.