Who was collecting your rent?

Nicotine was a landlord. It charged rent for the use of your own body. Money, sure. But also minutes, attention, whole chunks of your evenings. Every cigarette was a payment on a lease you never meant to sign. And the rent only went up.

Quitting isn't going without. It's eviction day. The locks are changed and the new key turns smooth in your hand. The time after meals is yours. So is the first hour of the morning. So is the money that used to leave on a schedule. Nobody charges you for being you anymore.

None of it was the cigarette's to rent out in the first place. Your hours, your attention, your body were handed to you by God. He wasn't leasing you out. He gave it all to you outright. You're not a tenant in your own life anymore.

Reclaim one spot today. The balcony, the corner of the couch, the spot by the window that used to belong to the cigarette. Put something good there. A book. A plant. Ten minutes on the phone with someone you like. Paid in full. The keys are yours.