Your nose went back without you

One breath. That's all it took. A door swings open, someone walks past, the wind shifts. You're turning before you've decided a thing. It's like hearing your name called across a crowded station. Your head moves on its own. Your body answered before you got a vote.

Smell is wired straight into memory. So what hit you wasn't a want. It was a rerun. An old corner, an old hour, the person you were back then. Those memories were yours first. The cigarette moved in and hung its name on the door. Now it's using them as bait.

Move first. Think second. Ten steps, this second. Upwind, across the street, through the nearest door. Then give your nose something new on purpose. Coffee, a mint, the collar of your own shirt. A nose busy with right now stops replaying back then.

Your mind will try one more line. See? You still want it. That's the memory talking. A memory showing up isn't a vote you cast. A minute later the air is just air again. Nobody saw that turn. God did, and He walked every one of those ten steps with you. The street smells like a street again. Keep walking.