It started stupid — stress cig outside work. One drag, and you felt your shoulders drop, felt something warm and rough crawl under your skin.
Then you bought your own pack. Started leaning against walls like you’d always done it. Started talking shorter, slower, like the smoke rewired your vowels.
Lads clocked you outside Tesco, nodded like you were one of theirs.
That nod burrowed deep.
Now it’s months later.
You’re in your car, hoodie up, belt on but loose, cig hanging from your fingers. Brain quiet. Words simple.
All the polish burned off.
You don’t miss it.
