When I first started smoking, I fell in love with it immediately, the aesthetic, the routine, the way it just felt like the perfect pause in a long day. But you? You were absolutely terrified to even hold one. I remember the first time I finally convinced you to take a drag; you coughed, screwed up your face in disgust, swore you’d never do it again, and complained about the smell for hours.
But I knew you just needed time to get used to it. I kept playfully teasing you, leaving my pack out on the counter, and convincing you to just take a single drag when we were out at night. Slowly, the disgust faded into tolerance. You stopped coughing, and you stopped complaining about the scent. Soon enough, tolerance turned into genuine appreciation; you started looking forward to the quiet moments by the open window, reaching for my lighter yourself, and realizing how effortlessly cool it made you feel. You went from putting up with it to actively liking the taste and the rhythm of it.
Cut to today. The progression is complete. You walked through my door, practically begging me for a cigarette before you even took your coat off, your fingers practically twitching for a light. Seeing us sitting by the kitchen window now, both flicking our lighters in perfect sync, is the ultimate victory. You're officially hooked, it went from something you hated, to something you liked, to an absolute necessity. Knowing you need a cigarette just as much as I do makes it so much better.
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