There wasn’t a dramatic day. No chest pain. No crying girlfriend ultimatum. No temple vow or “last puff” moment under cinematic rain. Just me—standing outside my office, holding a cigarette and realizing I didn’t want to be this person anymore. Not in a tragic way. Just in a quiet, "I think I’m done with this version of myself" way. I’ve quit smoking twice before. Both times felt serious. Both times failed. The first time, I quit for my mother. Made a big vow, all the emotional drama included. Stayed clean for a month. Then cracked. Because, surprise: external guilt has an expiry date. The second time, I quit after a trip to the mountains. I meditated in front of a Shiva idol in the silence of Nainital and told myself: "No cigarettes until you’ve got a government job or earn ₹50K a month." It worked for a while—until my logic brain showed up and said, "Well technically you’ve kinda achieved that, so…" Cue: relapse. ✋ This time is different. ...
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