You think you’re in control of the process. But you’re not. Every day, you give away a piece of yourself. At first, it’s imperceptible—a slight dizziness, a morning cough you blame on a cold. Then it becomes more noticeable: climbing the stairs becomes a trial, and running for the bus feels like a feat. Your body isn’t silent. It’s screaming, but you’ve learned not to hear it. Inflamed gums, constant heartburn, sweating, cold toes even in summer—this isn’t age; this is the aftermath. Your blood vessels are narrowing like pinched hoses, and blood struggles to reach the farthest corners. Hence the constant fatigue, irritability, and inability to focus. And the smell. You don’t notice it, but everyone around you does. In your clothes, your hair, your car, your apartment—this sour, heavy stench clings to you. Children turn away, colleagues unconsciously distance themselves, and your loved ones endure it. And the money. Calculate it. Not per day, not per month. Per year. Over ten years. That’s new appliances. That’s a trip. That’s something that would stay with you, instead of going up in smoke in an ashtray. The worst part is the illusion of choice. You aren’t choosing to smoke. You’re simply choosing not to stop. And the difference between those two things is your entire life. Stop, while the point of no return hasn’t yet been crossed.