How is it that even though we are fully aware that cigarettes are poison, we still light one after another? Is it the ritual that brings comfort, or the illusion of control? And how is it that love—even when abandoned—still smolders quietly in the chest, like smoke refusing to dissipate?
A pack of Marlboro Blue sits on the table, beckoning me to light another; its edges are worn, and I can see a promise both familiar and fatal.
They say quitting is hard because nicotine rewires the body, but I think it’s harder because it rewires the soul. Much like you did. I stopped talking to you, but I never stopped inhaling the thought of you, the way smoke insists on filling lungs even when what I truly crave is air.
Each stick lingers with a different kind of memory. The first drag—sharp, intoxicating—reminds me of the first time you laughed at something I said. The way I inhaled it burned, yet beneath the heat, it healed. The irony is that cigarettes are supposed to kill, but the moment we inhale it, they make us feel alive. It was the same with you: you were always meant to leave, yet you made me feel whole.
The warning on the pack says, “Smoking can cause death.” But what warning did I get before loving you? None. No Surgeon General in the world ever stamped my heart with, “This affection may cause longing, sleepless nights, and inevitable ache.” I walked into it blind—the way smokers walk into smoke-filled rooms, knowing they’ll cough later.
And among all the ironies, here’s the cruelest: people say love is healthy and cigarettes are not. But what if love is the more dangerous addiction? Cigarettes only scar the lungs, while you scarred the silence between us.I can quit nicotine with patches and pills, but what cure exists for the absence of your voice?
The ashtray is full, but how come my chest is not? Every stubbed-out cigarette is a failed attempt at forgetting your hair, your face, your smile—you. Every ember is a reminder that endings glow before they fade. I continuously tell myself I’ll quit tomorrow, but tomorrow comes and I light another. I tell myself I’ll stop loving you, but tomorrow comes and I write another line about you.
They say Marlboro Blue is smoother, lighter, easier to inhale. That’s the trick—it feels less harmful, but it kills just the same.
And I know you’ll hate it, but you were my Marlboro Blue.
Softer than the reds, gentler than the blacks, but still lethal in the way you linger. I thought loving you was lighter, easier—but it consumed me all the same.
So here I am, holding the pack I saw on the table—a pack that mirrors my heart. I’m afraid I can’t quit cigarettes, just as I can’t quit loving you. Both are habits stitched into my veins; both are choices I keep making, even when I know the cost. And maybe that’s the truth about addiction—whether to smoke or to love—it’s not an ignorance of the danger, but the refusal to let go of the fire that makes us feel alive.
Written by Klem Jenwin R. Landicho
Klem Jenwin R. Landicho is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
