It was a humid spring afternoon in São Paulo, and I was on the balcony of our rundown apartment in the city center. I was 19, holding a cold coffee mug, the heat sticking my shirt to my back. The rusted railing creaked, and the street below roared with cars. I glanced down aimlessly and spotted Seu João, my neighbor from 302, lighting a cigarette at his window. He inhaled with a calm that clashed with the urban chaos, exhaling slow plumes of smoke into the gray sky. I stared, almost unconsciously, and thought, Why not? The next day, I scraped together some spare change—dirty coins from my jeans pocket—and headed to the corner store. I bought a pack of Marlboro Red. The bold red pack caught my eye, promising something I craved, even if I couldn’t name it.
The First Puff: A Secret Beginnings
That evening, I snuck back to the balcony, the pack tucked under my loose shirt, pressed against my waistband. I waited for Mom to hit the shower and Dad to lock himself in his room, tinkering with an old radio. My hands shook as I tore open the pack, pulling out a cigarette. The sharp tobacco scent hit me hard—almost too much. I grabbed the red Bic lighter from the kitchen drawer, the one Mom used for the stove, and fumbled. The first try barely singed the tip; the second, I sucked too hard, and the ember flared. I took a drag and coughed until my eyes watered, my throat scratching like I’d swallowed dirt. But I laughed—a nervous, silly giggle. “This is how it starts,” I whispered, eyeing the cigarette like it held a secret. I didn’t inhale that day—just played with the smoke in my mouth, blowing out clumsy shapes. It was my little rebellion, hidden from my parents.
Learning the Ropes: A Smoker's Routine
I got the hang of it slowly. I’d light one cigarette a day, always on the balcony, timing it for when Mom left for her night shift at the diner and Dad dozed off on the couch. I learned to hold the filter without crushing it, to draw the smoke without choking, to exhale quietly. A week in, I decided to inhale. I pulled the smoke into my mouth, paused, and let it slide down my chest. It burned a little, tickled my lungs, but I coughed less this time. Then came the dizziness—a soft wave that slowed everything down. I liked it, despite the bitter aftertaste lingering for hours. I stashed the pack in my backpack, buried under college notebooks, and tossed the lighter back in the drawer.
The Habit Grows: Sneaking Around
Months passed, and smoking crept into my life. I went from one cigarette to two, sometimes three, always dodging my parents’ notice. The smell clung to my clothes, and I’d blame Seu João or my college buddies from Arts school—where I went more out of stubbornness than love. During class breaks, I’d sit in the courtyard with friends, lighting a Marlboro Red and inhaling like it was second nature. “You’re turning into a real smoker,” Bia, my purple-haired friend, teased. I grinned, a bit proud, tucking the pack away. It felt like part of me now.
The Cravings Hit: Desperate Moments
The addiction snuck up on me, and with it came tough days. One afternoon, I was in the living room, pretending to study for a test, when the craving hit like a punch. It was this itch in my brain, a restlessness clawing at my chest, making my fingers twitch. My pack was in the bedroom, but Mom was cooking, humming a country tune, and Dad was reading the paper right next to me. No way to sneak to the balcony. I tried distracting myself—chewed my nails raw, doodled nonsense, chugged water—but it didn’t help. The nicotine withdrawal gnawed at me, a hollow ache screaming for relief. I mumbled about grabbing a book, bolted to my room, locked the door, and cracked the window. I lit up with sweaty hands, dragging fast and blowing smoke outside. The calm washed over me, and I almost laughed at how desperate I’d been.
Another time was brutal. It was a Sunday, and my parents stayed home all day. I’d smoked my last cigarette the night before, and the new pack was gone. The urge started small in the morning but turned into a nightmare by afternoon. I paced, muttering to myself, heart racing, anger bubbling up for no reason. I chewed gum, downed coffee, but my mind fixated on the next drag. Mom asked why I was so jittery, and I lied, “Just stressed about a test.” By five, I couldn’t take it. I grabbed bus fare, claimed I was studying at Bia’s, and raced to the store. I bought another Marlboro Red, lit it behind a tree on the street, and inhaled deep until the world steadied.
The Breaking Point: Surrendering to Nicotine Addiction
Then came the day I broke—at 21, during a holiday alone at home. I decided to test myself: no smoking, just for a day. I woke up fine, drank coffee, read a bit, but by two, the craving kicked in. It started subtle, then grew into this wild anxiety I couldn’t shake. My chest tightened, my hands shook, and I couldn’t focus. I told myself, Okay, just today, I’ll quit tomorrow. I grabbed the pack, lit up on the balcony, and smoked. The relief hit, but then it sank in—I wasn’t stopping. Not tomorrow, not ever. My heart pounded, panic rising as I pictured life without cigarettes. No pack in my bag, no lighter in my pocket—it felt like losing myself. I sat on the balcony floor, lit another right after, and watched the smoke drift. I stopped fighting. The addiction won, and I let it. It felt easier, truer to who I’d become.
Parents’ Discovery: No Shock Here
They found out one ordinary night. I was on the balcony, smoking and staring at the city lights, when the door creaked open. Mom stood there, apron stained with sauce, Dad behind her with his coffee mug. “So this is what you’ve been hiding?” she said, nodding at the cigarette. I froze, bracing for a lecture, but she laughed—a raspy, knowing laugh. Dad shrugged, pulling a pack of Continental from his pocket. “No surprise,” he said, lighting his own. “You think we didn’t smell it on your clothes?” Mom grabbed the kitchen lighter, sparked a Carlton, and sat beside me. “If you’re doing it, do it right,” she said, handing me the Bic. We sat there, three smokers in silence, smoke curling up together into the dark. No scolding, no drama—they’d been at it for years, and I was just joining the club.
Living the Smoker’s Life: No Regrets
By 25, I lived alone in a cramped Vila Madalena apartment, scraping by with illustration gigs and waitressing shifts. I smoked about 12 cigarettes a day, more on bar nights or late drawing sessions. My chest felt tight sometimes, and climbing stairs left me winded, but I brushed it off. “That’s how it is,” I’d think. Marlboro Red stayed my go-to—the harsh kick kept me sharp. It was there for tight deadlines, husky bar talks, and nights staring at the ceiling. One night, in a peeling-walled bar, a guy asked, “Ever think of quitting?” I laughed, voice rough from years of smoke. “Quit for what? This is me,” I said, lighting another with the near-dead Bic. The ember glowed, and I exhaled hard, smoke rising like a signature. I never regretted it—not the desperate days, not the moment I gave in. It’s me, pack in pocket, bitter taste on my tongue, living my way.
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