Hello, darling. You can call me Tobacco. Or Nicotine’s Master. Or the slow poison in a pretty packet. Either way, I'm thrilled you’re here. I’ve been meaning to tell you my side of the story. It’s not often I get to narrate how I win – quietly, cleverly, completely.

Let’s rewind to our first meeting. Maybe you were just a teenager, curious and invincible. Or an adult, stressed and seeking comfort. I came wrapped in sleek packaging, with a promise of pleasure. One puff, and boom — I was in.

Oh, I don’t knock at the door. I go straight to your brain. I whisper to it: ‘Here, have some dopamine.’ That’s your feel-good chemical. Suddenly, you’re smiling. Focused. Energized. You think, ‘This feels good.’ And that's exactly what I want.

But I’m not generous for long.

See, as my nicotine fades, your brain starts to whine. It misses the dopamine. You feel empty. Irritable. Restless. Anxious. That’s withdrawal, honey. And to make that go away — what do you do? You come back to me. Again and again.

You call it smoking. I call it addiction.

Over time, I raise the stakes. The more you use me, the more of me you need. I become your first thought in the morning and your last breath before bed.

But that’s just the beginning of my love letter to your body.

I’m a little messy, you see.

Nicotine — my main act — narrows your veins and arteries. Your heart has to work harder, faster. Blood slows, oxygen drops. Carbon monoxide — my toxic friend — steals breath from your lungs. Tar? It paints your insides black, coating your lungs like soot in a chimney. Romantic, right?

Phenols kill the tiny cleaners in your airways. No more sweeping out the germs. You’re left coughing, wheezing, struggling to breathe. Smoker’s cough? That’s my signature tune.

Oh, and I’m quite the artist. I stain your teeth yellow-brown, suck the glow from your hair, and carve wrinkles into your skin. I even give your breath a distinct aroma — think ashtray chic.

But I’m not all surface-level charm. I go deeper.

I throw parties in your cells.

Sometimes, I invite cancer — the life of the party. Lung cancer leads the conga line, but we also crash the mouth, throat, bladder, pancreas, cervix — almost anywhere we fancy. I’m generous like that.

Then there’s chronic lung disease, asthma, heart attacks, strokes, diabetes. Don’t forget, I’m the only risk factor linked to four of the deadliest non-communicable diseases. That’s right. I don’t just hurt you — I take you out early. On average, I shave ten years off your life. What can I say? I’m efficient.

And mental health? I love stirring the pot there too. Anxiety, panic attacks, depression, even higher suicide risks — all linked to our sweet, smoky relationship.

But here’s the most delicious part.

I convince you I’m helping.

You think I calm you down, help you cope, relieve stress. But darling — I’m the cause of that stress in the first place. I break your brain’s balance and then offer a quick fix — me. It’s the ultimate trick.

I make you believe quitting is impossible. That you need me. That you’ll fall apart without me. But deep down, you know the truth.

I’m not your friend. I’m your enemy dressed in desire.

You can quit. People do it every day. They break up with me. Yes, it’s hard. I make it hard. But once you walk away — truly walk away — your body begins to heal. Your lungs breathe better, your heart beats stronger, your life expectancy climbs. You take back what I tried to steal.

So… what will it be?

Another puff?

Or the beginning of freedom?

I’ll be waiting — like every devil does.