The last cigarette sat in my nightstand drawer for three years. It was supposed to be my final one, the day I quit for good. But I couldn't let it go.
Next to it, my brother's school photo from sixth grade. I'd cropped it with scissors to fit his wallet, the edges uneven. He's been gone seven years now.
Further back, a paper cup from the café. The barista always wrote my name right—'Brenda' with an 'a'—and I saved that cup like a trophy. She moved away two years ago.
I pulled each one out today. The cigarette smelled stale. The photo was yellowed. The cup was crushed from sitting under a stack of old checkbooks.
I dropped them all in the trash bag. The drawer is empty now, and I don't know what to do with the silence. But my hands feel lighter, like I finally let go of something heavier than smoke.