You pull the lighter from the back pocket of your dark washed jeans. You flick it on and light the cigarette. You laugh with your friends and find happiness. You say that’s why you smoke. You bond with your friends. It’s fun. You like it.

I won’t spew statistics at you, because I’m sure, if you smoke, someone already has. Someone has told you the number of people who die or the number of people who get cancer. Someone has told you about other people, other places, other times.

But, the here and now, isn’t that what you care about? You say who cares if so many people die, because they’re other people. They’re not you.

You won’t die. You won’t get sick. You won’t be that one person.

You won’t be the person who your classmates tell their future children about. “I remember someone in my grade who died because of smoking.”

You won't have to watch your friend break down sobbing as you tell them of your illness.

You won’t be the one in the hospital being diagnosed with lung cancer. You won’t be the one who can’t keep up running laps in gym class as you hack up your fun.

You won’t be the one wasting away.

You won’t be that one.

But if you were that one? If one day, you fell so far behind in track, you were booted from the team? If you couldn’t breath? If a doctor diagnosed what you thought was a simple illness, as actually being cancer?

If one day, you were lying on a hospital bed, crying, sobbing, wasting away with your friend half-asleep next to you? Would you wish and hope and pray?

If you were that one.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe smoking won’t kill you. But if there’s even the slightest chance of it causing problems for you, shouldn’t you find another source of entertainment? If you were that one, would you regret taking out that cigarette?