<p>I was never mad at my friends who smoked in college. I hope it never seemed like I was judging them. I was confused by their decision - I was surrounded by all of these incredibly intelligent people and I couldn’t believe that so many of them would choose to become addicted to a dangerous drug. But most of my friends also drank far, far too much and used illicit substances. </p>
<p>Mostly, I remember my uncle dying of lung cancer in my junior year. How, the summer before that year started, he was diagnosed and it was already, they were almost sure, too late. How by the winter he’d lost the ability to move his arm. How he was sent to a hospice in the early spring with weeks to live. How I called him for the last time and didn’t know how to speak to someone with such a weight on their mind. I remember not wanting to mention this to my friends who smoked out of fear that it might be taken the wrong way, that they’d think I was trying to make a point. The day after he died, I stood outside with my friends while they smoked. I never said anything. </p>