Your Smell Is My Favourite Perfume ❤️

I’ve always believed that scent holds memory. Not photos. Not songs. Not even words. It’s the smell of something, or someone, that etches itself deep into our bones. And for me, your smell has always been my favorite perfume.

It wasn’t anything you bought in a glass bottle. It wasn’t Chanel or Dior. It was… you. The way your shampoo mixed with the early morning sun. The cotton of your T-shirt when you leaned into me on a lazy Sunday. The trace of your skin after a long day—the warm salt of your presence. Even your sweat, that soft, salty, very human scent that came after dancing or laughing too hard or just being alive next to me… that too, was beautiful.

People often say love is in the eyes or the words. I say it lives in the nose. Because I could find you blindfolded in a crowd. I’d know you in a second. That’s how powerful you were to me. That’s how deeply your scent lived inside my memory.

I remember the first time I noticed it, really noticed it. We’d gone hiking. Nothing fancy, just one of those local trails that take you higher than you expect. The sun was brutal that day. I remember you tied your hair up, no makeup, your cheeks flushed from the climb. You reached for your water bottle and wiped your forehead with your sleeve. And then you laughed. I pulled you close to kiss you, and that’s when it hit me—not the sweat, not the heat, but you. You in your rawest form. You smelled like sunshine and effort and breathlessness. And I remember thinking: if someone could bottle this, it would outsell every designer brand in the world.

Years later, even after we got married, that smell didn’t fade. You had your perfumes, of course you did. But under it all, I could still find you. After a shower. Before bed. When you rolled over in sleep and tucked your head beneath my chin. Sometimes I’d lie there and breathe you in like I was trying to memorize you in case I lost you someday.

And god, I hated the idea of ever losing you.

Do you remember how I used to bury my face in your laundry? Sounds crazy, I know. But whenever I folded your clothes, I’d pause for just a second. A T-shirt. Your scarf. That hoodie you loved. I’d close my eyes and breathe it in. You weren’t even in the room, but it felt like you were.

One time I came home after a long business trip. I was exhausted. My suitcase sat unopened by the door. But I walked straight into the bedroom, grabbed your pillow, and just pressed my face into it. That scent—your scent—it undid me. The ache of being away, the pressure of work, the loneliness of hotel rooms—it all melted.

You smelled like home.

Even your sweat, yes, even that—was never a turnoff. You used to apologize after a workout, embarrassed, rushing to shower. I’d stop you. I’d pull you in. Because that smell? It was honest. It was you, alive and present. It reminded me that love isn’t about perfect moments or flawless appearances. It’s about realness. And you, in every messy, sweaty, tired, glowing state—you were the most real thing I’d ever known.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever knew how much I loved that about you. How many nights I fell asleep, not because I was tired, but because you were there, and your smell told my body I was safe. How many days I missed you just because the air didn’t smell right. How even your absence had a smell—the quiet emptiness of a room you hadn’t walked through.

When you traveled, I’d sneak one of your T-shirts. I’d wear it like armor. Like comfort. Like a secret. I didn’t tell anyone. But it made the waiting easier. Made you feel closer.

And now… you’re gone.

I still reach for your side of the bed. I still check the laundry for a piece of you. I still have that old scarf you used to wear in the winter. It barely smells like you anymore. Time steals scent. But sometimes, in the stillness, I catch it. A whisper of it. And I swear, it brings you back.

People think grief is loud. But sometimes, it’s a scent that hits you out of nowhere in a grocery aisle. Or the moment you open a drawer and find something you forgot you kept. Grief is olfactory. It’s the ghost of someone who lives in the fibers of your life.

They ask me why I never threw away your things. Why I still keep your shampoo in the shower, your hoodie on the back of the chair. They don’t get it. I’m not holding on to objects. I’m holding on to you.

I’ll never stop loving that smell. Even if I can’t quite catch it anymore. Even if it fades. Because it’s carved into me now. It’s memory. It’s love. It’s you.

You were my person. My warmth. My storm. My stillness.

Your smell… was always my favorite perfume.