whattt1101

[whattt1101]

Perfume.

“Loving you was never a waste” :(

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I really need to clean my room.

Ugh, it’s so messy. It always has been. I hate messy rooms.

So how did it even get this bad? Bed unmade, books scattered and lying like fallen leaves on the cold wood of the floor.

My desk is a crime scene — stacked with random things, more books, two mugs sitting there like they’ve been waiting forever. One half full, the other half empty. Or maybe they’re both the same thing. Papers, wrappers, lip gloss tubes, pencils I thought I’d lost months ago. You name it. I can’t even bother to dig through and sort out what’s “keep” or “trash.” It all just blends together into the same kind of chaos.

Clothes are piled high on my chair, a mountain of wrinkled fabric. Somewhere under there, homework is suffocating. Photos too. Faces staring out of them — some I don’t even think I know. Why do I have these? Why does it feel wrong to throw them away?

Okay. Fine. I start.

Let’s start with my bed. Whip out, connect corners, fold and straighten. The sheets snap like they’re waking up. Pillows? Perfect. Fluffed until they almost look alive.

My room is really dark — thick, heavy kind of dark. I can’t see before I start cleaning the rest. I pull the curtains open.

Ouch. My eyes sting. Light pours in like it’s angry to be here. Great. Okay… next.

Clothes. I sort them out on the floor, little color-coded islands. Greens, blues, reds… and a yellow? I pause. I’ve never worn this. Whose is this? I don’t even like yellow. I hate that color. It feels too loud, like it doesn’t belong in my space. Maybe a laundry mistake. Yeah. Probably.

Straighten and fold, straighten and fold, straighten and fold. My hands move on their own.

It’s nice outside. The cicadas are screaming their summer song. I used to love going out — biking on that cheap two-seater, the handlebars squeaking with every turn. Ice cream dripping down my wrist. Stopping at the old library with the dusty windows and broken clock.

But I don’t go out much anymore. I tell myself it’s because I’m busy. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m getting too old for that stuff.

Chair? Done. Clothes? Tucked neatly into closets and drawers. Perfect.

Alright. Tasks done—

Oh. Damnit. The desk.

Ughhh, whatever. This desk is so buried, all the random junk might as well be part of it by now.

I take a deep breath, like if I inhale hard enough I can suck everything off the surface in one go. A vacuum with lungs. Doesn’t work. I reach over and grab the first thing my fingers touch. A mirror. I flip it face down. Don’t need to see myself right now. I’ll fix my surroundings first.

Papers. So many papers. Stuff I crumpled and forgot. I don’t even know what half of this is (don’t ask). Wrappers, empty chapstick, receipts. Then a random lip gloss I haven’t seen in months. Pencils. Oh. So this is where my pencils went. I almost laugh. Almost.

I go deeper, shoving papers into the trash can, the pile shrinking in uneven layers.

And then I see it.

At the bottom, pressed flat against the wood, is a photo.

I pick it up.

It’s a photo of… two people?

My stomach tightens. Their faces are blurred. Not out of focus — blurred wrong, like someone smeared their features with wet fingers until they melted into each other.

Something in me twists. I drop it.

It doesn’t feel good to look at. Familiar or not.

As I shake my head — no, no, maybe I was just seeing things — I reach further and pick the photo up again. My fingers stick to the edges, like the paper doesn’t want to leave the desk. I hold it close.

Maybe… maybe it’s fine. Maybe I was imagining it.

Nope. Still smudged. Still wrong. Their faces look melted, dripping into each other. A shape of a smile that isn’t a smile.

“What is this?” I whisper out loud, but the room swallows it.

Just as I step closer to the light, my pelvis knocks the edge of the desk.

“Ouch!” My foot slams against something hard. I wince and stumble back, dropping the photo.

Something rolls across the floor with a small, hollow sound.

I look down.

Perfume?

A small glass bottle, cloudy and old-looking, lying perfectly still now.

I crouch. My hand hovers over it. I don’t… I don’t remember owning any perfume.

Something in me whispers. don’t open it.

So I do.

The cap twists with a dry little click.

I take one smell. Just one.

And my chest tightens so hard it feels like my ribs are locking up. Heat spreads like a slow fire in my heart, licking out to my shoulders, curling into my throat. My blood drops heavy to my stomach. My knees weaken.

Oh.

Now I remember.

I smell it.

I smell. me. That perfume. My perfume.

The one I used to drown myself in. Perfect, sweet, like sunlight in a bottle.

The one I always put on before I saw—

You.

My breath catches. My fingers tremble around the bottle.

It was such good times. Weren’t they?

And suddenly, memories slam into me like waves breaking all at once, flooding the room.

How I would hold your hand whenever you tugged me.

You’d burst into my room, all restless energy, begging me to go outside with you. Always teasing, always nagging me about how clean I kept everything. “Loosen up,” you’d laugh, pulling me before I could even argue.

You’d bring that cheap two-seater bike, the one that creaked every time we hit a bump. But it was yours, and that made it perfect. I’d sit in the back, fingers hooked onto your shirt, holding you. Laughing nervously, telling you to be careful, to not fall because I was in the back.

And you’d take me to my favorite spot every single time. You always knew.

Ice cream for two. Simple. I got blueberry cheesecake, and you — you always got vanilla. Plain vanilla. So silly.

I smile at the thought, even now. You always got the cheaper one because you thought I deserved the more expensive flavor, didn’t you? Or maybe that was just me convincing myself you did.

And the library. The old one. Mine and your favorite place. The broken clock, the dust floating in the sunbeams. You’d reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, saying, “dust,” like it was an excuse. We didn’t really read. Not the books, anyway. You read me instead. You read my thoughts. That was enough.

But for some reason… I could never read yours.

I thought you were happy. Every day, I thought it was okay.

I’d wake up, do my routine, and wear yellow because it was your favorite color. I hated yellow, but for you, I’d become it.

I’d style my hair the way you liked. Light makeup, just a touch — and the star on my cheek. Always the star. Just how you liked.

…But you liked them, didn’t you?

Just never on me. Right?

Every time I put on that perfume — my favorite. Sweet, floral, fresh. Light pink glass shaped like a diamond. I’d hold it up to the light and watch it glint.

I didn’t want to admit it, but every day, as the liquid dropped lower, as the bottle got lighter, it felt like… a countdown. Like every spritz was one less piece of you loving me.

So when it was down to the last drip, I couldn’t use it. I couldn’t let it be empty.

I told myself if I saved it, maybe you’d still walk into my room and nag me. Maybe you’d still tug my hand and drag me to that ugly, squeaky bike. Maybe I could wear more yellow. Eat more ice cream. Let you tuck my hair behind my ear and pretend the world stopped in that library.

I held onto that last drop like it was you.

But even with that tiny bit left… it didn’t change the truth.

A bottle can’t save love that was never really there.

Even now, crouched on my floor, holding that same bottle like a lifeline — the one that used to be a beacon of my happiness — I cry. Again. Holed up in this room. The walls feel closer when I cry here.

I hate summer.

I never needed this perfume to remind me of you. It’s summer itself — the cicadas screaming in the heat, the heavy humidity sticking to my skin. Everything smells like you. Everything sounds like you. Like the whole season is mocking me.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. My breath hiccups, and I take a deep inhale. Not to make the feeling go away. Not anymore. But to finally let myself feel it, so maybe I can run out of tears. Maybe if I cry enough, there won’t be any left for you.

The photo is still on the floor. I bend down and pick it up, my fingers trembling just a little.

And now, with my eyes clear, I see it.

It’s us.

You and me, on the curb last summer. My head on your shoulder, your arms looped around mine. Both of us smiling at the camera like we didn’t know what was coming. The sun flaring in the background, golden and warm.

It’s bittersweet. Your smile hasn’t changed — frozen, perfect.

Mine has.

I don’t really look like that anymore.

I flip my mirror up slowly. I stare back at it, quiet and honest.

I see me.

The girl who hates yellow. Not because of you, but because I never liked it in the first place.

The girl who doesn’t really like going out. The one who’s tired, eyes rimmed in soft red.

But she’s okay.

Because I know — somehow — it’s going to be okay.

I don’t need your nagging to make myself feel better.

But I pin the photo on the wall anyway. Not because I want to torture myself. But because, deep down, I do miss you. And I miss what we had.

Loving you was never a waste.

I was the most in love I’d ever been. And I probably won’t ever love anyone in the exact same way I loved you in that picture. That girl — the one in your arms — she’s frozen in time now, captured in remembrance.

I’ll try not to be her again. Okay?

Because no matter how many times I clean this room, rearrange the furniture, or throw away every last thing we ever touched,

I’ll still keep the photo.

And the perfume.

Because maybe… maybe if I keep that last drop,

you’ll come back again.

————————————————————————✂️ ©️ whattt1101, please don’t steal, copy, or post this anywhere else

Side note: Thank you so much to whoever read this!! This is my first time actually writing. I do really want to continue! As of right now I won’t be able to take commissions. Maybe the next few stories out I will. I just want to be able to try getting used to writing first.

(Maybe this was based on my true experience 😭)

���️❤️❤️much love!