It wasn’t the cost that stung — it was what I feared it said: that maybe he hadn’t really seen me, hadn’t really tried. That night, after he fell asleep, I tucked the perfume into a drawer and told myself I’d never wear it. I couldn’t have known then that it would become the most precious gift he’d ever give me.
Three weeks later, he was gone. No warning, no time to prepare — just a phone call that shattered everything. In the days that followed, I drifted through our home like a shadow. His mug still sat on the counter. His jacket hung by the door. And in that drawer, untouched, was the perfume. Each time I saw it, the regret deepened. I’d dismissed something he gave with love, and now I’d never get the chance to tell him how much he meant to me.
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