Now, that same bottle rests on my nightstand. I’ve never sprayed it. I won’t. Not out of guilt, but because it holds something sacred. His love. His intention. The last message he ever left for me, hidden in something I almost threw away.
Each night, when I glance at it, I remember what he taught me without meaning to: love doesn’t always arrive wrapped in sparkle or grandeur. Sometimes, it’s tucked inside the smallest gestures, waiting for us to look closer. And sometimes, the true value of a gift only reveals itself after the giver is gone.
