The Scent of You in a Paper Strip

I stand before the shop window in Omotesando, holding a small strip of white paper.
It is not just perfume; it is you.
The scent carries notes of cedar and cold rain—the exact smell of your coat when we walked through Shinjuku last November. I close my eyes, letting the fragrance settle on my skin like a soft breath.
In this crowded city where everyone moves too fast to be seen, I have found a way to keep you near me without words.
The leather vest is stiff against my shoulders, but inside, something has loosened. A knot in my chest that only your presence could untie.
I inhale deeply once more. It feels like home.
Tomorrow, I will tell you why I chose this scent.

Editor: Pure Linen