That night, I tossed the perfume aside on the dresser, promising myself I’d never use it. I didn’t realize then how fleeting our time together would be. Just three weeks later, he died suddenly—no warning, no goodbye. The world stopped, and I was left with a pain so deep it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Everything we had shared over ten years played in my mind like a movie I couldn’t turn off.

One day, while cleaning, I found the perfume still sitting there, unopened. My heart broke as I held it, realizing it was the last gift he ever gave me. I opened the cap and the scent instantly filled the room—soft, familiar, and strangely comforting. It wasn’t cheap anymore; it was priceless. I wept, wishing I could go back, wishing I had thanked him, hugged him tighter, and told him how much I loved him.

Now, that bottle sits on my nightstand, not as a reminder of disappointment, but of love, loss, and perspective. Sometimes we measure love by the price of the gift, forgetting that presence is the most precious thing of all. I learned that too late—but I carry that lesson with me every day, and every breath of that perfume reminds me of the man I loved and the time I can never get back.