Body Splash

Here, melancholy smells not of metaphors, but of real perfume, which has become ingrained in my memory more deeply than in a pillow. The sheets are changed, the mattress is replaced, but that stubborn feeling that clings to every detail of the past does not disappear.

It seems simple enough: the smell of the body, the habit of going to bed ‘properly’, even the banal Body Splash - and suddenly the empty room comes alive with ghosts of intimacy. The result is not a sad confession, but a frank and slightly self-deprecating portrait of dependence on memories: when you are angry with yourself for your weakness, but still smile at the smallest, almost ridiculous details that hold tighter than any locks.