He stood in the doorway of their now-too-quiet walk-in closet, surrounded by the ghosts of her shampoo scents and a thousand sarcastic echoes. The duffel bag on the floor glared up at him like it, too, was disappointed. The rules were simple: one cologne. Just one. He eyed the sleek army of glass bottles, each with a memory like it's own experience — Date Night in Tuscany, New Job Confidence, Apologizing Without Actually Apologizing. In the end, he chose the one he felt the strongest relationship with. Not because he loved it, but because it had never let him down before.

Thirty days later, he’s still wearing it. It’s practically a roommate now. He sprays it in the morning like armor, and by lunch, it’s marinated into his hoodie like some kind of pheromonal rebellion. He’s convinced the barista at the coffee shop flinches when he walks in. A friend told him he smells like a haunted locker room. But he keeps wearing it. Not out of spite, not really. More like… cologne Stockholm Syndrome. Plus, it’s comforting — a terrible little reminder that even when everything falls apart, you can still smell consistent.

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