if only i could bottle this moment into a perfume and wear it everyday

i’d spray it on my wrists every morning and live inside it a little longer.

it’s said that hair holds memories. songs hold memories. perfumes hold memories. but in my opinion, the one memory that hits the hardest is that fleeting moment when you're standing at the edge of a chapter, looking back at your old room one last time: luggage in hand, right before you close the door to your now past.

every step away from that room feels heavier, like you're dragging something invisible but deeply personal. and in that single glance, it all comes rushing back: lying on your bed watching a movie you didn’t even like, the chair that was bought for studying but only ever held piles of clothes, the book cart always overflowing with snacks, candy wrappers from a year ago buried at the bottom. the small lamp you kept on day and night, not because you needed light, but because you liked how the warm glow made the room feel safe. cleaning your room before every exam, shifting clothes from the chair to the bed, pretending that counts as productivity. the old AC that never really cooled the room, but you convinced yourself it worked if you cranked the fan high enough. having friends over - for a drink, a movie, a group study that turned into gossip. it all feels like a blur now. but at that final glance, it plays in your head so fast and so full it almost brings you to tears.

i think most people feel this when they leave their childhood home and go to university for the first time. but here's the thing: growing up, we moved a lot. no place stuck. none of those childhood homes ever felt like home. they still don’t. i was never sentimental about them. but then i entered uni. and i knew right from the start that i wanted to live off-campus. have my own place. my own routine. my own version of freedom. and that’s what i did - or mostly did. i ended up sharing a room with my boyfriend in a three-bedroom apartment. and somehow, it became ours. for three years, that small room held my whole world. it was my haven. my constant. the one place i hated leaving during breaks because going “home” no longer felt like going home. it sounds absolutely insane now, but it was real. painfully real.

if an eighteen-year-old walked up to me today and said, “i’m planning to move in with my boyfriend for uni,” i’d probably panic and give them a long speech about how it’s too soon, too risky, too everything. but back then? i just jumped in. it was a crazy decision. maybe even reckless. but god, it was also beautiful.

the lease ends this may. we’ve already started packing. slowly. quietly. without really talking about what it all means. we returned our rented bed frame last week, so now it’s just a mattress on the floor, exactly like it was when we first moved in. just a closet, a mattress, and a whole lot of hope. it took three years to fill that room with furniture, laughter, heartbreaks, routines, and rituals. two desks. one chair. one lamp. one book cart. one laundry bag. just six things. but they saw everything. they saw me grow. they saw skipped classes because morning cuddles felt more important than attendance. they saw surprise birthdays and quiet anniversaries. they saw our first fight, our messy breakdowns, the ugly crying, the soft “i’m sorry”s, the tighter “i love you”s. they watched us study face-to-face all night with red bull and McD fries, and they watched us come home after exams, crash into bed without a word, and just sleep in each other’s arms.

this room has held so much of us that every carton packed feels like i’m disassembling my heart. like i’m destroying something sacred. something that was just ours. i wish time could stop here. i wish i could be a uni student forever. i wish my biggest worry could still be 75% attendance. i wish we could live in that room forever—me and him. with the leaky ancient AC and the noisy fan. with our little lamp always on.

but we have to grow up. and we did. and now, the room is quiet. half-empty. stripped of the life it once held. and every day, i try not to cry over something that was so real, so good, and is now slipping into memory. i just hope life lets me build something even 1% as warm as this. i hope whoever rents this place next can preserve our once home. i hope they keep it all warm and happy. like we did.

because this wasn’t just a room. it was a love story. a home. a coming-of-age film we accidentally lived. and no matter how grown-up i become, a part of me will always live inside those four walls, wrapped in warm lamp light, eating stale snacks with my boyfriend from the book cart, pretending forever was something we could actually touch.