The back of my neck prickles, a ghost of gooseflesh, like standing too close to a memory that isn't mine, but somehow IS. That perfume, fleeting and sharp, cut right through the iced matcha haze, and suddenly I'm sixteen again, which is a bullshit age to be, convinced every feeling is the only real one and every song is written just for you. that tight little ball of possibility and dread all wound together, before everything got… muted. i almost miss it, that frantic edge. but just for a second. scared myself just now with a nearly there SMILE. what now? i nearly screamed thank you for a damn smell, like i'd been given air after drowning.