Walking into the bank, the narrator was immediately struck by a familiar yet disturbing scent that caused their nostrils to flare. The atmosphere, quietly corrupted with buried memories, made them pause, allowing themselves to remember why this particular aroma carried such weight. A strong urge to ask who was wearing the perfume arose, as if knowing held urgent significance. For a brief moment, the thought of an old friend, last seen in Abuja with an unsaid goodbye, being in Lagos, crossed their mind, despite the illogical nature of the thought.

This wasn't the first time the scent had appeared. In Akure, the narrator had previously found themselves sniffing the air like a dog, following the elusive fragrance. This painful pursuit continued until a 'corper wee' (NYSC member) wore the scent daily, transforming the torture into a strange comfort. Each compliment given to her was a desperate attempt to cling to the only thing left of him, a torment to the narrator's lungs and heart.

However, in the bank hall, a significant shift occurred. The scent, rich and intoxicating like a mix of candies and something deeper, did not evoke the usual sorrow. It didn't tug at old wounds, crack open emotions, or send the narrator spiraling. Instead, it calmly brought back his name, his face, and the ghost of a shared laugh. This realization was profound, as for the longest time, the narrator had believed that losing him would equate to losing breath, that life would dim permanently.

The fragrance, once a trigger for profound grief, now merely stirred a calm memory of what once was. Their friendship, which had spanned several years, was eventually overwhelmed by rising emotions that threatened to destroy it. Even as the thread of their connection frayed, the narrator had clung to it with desperate loyalty, fearing personal extinction if they let go. The last words, the last conversation, or even the last silence remain elusive, his face fading behind intentionally built walls.

Yet, one detail stubbornly survives in the deepest dark of imagination: a small scar on his forehead. This observation leads to a poignant reflection on how one detail can outlast an entire person's memory. The narrator questions their own nature, wondering if they forget with the same urgency with which they love, and let go with the same ferociousness with which they cling. Acknowledging this as perhaps the safest approach for someone susceptible to repeated emotional onslaught, the narrator concludes with a final question: why can't they have both – the ability to love deeply and to let go gracefully?