Some nights feel heavier than others… maybe because the air remembers something we don’t say out loud. Tonight is one of those. I haven’t spoken to anyone in hours, and yet it feels like the room keeps listening. I uncapped the bottle again — slow — and let the darkness rise from it. The Black Oud Perfume sits on the table like an unanswered question, and every time I smell it, the question changes a little.
It has that presence… the kind that doesn’t ask if you’re okay. It just sits there with you, like it already knows the answer. I spray it on a shirt — not too close — and it folds into the fabric as if fabric was invented for it. I keep touching the cloth later just to reassure myself that something still lingers. The scent feels like velvet, but heavier… like velvet that has a secret.
Sometimes I think this is what solitude sounds like if it had a scent. Quiet, but not empty. Dark, but not cruel. I wear it when I don’t want to explain myself. When I’m tired of being “fine.” And strangely, it comforts me… not by cheering me up, but by letting me be exactly how I am. That link to its name stays with me — Black Oud Perfume — and every time I see the words, I remember a version of myself that didn’t need to pretend.
The problem with silence is that it leaves space for memories you didn’t invite. I opened another bottle — this time I shouldn’t have, I know — but I did it anyway. Tobacco Oud Attar. It’s almost too emotional to describe. Not smoky like a bad habit, but smoky like a moment you can’t replace. It smells like a goodbye that was never spoken properly. Like someone leaving without taking their warmth with them.
I held it near my wrist for a second without applying it, and I felt… stupidly attached to the memory of a person who isn’t here anymore. Funny how something as small as a fragrance can unravel you without warning. Tobacco Oud Attar doesn’t fill a room — it fills a silence. It makes you remember hands you shouldn’t miss, messages you never sent, nights when you weren’t alone.
It’s strange — I don’t use perfumes to impress people anymore. I use them to stay connected to myself. Or to what I was. Or what I wanted to be and never became.
Black oud is the strength I show the world. Tobacco oud is the softness I hide from it. And both live on my clothes longer than any person ever stayed.
I sprayed them on the same scarf once — days ago — and yesterday when I opened the wardrobe, the air came rushing out like it had a voice. It knocked me a little off balance. I stood there too long for a rational explanation. Some things hit harder when you don’t expect them.
I don’t know if this late-night writing will make sense to anyone. Maybe it’s just me — someone who finds comfort in fragrances when words fail. Someone who likes shadows more than sunlight. But if somebody out there reads this while sitting in a quiet room too… maybe you understand what it feels like to not want the silence to end.
- If you ever feel too much — you’ll want the tobacco.
- If you ever feel too little — you’ll want the oud.
- If you ever feel both at the same time… maybe they were always meant to exist together.
I keep smelling the shirt next to me while typing this, and I realize something no one ever talks about: sometimes perfumes aren’t about attraction, status, confidence. Sometimes they’re just a place — a place we go back to when reality is too loud.
And tonight, that’s enough… I think.