fragrance is a ghost

hello.

fragrance is a ghost.

a trace of something felt more than seen—a presence that lingers even after everything else has faded. a clinging to the skin, to fabric, to the air in a room like an unspoken thought. some scents cradle our childhood within them: the warmth of a familiar room, the soft rustle of pages turning, the air permeated by the scent of a sweet treat just pulled from the oven. others feel like longing—something just beyond reach, a golden thread pulling you toward a version of yourself that exists only in memory. there are the scents that feel like home—not a place, but a belonging, a presence that wraps around you like a second skin. fragrance is intimate, almost secretive, revealing itself only in the quiet moments between movement, between breaths.

there are very few things in life that truly pull me out of myself and into deep, thoughtful conversations with others. books, of course, are one of them. and the other—maybe surprisingly, maybe not—is fragrance. fragrance breaks through the solitude of my mind the way books and philosophy does. it creates an entire world around me. it’s immersive, atmospheric, transportive.

but more than anything, fragrance is a portal. it’s time travel. memory—the closest thing we have to stepping back into a moment that no longer exists. one inhale, and i can be anywhere. a kitchen on a cold morning, the air heavy with the scent of coffee and something warm rising in the oven. walking home on a late autumn afternoon, crisp leaves breaking underfoot, smoke curling from distant chimneys. a childhood bedroom, where perfume samples slipped from magazine pages, each one a quiet promise of who i might one day become. no other sense does this so instantly, so completely. before my mind can catch up, my body already remembers.

that’s why perfume feels essential to me—it’s not just scent, but presence, connection, a tether to something just beyond reach. it’s the feeling of having been somewhere before, even if i can’t quite name where. the right fragrance immersing me in a world that feels fuller, richer, more deeply felt.

fragrance is one of the rare ways we can exist as something without ever having to say it. we can project, embody, transform. some scents feel like home—familiar, safe, a quiet place to return to. others are aspirational, a glimpse of the person i want to be—elegant, untouchable, steeped in mystery. and then there are the ones that feel like a second skin, as if they aren’t just worn but lived in, as if they don’t simply scent me but make me more myself.

this is why fragrance is so intimate. it’s something we wear on our skin, something that lives with us— shifting and changing throughout the day, just as we do. despite how personal it is, it’s also something that connects people. fragrance is one of the rare things that is deeply individual but also universal.

when you meet someone who shares the same affinity for perfumery you do, there’s an instant bond. fragrance people just get each other. we understand the obsession of hunting down a scent that reminds us of something we can’t quite name. we know the joy of discovering a perfume that makes us feel seen in some unspoken way. we’ve had those moments where we catch a scent in the air and suddenly feel something shift inside of us—melancholy, longing, comfort, desire.

scent can calm, reset, ground. it can turn a bad day into something softer, more bearable. sometimes, the act of applying fragrance is just as important as the scent itself. there’s something about the ritual of it—spraying it onto skin, watching it settle, noticing how it changes over the hours—that feels like self-care in the truest sense. it’s a moment of stillness. a moment to say, this is who i am today. this is how i want to feel.

and what makes it even more beautiful is that scent lingers. life moves fast. we don’t always get to hold onto things. but fragrance stays. it clings to sweaters, to pillowcases, to the air in a room long after someone has left. sometimes, it’s all we have left of a person or a place or a moment in time. and maybe that’s why i love it so much—because it lets me hold onto something, even when everything else is slipping away.

ultimately, selecting a fragrance is a form of self-expression and self-care, a way to honor your unique journey and the moments that define it. and so today, i want to share the fragrances that have become a part of me—the ones that feel like a safe place to return to, no matter where i am. these scents have woven themselves into my skin, shifting with me, grounding me, offering comfort when i need it most.

fragrances that nurture, soothe, linger…

ludlow (lull) by gabar: (notes: black tea, orange blossom, cherry, apple, rose, sandalwood, cashmere wood, white musk) like being held, wrapped in the kind of warmth that asks for nothing in return. the black tea is soft, like the steam rising from a cup cradled in both hands, delicate but grounding. orange blossom and cherry weave through like a lullaby, tender and nostalgic, the scent of someone brushing your hair back, murmuring that you are safe. apple and rose add a gentle sweetness—not bright, not sharp, but like the scent of skin after being pressed against someone you love. then the dry down: sandalwood and cashmere wood settling in like a wool blanket, white musk like the quiet hush of a room before sleep. it’s the scent of being swaddled, rocked, hummed to—of love so deep and unconditional it almost aches.

ground by gabar: (notes: pink pepper, saffron, ginger, coriander, orris, fig, decar, vetiver, sandalwood, musk) the quiet pull of damp earth, steady and unwavering. the first inhale is a spark—pink pepper, saffron, and ginger crackling like distant thunder, sharp but fleeting, like the air before rain. then it settles, sinking into the damp hush of orris and fig, a balance of something raw and refined, like wet bark under your fingertips. cedar and vetiver breathe in like the scent of rain-soaked wood, deep and grounding, while sandalwood and musk soften the edges, turning the damp into something velvety, almost skin-like. it’s the scent of bare feet on cool, rain-darkened soil, of quiet exhales, of being held by something older than time.

monstera by xinu: (notes: pineapple adjacent note from monstera leaves, bitter moss, white florals with hints of cocoa and vanilla) a tropical greenhouse just after it rains—humid, green, and alive. the monstera leaf note isn’t the syrupy sweetness of pineapple but something wilder, more raw, like the scent of split stems and thick, waxy leaves catching droplets of water. bitter moss grounds it, giving the impression of damp earth, while white florals add a soft, ghostly elegance, like petals floating on the surface of a pond. just when it feels untamed, hints of cocoa and vanilla creep in, not in a gourmand way, but like the faintest memory of something rich and comforting. it’s lush, mysterious, and quietly untamed, the scent of deep green shadows and golden light filtering through jungle leaves.

valaya by parfums de marly: (notes: aldehydes, white peach, bergamot, mandarin orange, orange blossom, lily of the valley, mynpheal, vetiver, musk, vanilla) crisp white cotton billowing in a soft breeze, the sun warming your skin but never too harsh. angelic and ethereal. it’s fresh but not sterile, delicate but with a quiet, self-assured depth. the aldehydes give it that clean, luminous glow, like morning light through sheer curtains, while the white peach and orange blossom add just enough warmth to keep it from feeling distant. musk and vanilla settle in like a second skin—soft, comforting, just a little sensual. it’s a scent that lingers like the memory of a perfect spring morning, untouched and full of possibility.

parisian musc by matiere premiere: (notes: cedar, ambrette, musk, ambroxan) second skin—clean but lived-in, effortless but intentional. the cedar is crisp, like the snap of a freshly buttoned linen shirt, while ambrette hums just beneath, warm and faintly sweet, like the trace of skin warmed by touch. the musk isn’t loud; it lingers, soft and close, blurring the line between scent and presence. ambroxan adds a weightless sensuality, like the lingering warmth of someone who just left the room. it’s understated, intimate, the kind of fragrance that doesn’t wear you—it becomes you.

another 13 by le labo: (notes: pear, citrus, apple, musk, moss, jasmine, iso e super) a whisper—soft, translucent, lingering just beyond reach. the pear and apple murmur; airy and weightless, like the scent of skin after slipping into a sun-warmed cotton shirt. iso e super hums underneath, a barely-there presence that feels more like a memory than a note, while musk and moss tether it just enough to keep it from vanishing. jasmine flickers at the edges, subtle and clean, like light filtering through frosted glass. it’s not a fragrance that announces itself—it lingers, shifting, impossible to pin down, yet undeniably there.

angel dust by fugazzi: (notes: bergamot, pepper, cashmere, white amber crystals) light catching on gossamer wings, weightless and fleeting. bergamot sparkles at first, crisp and airy, like the glint of morning dew on silk. then, a whisper of pepper flickers through, adding a barely-there crackle, like static in the air before a spell is cast. cashmere and white amber crystals melt into the skin like a celestial glow—soft, radiant, and almost untouchable, like the lingering presence of something divine. it’s ethereal but not delicate, a fragrance that feels like stardust settling on bare skin.

jasmine by one day: (notes: jasmine, sage, tea, oolong tea, musk, vetiver) by one day is the steam curling from a porcelain teacup, delicate but full of depth. the jasmine isn’t loud or heady—it drifts, airy and translucent, like petals floating on the surface of freshly steeped oolong. sage adds a touch of cool earthiness, grounding the composition like sunlight filtering through paper screens. the tea notes are the heart, warm yet weightless, carrying that soft bitterness that lingers just enough to make you lean in. musk and vetiver melt into the skin, turning the scent from something fleeting into something deeply felt. it’s the quiet ritual of tea in the afternoon, the kind of fragrance that doesn’t just scent the air—it stills it.

vanilla haze fugazzi: (notes: almond, coconut milk, hazelnut, mandarin, vanilla pod, tonka bean, jasmine, caramel, cashmere wood, amber, musk) a memory wrapped in warmth, the scent of golden waffle cones drifting through the air as laughter echoes in the distance. the almond and hazelnut create a soft, nutty sweetness—not heavy, but airy, like the crisp edges of a freshly baked treat. coconut milk and mandarin add a lightness, a gentle glow that keeps it from sinking into anything too dense. then comes the vanilla pod, rich yet comforting, blended with caramel and tonka bean in a way that feels effortless, like the last few moments before drifting into sleep. cashmere wood and amber settle in, soft as a favorite blanket, musk clinging to the skin like the warmth of a day well spent. it’s childhood bottled, pure and effervescent—the kind of sweetness that feels like home.

taipei by one day: (notes: rice, taro, soy milk, iris, guaiac wood, musk, sandalwood, vetiver) warmth in its purest form—smooth, creamy, and deeply comforting, like the first sip of something rich on a quiet morning. the soy milk is the heart, impossibly soft and velvety, with a gentle sweetness that never tips into excess. rice and taro add a delicate nuttiness, almost savory, like steam rising from a bowl of freshly cooked grains. iris threads through like silk, cool and weightless, balancing the warmth with a quiet elegance. then the woods—guaiac, sandalwood, vetiver—ground it, their softness wrapping around the scent like a well-worn knit. musk lingers, skin-close and hazy, leaving behind something tender, something that feels like being held.

tears by regime des fleurs: (notes: lilac, orris, ambergris, orange blossom, pink pepper, rose water, mandarin orange) a melancholic spring—like a fairy weeping in a rain-soaked, enchanted forest. the lilac note is delicate yet profound, evoking the image of green, wet ivy clinging to gothic victorian homes adorned with wisteria and purple blooms. orris adds a powdery depth, reminiscent of soft petals dissolving into the damp earth. the subtle warmth of ambergris and the gentle spice of pink pepper create a contrast, like the bittersweet beauty of tears mingling with raindrops. orange blossom and mandarin orange lend a faint, distant sweetness, as if the sun is trying to break through the overcast sky. it's a fragrance that encapsulates the beauty of sorrow, transporting you to a dreamlike land where emotions flow as freely as the rain.

falling trees by regime des fleurs: (notes: oak, juniper, benzoin, myrrh, incense, moss) stepping into a shadowed grove in the heart of winter, where the air is thick with the scent of ancient woods and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. juniper and elemi greet you first, crisp and invigorating, like a sharp inhale of frosty air. as you venture deeper, olibanum and myrrh weave a resinous tapestry, evoking the quiet solemnity of towering oaks and the rich, damp earth they root in. moss and cypriol add a touch of green dampness, reminiscent of ivy-clad stones and the delicate decay of forest undergrowth. it's a scent that wraps around you like a woolen cloak, grounding yet ethereal, capturing the serene melancholy of bare trees against a silvery sky.

iris silver mist by serge lutens: (notes: iris, vetiver, galbanum, musk, incense, cedar, clove, sandalwood) a ghostly silver veil of iris… a blade of ice pressed against the skin—sharp, metallic, and unyielding. the iris isn’t soft or powdery; it’s stark and crystalline, like frost forming on glass. vetiver and galbanum deepen the chill, an almost eerie greenness that feels like walking through a winter landscape where the air cuts through you. then, beneath the cold, the woods hum—cedar and sandalwood, grounding but distant, like the bones of trees standing bare against a silver sky. incense rises through it all, thin and ghostly, like smoke disappearing into the cold. it’s a fragrance that feels both untouchable and intimate, a second skin made of ice and shadow.

molecule 01: (notes: iso e super) scent of skin, but better—warm, airy, and inexplicably addictive. it doesn’t announce itself; it lingers, hovering just above you like heat rising off bare skin. iso e super is deceptively simple, a whisper of soft woodiness, clean but never sterile, smooth but never overpowering. it moves like a ghost, appearing and disappearing, catching in the warmth of your pulse points and deepening as the day goes on. it's effortlessly sensual, like the scent of someone you can’t stop leaning into. the beauty of molecule 01 is its quiet intimacy—it smells like you, only closer.

orpheon by diptyqye: (notes: juniper berries, jasmine, cedar, tonka bean) warm skin against polished wood, the air thick with nostalgia and quiet intimacy. the juniper berries add a fleeting brightness, crisp and cool, like the first sip of a late-night drink. but then it settles—cedar takes over, rich and enveloping, like the scent of worn-in wooden floors and well-loved furniture in a dimly lit bar. jasmine lingers in the background, soft and breathy, almost imperceptible, weaving through the air like smoke curling from a candle just blown out. the tonka bean hums underneath it all, creamy and sensual, a warmth that clings to the skin long after the night ends. orpheon doesn’t shout—it draws you in, effortless and magnetic, like the kind of touch that lingers even after it’s gone.

xtra milk dedcool: (notes:white musk, amber, bergamot) slipping into a well-worn cotton tee, soft and effortless, a scent that doesn’t sit on top of the skin but melts into it. the white musk is clean yet warm, like the lingering scent of skin after a long embrace. amber hums quietly beneath it, adding a golden, weightless depth—never heavy, just a gentle glow. a gentle sweetness, subtle but golden, like the way light softens at the end of the day. bergamot flickers at the edges, barely there, like sunlight catching on silk. it’s the kind of scent that feels intimate, like waking up wrapped in someone’s warmth, familiar and irresistible in its simplicity.

white rice by d’annam: (notes: rice, orris, jasmine, musk, tonka bean, cedarwood) is warmth in its purest form—soft, delicate, and deeply nostalgic. the steamed rice note is gentle and pillowy, a scent that lingers like the air in a kitchen where something simple and familiar is being prepared with care. orris and jasmine weave through like quiet whispers, adding a creamy, almost velvety texture, never overpowering, just there, like a memory you can’t quite place. musk and tonka bean settle in, sweet but restrained, like the warmth of skin pressed against cotton. cedarwood hums beneath it all, grounding the scent without disrupting its softness. it’s comfort, it’s home, it’s the quiet kind of scent that wraps around you like a childhood lullaby.

portrait of a lady by frederic malle: (notes: rose, clove, raspberry, sandalwood, musk, benzoin, amber, cedar, vanilla, ambergris) confidence without effort, elegance without restraint. the rose is deep and full-bodied, not soft or fleeting but bold, like the trace of red lipstick on a collar. clove adds just enough bite to keep it from being too smooth, while raspberry lingers at the edges, a quiet hint of something sweet. then it sinks into the skin—sandalwood and amber warming like the glow of candlelight, musk and vanilla clinging close, the kind of scent that turns heads without trying. it’s magnetic, timeless, the kind of fragrance that makes people stop you in the street—not because it shouts, but because it stays.

tahota by indult: notes: vanilla, musk (this is the best vanilla fragrance to ever exist) vanilla in its purest, most intoxicating form—warm, enveloping, almost otherworldly in its perfection. this isn’t the sugary, gourmand vanilla of pastries; it’s smooth, rich, and deeply skin-like, the kind of scent that melts into you rather than sitting on top. the musk keeps it from ever feeling too sweet, adding a weightless sensuality, like bare skin still warm from sleep. it’s effortless, addictive, the kind of fragrance that lingers in the air long after you’ve left, leaving nothing but the memory of warmth.

okay, that’s all i have for you today. lastly, i want to emphasize the importance of buying samples first, before purchasing full-sized bottles. i use twisted lily (and you can get a discount if you use my code caitlyn10). lucky scent is another great place to shop for samples, although i have a bone to pick with their 1ml dipstick containers that make a mess anytime you try to open them. (i still love you, lucky scent)

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lastly, if you love fragrance as much as i do, check out

The Dry Down Diaries

and

Emma Vernon

i love you.

bye.

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