That receipt has been haunting me for weeks. Every time I reach into my wallet, there it is: a little paper ghost saturated with his scent. It’s not even his expensive cologne—just the cheap stuff he’d slather on before hitting the town. But that smell? That’s him. It’s infuriating how something so trivial can trigger such a visceral reaction. My fingers brush against it, and suddenly I’m transported back to his poorly-laundered shirts and the hollow promises that came with them. Why can't memories fade as easily as fabric softens? Now every dry cleaning run feels like exhaling his ghost all over again. Fuck nostalgia. Fuck receipts. Fuck him.