She paused, then said, "I'd like you to start an honesty journal together. Once or twice a week, just a single page each, where you both write something raw and real. It could be a fear, a confession, a regret, or even something good you noticed about each other. No editing, no erasing. Then, you share it. Read it out loud if you can."
She leaned back, voice softer now. "Because real trust isn't built by pretending the past didn't happen. It's built by facing it together, day by day, until it becomes something you can both carry without it weighing you down."
She waited, letting that sink in, then added gently:
"So, if October agrees, we'll begin. And if not today, then whenever you're ready. But remember: the work won't erase the hurt. What it can do is make space for something honest, gentler, and new to grow in its place."

****
The ride home was quiet.
 We have this routine: we go to therapy together, and then drive home together. Usually, we talk a little about the session, about the kids, even something ordinary just to break the tension.
But this time, neither of us spoke.  My hand stayed on the wheel, but my mind wasn't really on the road. Every so often, I glanced over at October, quick, careful, like I was afraid she might disappear if I looked too long. The evening light made her hair look softer, almost golden at the edges, and for a second I could almost see us as we used to be.
When we finally pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car, I reached into the back seat and took out a small wooden box I'd been hiding there all afternoon, waiting, heart pounding, for the right moment to give it to her.
"I, uh..." My voice caught, stupidly. "I got something for you."
She frowned a little, confused. "For me?"
I nodded and handed it over, my palms suddenly damp. She opened the lid, pushed back the linen. And then I saw it hit her.
Four small glass vials: orris butter, pink pepper absolute, violet leaf absolute and the last, just a tiny piece of real oud wood, wrapped so carefully it almost hurt to look at it. Her hands trembled, her eyes went glassy with tears almost the second she read the labels.
Because these weren't just pretty words on delicate glass—they were some of the rarest, most prized materials in the perfumer's world:
Orris butter, pressed from the aged rhizomes of the iris plant, takes years, sometimes decades to produce. It's what gives the soft, buttery, almost suede-like powdery notes found in the heart of the most elegant perfumes. It's rare, expensive, and quietly magical: just a few drops can turn a blend from ordinary into something hauntingly beautiful.
Pink pepper absolute isn't just about spice; it adds a shimmering brightness and floral warmth, a fizzy effect that makes other notes sparkle. It's hard to extract, and its warmth feels both modern and timeless.
Violet leaf absolute, deep green and earthy, captures that almost electric sharpness of crushed leaves—the cool, fresh breath that keeps sweet compositions from becoming cloying. It's notoriously tricky to work with, but it adds life and realism, like breathing in real spring air.
And then oud—true oud. The rarest of them all. Formed only when certain tropical trees are infected by a specific fungus, creating a dark, resinous heartwood with an aroma unlike anything else on earth: smoky, animalic, sacred, almost painfully deep. Gram for gram, it can cost more than gold.
To anyone else, these might be curiosities, tiny luxuries. But to someone who loves scent—to October—they're pieces of a secret language. Tools to create something beautiful, personal, and entirely new. And more than that, they were proof he had seen her: what she loved, what she dreamed of making, even what she might become. 
"How...?" she managed, voice cracking. "How did you even know...?"
"I asked around," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Beth helped me. I know they're small, but... I thought maybe you could use them. For your work. For your shop, maybe."
She just stared at them like they were something holy.  She whispered. "Then.... how could you...how ..how?"
Then it broke from her in a way that was almost childlike and devastating; she lifted her trembling hand and pressed her palm flat against my chest. Her eyes were streaming, lips parted, breath shuddering, "How...?" she whispered first, almost like she was asking herself. Then her palm pushed at me, not hard, but enough to make my breath catch. "Then how could you?" Another push, her palm coming back, her voice rising through the sobs: "Then how could you?"
She kept saying it, almost chanting, voice cracking on each word, tears spilling freely, shoulders shaking so hard I thought she might fall apart in front of me. Every time her hand met my chest, it wasn't pain she was giving me; it was the truth of what I'd done. It landed deeper than any bruise could.
Before she could pull away completely, I reached for her, my hands closing around her trembling shoulders. I pulled her in, felt her fight me for a heartbeat and then felt her break, felt her weight come forward into me, shaking, sobbing. The little wooden box pressed awkwardly, almost painfully, between us, caught in the space where guilt met grief. Her tears soaked through my shirt, her fists bunching the fabric like she wanted to hold on and push me away at the same time.
"I know," I choked out, my voice hoarse, raw with shame. "I know, mon amour. I'm so sorry. I'm so damn sorry. I am sorry."
 She clung to me then and I held her back, tighter than I ever had, my heart pounding with guilt, grief, and a love so fierce it hurt.

I swear, I will never be the reason for this ache in you again. Never again.
We stayed like that, caught between apology and grief, her tears soaking through my shirt, my arms wrapped around her as if I could hold all the hurt inside her and keep it from spilling out. I don't know if it was seconds or hours; time felt stretched thin and fragile around us.
She stopped crying for a while then her voice came, raw and trembling against my chest, "I want to try again," she whispered, every word breaking and brave all at once. "But I want the man who made the plaque for me, who made that garden... who called the dog shelter after my flower... who learned French just to tell me he loves me in another language. The man who made that beautiful necklace, who makes me laugh, who makes me dream..."

"You got him," I whispered fiercely, pressing my forehead to hers. "You actually own him. All of him. I swear to you,  he's yours, all yours, forever."