The Scent That Found Her

Jenna was in no way the kind to believe in fate. A 32-year-old art curator from Chicago, she had built her life on logic, schedules, and safe choices. Love, for her, was a chapter long closed — one she prudently shelved after a tough split up five years earlier. But at times, fate  doesn’t knock. Sometimes, it lingers in the air — spineless, sweet, and haunting.

It was a rainingThursday when it happened. She had dashed into a boutique perfume store to escape  the rainstorm, more out of boredom than fascination. The saleswoman smiled and whispered, “Want to try something new? Something that might just change your day?”

Jenna smirked. “I doubt a perfume can do that.”

The woman  held up a sleek, pink-toned bottle. “_Burberry Her._ Trust me.”

Jenna gave in, extending her wrist. The instant the scent hit her skin — notes of ripe berries, warm vanilla, and something floral yet fresh — she paused. Something stirred. A memory? A place? A feeling?

She couldn’t place it. But she bought the bottle anyway.

That same evening, Jenna wore Burberry Her to the gallery’s new exhibit launch. As she made her rounds, she noticed a man staring at her — not in a scary way, but with serene curiosity, like he was remembering something.

He approached. “Sorry to perturb you,” he said. “But… are you wearing Burberry Her?”

She laughed, a little embarrassed. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I used to date somebody who wore it. It was her favorite. The scent just pulled me back… from top to bottom.” 

He introduced himself — Mark, a travel photographer. Talk flowed naturally. They talked about art, cities they loved, cities they feared, and the exotic way smells attach  themselves to people and time. When the event ended, neither of them wanted to leave.

They began seeing each other — slowly  at first, then with a kind of urgency that felt like catching up on lost time. Every time Jenna wore Burberry Her, he would smile and say, That scent — it brought you to me.

Months passed. One snowy evening, Mark confessed something.

“The woman I told you about? The one who wore Burberry Her? She wasn’t real,” he said.

Jenna blinked. “What?”

“I mean… she wasn’t anyone I dated. I made that up. It was the only way I could start a dialogue with you without sounding like a fool.”

She laughed — genuinely. “You lied?”

“I had to. You smelled like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from.”

She didn’t answer back. She just kissed him.

Months later, when friends asked Jenna how they met, she always started the same way:

“It started with a scent. Not a date. Not a swipe. A scent that stopped him, and woke me up.”

And she’d always end it with a smile: 

“Burberry Her didn’t just make my day. It make my life.