The air was thick with the kind of heat that clings to your skin like a second layer, _sticky and oppressive_, but then, out of nowhere, it hit—_that smell_. God, _that smell_. It was like the past punched me right in the gut, dragging me back to a time when the world was both smaller and infinitely bigger.

The scent of freshly cut grass, mingled with the faint, sugary sweetness of melting popsicles, the kind that stained your lips and dripped down your wrists, sticky trails of childhood that you'd wipe on your shorts. It was the smell of summer—not the fake, bottled kind they sell in stores now, _but the real deal_. The kind that makes you think of scraped knees and dirt under your fingernails, of days that stretched on forever until they didn’t, ending in a sudden, cruel darkness.

And then there was that _music_, faint and distant, almost like it was coming from a memory and not the old radio crackling in the background. It was _tinny_, like it was playing through a tin can, but it was _perfect_. It was the soundtrack to the good times, before everything got so _complicated_, before you knew what the words in the songs really meant, when you just sang along because it felt good.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? _That smell_, that music—it’s like a trap. You think it’s bringing you back to something sweet, something pure, but all it really does is remind you of what you can never have again. It’s like chasing shadows, always reaching for something that slips right through your fingers. You think you can hold onto it, just for a second, just to feel _okay_ again, but it’s gone before you even realize you’re grasping at air.

And then, just like that, you’re standing there, _frozen_, a stupid smile on your face, as that old radio spits out the last notes of the song. You’re stuck in the past, drowning in memories that don’t feel quite right anymore, memories that have been _twisted_, _distorted_ by the years. Because that’s what they do, don’t they? They _change_, they _decay_, until you’re not sure if they’re real or just something you made up to keep yourself from falling apart.

But still, you breathe in that smell, and for just a split second, it feels like everything’s okay again. _Just for a second_, you’re a kid, running barefoot through the grass, laughing until your stomach hurts, and the world hasn’t gone dark yet. Just for a second, you’re _whole_.

And then it’s gone, and you’re left standing there, wondering why the hell it ever left you in the first place.