English Version | The Bridal Affair: Till Scent Do Us Part

Is it the delicate whisper of blossoms woven into a veil, the smoky depth of a candlelit vow, or the crisp green of a morning that marks the first of a thousand shared sunrises? Is it a breath of jasmine in the air as you step onto the aisle, or the faint trace of vetiver on a suit collar as you lean in close?

Forever is a promise—bound in words, sealed with rings—but it is scent that lingers, outlasting even the petals scattered on the aisle. Photographs fade, flowers wilt, but scent—scent lingers. It buries itself in fabric, in skin, in memory, waiting to resurface with a single breath. If love is a story, then fragrance is the ink it’s written in, tracing its presence across the moments that shape a lifetime.

They say, till death do us part—a vow etched in time, bound by love, whispered between two souls. But if love is meant to last beyond a single lifetime, what if its truest essence isn’t captured in words, nor even in a photograph, but in something far more ephemeral?

So, how do you choose the scent of forever? Do you hold onto the fragrance that has always been yours, steeped in memories? Or do you create something entirely new—an invisible signature that will belong only to this day, this promise, this love?

Because, in the end, it’s the way a single inhale can bring back the rustle of silk, the weight of a ring slipping onto your finger, the trembling promise of forever. And long after the music stops and the last dance is danced, what lingers is the scent of I do.

Scent is one of the most visceral, instinctive senses we possess—raw, primal, untouched by logic. It is the last to fade when everything else begins to shut down, a lingering presence even as the body surrenders. Unlike touch or taste, scent isn’t something we consciously register in the moment. We don’t choose how it weaves itself into memory, how it binds itself to a feeling, a place, a person. It simply happens. And only later—perhaps years down the line—do we inhale and realize we’ve been carrying that moment with us all along.

With that ominous truth laid bare, let’s return to the question at hand—how does one choose a scent that will become inseparable from a day meant to be remembered forever?

Truth is, there is no single answer. And yet, there are considerations to be made before entrusting a flacon with the monumental task of remembering.

Let’s start with the question of why. With all the intricacies and inevitable chaos that come with planning a wedding, why add yet another layer—why choose a scent just for this day? Why not simply reach for the familiar, the fragrance already worn and woven into daily life? Why go the extra mile to anoint the moment with something new, something singular?

Because some days are not meant to smell like any other.

The same analogy applies to marriage itself. At its core, a marriage can exist as nothing more than ink on paper, a bureaucratic formality sealed in a lifeless office, witnessed only by a pair of strangers and the lingering ghosts of a system built to impose order. And yet, we choose more. We gather our loved ones, those who matter most, those with whom we wish to share our joy—not out of necessity, but out of instinct. Because love, in all its fleeting, infinite beauty, is something that demands to be celebrated.

Now, bear with me for a moment, dear reader, as these musings on the weight of scent and the seemingly odyssean task of choosing one may feel overwhelming—even to the most seasoned of perfumers. But if a wedding is a celebration of love in its brightest, most unguarded form, then this choice, too, should be one of joy. It is not a burden, nor an obligation, but an indulgence—one more sensory thread woven into the tapestry of a day meant to be remembered not just in sight and sound, but in breath and skin and time itself.

Stepping into a perfumery is an experience in itself—a quiet kind of alchemy, where glass bottles line the shelves like tiny vessels of time, waiting to be uncorked. The air is thick with possibility, layered with the weight of a thousand stories yet to be told.

At first, the process feels overwhelming. Strips of paper, misted with fragrance, pile up like love letters yet to be read. The scents blur together—sweet, smoky, floral, sharp—until suddenly, one stands apart. A note catches, tugs at something deep within. It’s familiar, yet unknown, like a memory you haven’t made yet.

Some would call this unnecessary—a complication added to an already intricate process. But is it, really? Is it not just another way of marking a moment, of making the intangible tangible? Just as a dress is chosen, a song selected, a menu tasted and refined, so too can a scent be curated—not for practicality, but for meaning. Because love, like fragrance, is more than just a feeling; it is a presence, a trace, a whisper on skin long after the moment has passed.

And so, the search continues—not for just any perfume, but for the one. The one that will cling to the folds of silk and wool, that will hover in the space between two bodies drawn close, that will, years from now, bring it all rushing back with a single breath.

The search for a wedding scent is not just about fragrance—it is about recognition. It is about finding something that feels like a reflection, a distillation of the moment where love ceases to be a fleeting emotion and becomes something eternal.

Perhaps, at first, nothing feels quite right. One scent is too sharp, another too sweet. Some linger too heavily, some disappear too soon. And then—just when the search threatens to become fruitless—it happens. A scent that stops time. One that feels familiar yet unknown, like stepping into a memory you haven’t made yet.

And isn’t that what a wedding is? A bridge between the past and the future, the known and the unknown? A moment where two lives, once separate, fold into one? The fragrance chosen for that day becomes more than an accessory—it becomes the very essence of that transformation. It is the invisible veil draped over the ceremony, the silent vow carried in the air. It is what lingers on the collar of a suit, in the folds of a dress, in the space between two lovers long after the day itself has passed.

But a wedding scent is not only about the person who wears it—it is about the one who remembers it.

After all, what is a wedding scent if not a declaration? Much like the words spoken at the altar, it is a message meant not just for the wearer, but for the one who stands across from them. It is a signature in the air, a silent promise made tangible.

And long after the day is done—when the flowers have wilted, the music has faded, and the photographs have yellowed at the edges—it will remain. A trace on a scarf, a whisper on a pillow, a breath caught unexpectedly in the folds of time. Proof that once, in a single fleeting moment, love was made infinite.

Because love, much like fragrance, is not meant to be seen. It is meant to be felt. It is meant to linger.

If love is a story written in fragrance, then choosing a wedding scent is an act of authorship. It is a declaration—not just of who we are, but of who we are to the one standing across from us.

And so, the question shifts: What if the choice wasn’t just about oneself? What if, instead of selecting their own scent, the bride chose the groom’s and the groom chose the bride’s? What if, for one day, scent became a vow in its own right—this is how I see you, this is what you are to me?

There is an intimacy in this exchange, a quiet devotion. To be seen, truly seen, through the lens of another’s senses. It is one thing to dress oneself in a fragrance, to pick notes that feel like home on one’s own skin. But to be scented by the hands of a lover? To wear not the fragrance of self-perception, but of adoration? That is something else entirely.

It is the lover’s gaze made tangible.

The selection itself becomes an unveiling—a discovery of how one is perceived beyond the self. Perhaps she chooses for him something deeper than what he might select for himself, something rich with warmth and steadiness—cedarwood, tobacco, leather softened by iris. Perhaps he chooses for her something unexpected, something neither light nor delicate, but bold—amber laced with myrrh, dark vanilla that lingers like a kiss.

And when the moment comes—when the fragrance is applied, when the final touch is pressed onto skin—it is no longer just a scent. It is a love letter without words, a whispered acknowledgment of this is how you feel to me.

Later, long after the day has passed, that scent will return. It will slip through the air on an ordinary afternoon, catch in the folds of a coat, rest on the collar of a shirt—and suddenly, they will be there again, standing before one another, hearts trembling, vows spilling into air thick with devotion.

And what is love, if not the act of being remembered?

So, what does forever smell like?

It is the breath of a moment that never truly fades, a love made eternal not in words, but in the lingering whisper of scent. Because love does not live in photographs or echoes of vows—it lives in the way a fragrance stays behind, even after the door has closed.

And one day, when love has settled into its most sacred form, the scent will return. In the folds of a coat left draped over a chair, in the hush of a quiet afternoon, in the whisper of something familiar in the wind. And when it does, you will close your eyes, inhale, and know: Forever was never just a promise. It was always meant to be remembered.

Translated from the original in The Bridal Affair, supplement of The Happiness Issue, published March 2025. For full stories and credits, check the print issue.