And yes! You smell like love.  ‘You are beautiful just the way you are, you are great, amazing, you are fucking awesome, you are my heroine and my treasure. You are my life, the meaning of my existence' others would say. But to me you are the real love. You were the only one who didn't seek to change me and the way I see the world, the one who came into my life silently and got her special place. Since then I'm filled with bright colours and this fascinating chain of high emotions have been dominating me. They remind me of love, of you, the fact that you smell like the real love. Honestly speaking, I've anosmia for years. I can't differentiate smells, yes, that's true: I'm deprived of perceiving adours and unfortunately I don't know whether something or somebody is fedit or aromatic. I can't tell exactly what's the smell of fresh air, hot coffee, black tea, field flowers or that green grass. I can't smell people, their odour is covert: I can't even find where it comes from. See? I'm the unluckiest girl in this universe who has got anosmia. What I'm sure about, though, is that my respiratory system is able to recognize the smell of love.  The very first time I met you I didn't know you would become the only one who would be able to incite me to have specific feelings not just emotion fluidity. I didn't even know whether I would see u again, talk to you, look into your eyes and smell your type, your  personality. You are more than enough, you are more than fabulous, more than me, more than us and finally you are definitely more than the most powerful attraction! You smell like the real love but you are more wonderful and more beautiful than the pure feeling of love. You know, the concept of love is somewhat spoilt. I have to create something extraordinary for you! Yes, you are … you can be my universe and I will get to learn the smell of the Moon, the Sun and all the stars. I'm blessed to be the one in this whole world to see you, to have the chance to look into your eyes and ... and just BE ME without any fake expressions or feelings. You are my real happiness and the beauty, you are just mine, my only lonely love, my inspiration and my whole soul. You are the best person ever happened to me. You symbolize my whole respiratory system as I've anosmia but I know quite well that you smell like the real love! 

On sunny days, the light would peek through the gaps of the blinds which covered the glass sliding door. The rays of sunlight would block the iCarly episode I was watching, but the sound would still spill out of the small speakers on the sides of the viewing box. A rainbow would form on the crimson, vine-patterned carpet, and, later in the day, the rainbow would move to the milky walls, and my brothers and I would look at it with marvel. Mom and dad just watched and laughed at us as they wished to paint the white. But that was something we couldn't do in a place we didn't own. Some days, when the sun decided to leave and in its place would sit crying clouds, raindrops would slap the cars in the parking lot, and shadows would begin to cover the small space. When Mom and Dad were at home, they would speak in a language foreign to our ears. My brothers and I could not understand, but that was what they wanted, as they sat on the couch and made plans to move. Sometimes, my ears would pick up bits of their conversation, and I'd fantasize about a bigger house. But fantasies would fall from my ears as I raced my brother from their room to the front door through the long hallway in the middle of the apartment. How would we run in a bigger house without a carpeted hallway in the middle? My mind couldn't fathom the idea. Once in a while, on rainy spring days, the clouds and the sun would get along, signing their peace treaty with a rainbow. My siblings and I, along with neighborhood kids, would rush out of our home, exclaiming, "Rainbow!" as if we'd never seen such a bewitching display of color. We would all come together in the middle of the parking lot, or newly wet grass, discussing how to get to the end of the rainbow, and arguing the existence of leprechauns. Sometimes, we didn't have enough kids to argue as some of them would leave the neighborhood weeks prior. Their apartment doors a forgotten number among forgotten numbers. Their parents most likely found a pot of gold and used it to move. It's incredible how fast things change. When I was little, I promised myself that I would never curse. My friends and I promised we would all go to the same middle school. When the future is a blank slate, you can say whatever you want. It's like an artist describing a painting she hasn't yet painted. I would never have guessed that I would be the one to break those promises. One time, my older brother stood on the wrong side of the railing on the second floor. He was a pirate standing on a plane; the only thing that kept him from falling was the edge of the wood on which he stood. He looked down to the ground below him, and all he faced was blue concrete and the different colored faces of neighborhood kids. Then he let go and jumped. He fell past the second floor until the red rubber soles of his shoes touched the cold blue concrete of the first floor. The small group of pre-pubescent kids cheered, and some said they could do the same thing; what was once impossible was now the opposite. I wonder what I would've done if I knew I would never get the chance to attempt the same feat. I remember first moving to our apartment. I was less than half the size I am now, and my brain was too. Things are so much bigger when you're so much smaller! Our couch was a deep rich brown, and the TV was on the left wall. Above it hung forgotten gifts, cards, and posters, handcrafted by my parents' children. The dining room didn't have a large green mat yet. The kitchen wasn't even as big as the dining room, but it had more cupboards than I could count - cabinets that hid all sorts of roaches and crawly things that shouldn't be in houses. The place always smelled like tomatoes, spices, and oils. My mom always made stew, and the scent would cling to the walls, the furniture, and the fabric of our clothes. My mother would always wear a flowery perfume when going to church, and I would always ask why smelling like food was such a dreadful thing. Maybe I could've used that as an excuse to keep us from moving. "Mom, Dad, the apartment holds not only scents but memories too! What if it forgets about us?" I could never forget. The sun looked at us through the glass sliding door in our living room, and my brothers and I looked at my parents as they entered a small car with an unfamiliar blonde woman in a grey business suit. As soon as they left, we all sat together on the soft, vine-patterned carpet that we still have, and pondered where they were going.