Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

Seasons will turn, the world, it will turn

Seventy-five days.

Faye had lost count of the exact number somewhere along the way, but the milestones had become clearer. Each day felt like a small victory, a step further into herself, even if it didn't always feel that way. Rehab, as much as she hated to admit it, had become her new reality, a structured refuge from the chaos. Over time, routine became more than just a set of tasks—it was a medicine, an anchor.

She found solace in art therapy—an unexpected release. At first, it felt silly, drawing and painting in a room full of people who, just like her, were trying to heal. But as time passed, she began to lose herself in it. Colors, shapes, splashes of emotion on paper became a language she hadn't realized she needed. The creative process gave her a new way to express feelings she had long buried, and as she worked through each session, it was like a slow exhale.

Faye had made a few friends. It was a diverse crowd—older women who had their own battles, men who were quieter but no less broken. Their stories were different from hers, but in a way, that helped her feel less isolated. Their experiences were a reminder that recovery didn't have a set path—it was messy, unpredictable, but it was still possible.

And she was adjusting. She didn't feel as trapped as she had in the first weeks. The routine kept her grounded, the structure preventing her from spiraling out of control. And yet, as much as she had managed to stay present, there were moments when the thoughts crept in—the thoughts of him. Of Kurt.

It was in therapy sessions that she began revisiting the last year, starting slowly and tentatively, navigating the memories, the emotions. There was no rush. They started with her childhood, with her mother. It was almost too easy to go back there, to the early days with Marie. To the resentment that Faye had carried, even before the drugs became part of her life.

But it was the relationship with Kurt that became the central focus. The therapist asked questions, guiding her through the complexities of their time together. It was a delicate process, one that caused her to dig deeper than she wanted. There were days she would leave the sessions feeling exhausted, her head full of fragments, but still nowhere close to understanding the intricate web of her relationship with him and its ties to her addiction.

The days that followed were slower, harder. It wasn't like the early days of detox, but it was still painful in its own way. She had learned to deal with the physical cravings, but the emotional aspect was more excruciating. Her mind replayed moments—sometimes in vivid bursts, sometimes as fleeting memories. The first time she tried heroin with him. The way he had looked at her, so strangely tender and broken, when she found him in the bathroom. The way he had pulled her in, even as he told her he didn't want her to go down the same path.

There were moments she felt a deep, aching loss. She missed him. She missed the connection, the thrill, the sense of belonging. But at the same time, she recognized the pattern. The drugs hadn't been the escape she had wanted—they had been the tether, the anchor that had kept her tied to him. To a life she couldn't live without falling apart.

It was hard to let go of the idea of them. Hard to let go of the version of herself she had been with him—the version that had been lost, yet somehow whole in his presence. But as the days passed, Faye realized something: she didn't need to run away from it. She could live with it. She could coexist with the memory instead of letting it consume her.

It wasn't easy. There were days when the thought of him would come crashing in, and she would have to take a step back, breathe, refocus. There was no clean break. No perfect resolution. It was all still messy, and it would always be a part of her. But she had learned to make room for those thoughts, to allow herself to feel the loss without letting it overtake her. She wasn't running from it anymore. She wasn't pretending it hadn't been part of her story. Slowly, she learned to stop dwelling in the spiral, to step back from the intensity of it, and let herself breathe.