ELYAMOR Deja vu

Where memory feels like a dream, and a dream feels like memory.

There are moments when the world tilts slightly—when the familiar becomes strange, and the strange becomes achingly familiar.
This is the space where Déjà Vu lives: that suspended breath between recognition and wonder.

It speaks of rain on summer pavement, of a lover’s laugh heard in a crowded room, of walking into a house you’ve never seen but somehow know by heart.
The scent blooms like a half-remembered song—notes that feel both foreign and intimate, like discovering a diary written in your own hand but filled with someone else’s secrets.

Every drop of Déjà Vu lingers between the past and the possible—where time folds, and memory forgets its own direction.
It’s not just a perfume; it’s a portal—an invitation to live inside the beautiful uncertainty of now,
where every moment carries the weight of eternity and the lightness of dreams.

Some things are felt before they’re known.
Some memories arrive before they’re made.