"I'm not," he said, his voice cracking. "I'm just asking for a little more time before the lights go out."
In his pocket, the foil of a half-empty blister pack crinkled. Antidepresan. He hadn’t taken one today. He wanted to feel the sharp edges of the goodbye, even if it cut.
"Say something," she whispered, her voice barely rising above the low hum of a radio playing in the kitchen.
She stood up. The chair scraped against the wood like a sob. She didn't look back as she pushed through the heavy door.
Leyla reached across the table, her fingers brushing his cold knuckles. "You have to find a reason to stay that isn't me, Selim. You can't turn a person into a pill."
The irony wasn’t lost on them. The song was a plea wrapped in a dance, a heartbreak you could move your hips to. It was exactly how Selim felt: a tragic mess disguised as a functioning human being.
The rain in Istanbul didn’t just fall; it blurred the edges of the world, much like the static in Selim’s mind. He sat in a corner of a smoky Galata café, the neon sign outside buzzing a frantic rhythm that matched his pulse.
"I'm trying to surface," he replied, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, reflecting the flickering streetlights. "But the medicine only makes the water feel warmer. It doesn't help me swim. Sen gidersen, gökyüzü de gider. If you go, the sky goes too."
