GHOST LOVER

Silent Wreckage

Time, for Selin, had become nothing like the flow of a river since that fateful day. It was more like the stagnation of a still, fetid pond.

The first days had passed in a blur: People around her constantly moving, talking, bringing tea, clearing plates, opening and closing doors. But Selin stood in the middle of it all like a stone—while everyone flowed around her, she remained fixed.

Then everyone left. And the stone remained.

Sixty long days had passed since Murat’s departure. Sixty mornings, sixty evenings, and countless sleepless midnights sealed with insomnia. The clock on the wall still ticked, the calendar pages still turned, but for Selin, time had lost all meaning.

Her mother came every morning with fresh orange juice and toast, opening the curtains with a “Come on, dear, you need to eat something,” but Selin no longer even heard these words. Every evening, her father would enter the room with that “Are we any better today?” tone, but the answer was always the same silence.

Selective mutism—that’s what her psychiatrist had called it. “It’s temporary,” Dr. Levent had said, carefully noting in his file. “A psychological defense mechanism. The tongue shuts down to protect the mind.”

But Selin hadn’t shut down to protect herself. She had shut down because there was nothing left to say. When Murat’s heart stopped, hers stopped too. It just kept beating, that’s all. She was breathing. But living? No.

She sat at the window for hours, her vacant eyes fixed on the street below. Cars came and went, people walked by, children played. Life continued outside as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn’t collapsed, as if the sky hadn’t fallen. This indifference of life was more painful than the loss itself.

One evening, Melis and Pelin came to visit. Their hands held flowers and “get well soon” messages. They sat on either side of Selin’s bed, trying to weave conversations from silence. Melis recounted office gossip, while Pelin mentioned someone’s engagement. But each word faded in the air, leaving no trace.

When they were leaving, Melis stopped at the door. “Selin,” she said, her voice trembling, “Murat wouldn’t want this. He loved you so much. He’d want you to live.”

At the sound of Murat’s name, Selin’s eyes, which had been vacant until then, suddenly focused. She looked at Melis. For the first time in days, she spoke. Her voice came out hoarse, as if rusted from disuse: “Murat isn’t here to want anything.”

Melis’s eyes filled with tears, and Pelin quickly ushered her out. The door closed. Selin returned to the window.

That night, Selin experienced her first physical contact with the outside world since the incident. “The medications aren’t helping me, Mother. They’re muting Murat’s voice.” She’d said these words to her mother that evening, and Gönül Hanım, hearing her daughter speak for the first time in weeks, had embraced her, sobbing uncontrollably.

But Selin felt none of it. Because her mind was elsewhere—in an apartment, in the home she’d once shared with Murat. She knew she had to return there. Not to mourn. Not to reminisce. But to find him.

Because Selin was now certain of one thing: Murat hadn’t truly left. He couldn’t have. Death was just a door. And she would find the key to that door.