Grave Torment and a New Page
754 Words
A week into the medication regimen, Selin had her follow-up appointment with Dr. Levent. She’d practiced her responses carefully—cooperative but not too cheerful, accepting but not defeated.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.
“Better. Clearer. The medication is helping.”
“And the… visions?”
“Gone,” Selin lied smoothly. Murat stood behind the doctor, giving her a thumbs up for the performance. “I understand now that it was grief manifesting as something else. I’m working through it.”
Dr. Levent made notes. “That’s excellent progress. Your mother will be relieved.”
“She is. We’ve been talking more. About Murat, about the betrayal, about everything I’d been holding in.”
“Good. Processing is important. And your social life? Are you seeing friends?”
“Some. It’s hard, but I’m trying.”
More notes. More lies. The appointment ended with Dr. Levent praising her progress and reducing their session frequency.
Outside the office, Selin felt Murat’s presence beside her as she walked.
“You’re getting good at this,” he observed.
“I hate it. Every word was a lie.”
“A necessary lie.”
“Is it though? What are we doing, Murat? Playing pretend so I don’t get institutionalized while we live in secret?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what we’re doing.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Selin stopped walking. They were near a cemetery—ironic, given the conversation. “Maybe we should visit your grave,” she said suddenly.
“Why?”
“Because maybe if I stand there and look at your name on a headstone, I’ll finally accept that this—us—is impossible. That I’m holding onto something that can’t exist.”
“And if you still don’t believe it after seeing my grave?”
“Then I guess I’m truly insane and they were right all along.”
They went. The cemetery was quiet in the afternoon sun. Selin found Murat’s grave easily—she’d been there for the funeral but not since. The stone was simple, elegant: Murat Arslan. Beloved son, fiancé, friend.
Selin stood before it, Murat’s presence beside her.
“Here lies your body,” she said quietly. “And here stands your… what? Ghost? Spirit? Delusion?”
“Does the terminology matter?”
“Yes. Because if you’re a ghost, we’re in a supernatural love story. If you’re a delusion, I need psychiatric help. The difference is kind of important.”
“What does your heart tell you?”
Selin placed her hand on the cold stone. “My heart says you’re real. But my heart also thought you’d never betray me, so maybe my heart isn’t the best judge.”
“Touché.”
An old woman passed by with flowers, glancing at Selin talking to a grave. Nothing unusual—people talked to graves all the time. But Selin was acutely aware of how it looked: a woman having a conversation with dead air.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she said.
“Then don’t. Choose the sane option. Take the medication, go to therapy, move on. I’ll… I’ll try to fade away.”
“Can you? Genuinely?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
“Then how do you know you’re choosing to be here? Maybe you’re trapped, and I’m the one keeping you tethered.”
It was a thought that had occurred to Murat but one he’d been avoiding. “If I’m trapped, it’s a trap I’m grateful for.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Selin stood up, brushing dirt from her knees. “I need time. Real time to think about this without you there, without medication dulling my thoughts, without everyone watching me. I need space.”
“How much space?”
“I don’t know. But I need to figure out who I am when I’m not performing—not for my family, not for doctors, not even for you. Just… me.”
It hurt, for both of them, but it was honest. And sometimes honesty hurts more than lies.
“Okay,” Murat said quietly. “I’ll give you space. But Selin, one thing: whether I’m real or delusion, ghost or madness—you get to decide. No one else. Just you.”
Selin nodded and walked away from the grave, leaving Murat standing there, beside his own tombstone, wondering if she’d ever come back.
- Writer
