GHOST LOVER

Solo Duet

The days that followed took on a strange rhythm. Mornings belonged to normalcy—Selin went to work, saw friends, maintained the facade of a functioning adult. But evenings, nights, those belonged to Murat.

It became a kind of dance. A duet where only one partner was visible to the outside world, but both moved in perfect synchrony.

“This can’t be healthy,” Selin said one evening, half to herself, half to Murat.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But what is health anymore? The world says being with a ghost is insane. But being without you? That feels more impossible than death itself.”

“Poetic,” Selin said dryly. “But not helpful.”

“I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m trying to be honest.”

They were sitting—she on the couch, he beside her, an indentation in the cushion the only physical proof of his presence—watching the city lights twinkle through the window.

“I saw Kerem today,” Selin said. “We had coffee.”

“And?”

“And it was nice. Normal. He asked about you.”

“What did you say?”

“That I’m working through it. Which is technically true, just not in the way he thinks.”

Murat laughed—that sound she’d missed so desperately in the early days after his death. “You’re becoming a very good liar.”

“I learned from the best.” The words came out sharper than intended.

Silence fell between them, heavy with old wounds.

“I’m sorry,” Murat said quietly. “For Ceyda. For everything. I say it every day, but I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”

“I believe you’re sorry. I’m just not sure sorry fixes anything.”

“No. It doesn’t. But it’s all I have.”

Selin turned to where she felt him. “Do you ever think about what comes next? For you, I mean. Is there a… beyond? Something after this?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I feel myself fading, like I’m held here only by force of will. Your will, mostly. Sometimes I think if you truly let me go, I’d dissipate like morning fog.”

“And would that be better? For you?”

“I don’t know what would be better anymore. I just know I’m not ready to go. Not yet.”

Neither was she ready to let him go. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Two souls, one living and one not, both clinging to something that couldn’t last, that probably shouldn’t exist at all.

“Sing to me,” Selin said suddenly. “Like you used to.”

And so he did. That old jazz standard they’d danced to in their kitchen, back when dancing meant bodies touching, when love was simple and uncomplicated by death.

Murat’s voice filled the apartment—clear, present, real. And for those few minutes, Selin closed her eyes and pretended everything was normal. That the voice was coming from a living throat, that the presence beside her had substance, that their future held more than this impossible present.

When the song ended, she opened her eyes to darkness. The city lights had blurred through her tears.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Always,” he replied.

And they sat together in the quiet, two halves of a duet that should have ended but somehow, impossibly, continued.