5: NIGHT OF AUTUMN’S AGONY

His presence was an autumn pain that shattered me more with every second; my life was like a film that restarted each day from the exact same point. And every time it rewound, everything inside me withered—what I had, what I could have, what I still held. The self-confidence I'd lost stabbed into my body like needles with all its might, knocking me unconscious. But this kind of fainting was a form of murder that never turned into waking.

In the middle of that murder, I let him touch my wrist like I was the culprit. I let him lightly pull me toward the door. I let Asya's last-glimmering gaze leave my eyes, which clung to her with all the hope I had left. I let Poyraz put on his shoes, then waited as he took his hands off mine so I could put on mine.

It was as if he had staged a play—and I had to perform my role perfectly. With every movement, he was watching me. The shadow of his dark eyes never left me.

My soul was freezing. My heart thumped like an autumn night's agony—slow and burdened. The ache ruling inside my stomach never eased, and with every pulse, it was pulling a piece of me away.

After tying my laces, I straightened my back and looked at Poyraz leaning against the wall. The door of the apartment closed softly. My sense of safety... felt like a child sitting on the other side of that door—knees to chest, hiding.

I heard the turn of the key.

And I felt like I'd been exiled.

Poyraz kept his eyes pinned on me like they could pierce me through. "You don't want to come, do you? With anything?" he said, letting out a small breath between his lips. There was the bitterness of a man fed up with life in his words. I saw my own faint reflection in his eyes. "…You don't have to if you don't want to…"

My back was turned to him—slightly hunched, like a broken posture.

With the sting in my eyes and the dryness in my tear-swollen sockets, I pushed my hair aside. With a splintered voice, I asked, "Where are we going?"

It was my way of saying: "I can't leave you."

I was his refuge.

And he was my prison.

This awful mismatch between us had been sealed under the same air—and the atmosphere had turned into a hangman's rope.

With each passing second, every fact lost its truth; every thought lost its clarity.

Poyraz adjusted his jacket in a hasty, careless way, then pushed himself off the wall and spun on one foot to glance at me. My tears, too ashamed to fall in front of him, retreated inward—straight into the core of my heart. I wasn't crying. I was trembling. I couldn't scream—my voice had collapsed inward. In front of him, I had nearly lost my ability to speak. I couldn't find the right words to defend myself, couldn't make rational decisions. I found shelter in his power, in his body.

No matter how deeply I got hurt...

He approached me in two steps, closing the distance between us—a distance that felt infinite to me—with boldness, as if nothing had happened. And with the most ordinary of gestures, he reached for my wrist. His fingers didn't touch my skin—they touched the folds of my heart.

We walked down the stairs from the third floor. He hadn't suggested taking the elevator, and I hadn't asked. As we descended the steps breathlessly, it wasn't just the physical space shrinking—it felt like each step widened a chasm between us, pulling us further and further apart.

When we reached the last step, he suddenly stopped. The only sound that had been occupying my mind also vanished. His reflection appeared in the mirror of the glass door. What was behind that perfect face? He was clenching his jaw—but from what pain? Just behind him, I saw myself. My short, worn-out brown hair. My plain brown eyes with no allure. My pale blue blouse.

Maybe it wasn't a thought at all.

Maybe, in front of him, I truly was just a victim—devoid of any charm.

I couldn't fight my silence any longer. My lips parted involuntarily:

"Where are you taking me?"

When my voice echoed through the empty corridor, his body didn't move—still blocking the sunlight. He didn't respond. Didn't even turn around. He simply reached for the door and pulled it open. As the crisp autumn air flowed in, I looked down at my feet, frozen in place.

His voice blended with the sound of a child shouting in the street. "Shall we go to my place?" he said, glancing at me for the briefest second. The door had already begun to close. But instead of walking out alone, he chose to turn back, let the door shut, then open it again—this time stepping aside so I could exit first.

His actions were impossible to make sense of.

"I took the day off," he said as he gently motioned me toward the exit with a flick of his wrist.

Maybe it was his way of reminding me that I mattered…

Was it really for me, though? Or for the fight he couldn't swallow?

Because for him, his work was always the priority.

"Another call will come... and you'll leave again," I mumbled, not sure if he even heard me.

Suddenly, his steps halted. Morning birdsong drifted in from the apartment entrance.

"I won't," he said, as if making a promise. I found it hard to believe him.

The quiet neighborhood—its mix of old and new buildings—had sunk into a deep silence.

Sometimes a car moved, a bicycle passed, or a child peeked out the window to look at the mother sitting below.

Just as my thoughts began to thicken in that silence... a woman's shout echoed from above.

And right then—I noticed something falling straight toward me. In that brief moment, something got in my eye. The last thing I felt was Poyraz shielding me—before I could even react.

A flowerpot...

I had taken shelter against his chest, like a flower seeking refuge in soil.

A sharp sound followed. "Poyraz!" I shouted, but his arms were already wrapped tightly around me.

His head and upper body remained over mine for a few seconds longer.

"Ah," he muttered, cursing under his breath, but he didn't loosen his arms.

He stayed in that position, wincing softly.

A flowerpot had hit his head. I saw the spilled soil on his back.

My heart was pounding like it might burst from fear.

If something had happened to him... would I even be able to go on?

That thought sent a rush of blood and breath through me—

I was choking in a wave of hot, humid panic.

"Poyraz, are you okay? Poyraz... Look at me," I murmured, snapping out of the shock as I tried to pull away from the arms that held me so tightly.

He only slowly allowed me to slip free, then reached up to touch his head.

He checked for damage. Looked down at the broken pot and the bruised plant on the ground.

My hand moved on its own—to the edge of his forehead.

Strands of brown hair had parted to both sides.

The pot had struck the left side of his forehead just as he had lowered his head to shield me.

Because his body had protected me, I was completely unharmed.

But it still hurt. It hurt... as much as it hurt him.

His fingers were still on the trace of blood on his forehead when I said, "Come."

My brows furrowed with sorrow. "I'm taking you to the ER."

I scanned the area quickly and saw his car parked across the street.

"Come," I said, grabbing his wrist and forcing his feet—rooted so firmly—to move.

"Let's go."

He didn't intend to walk much. He simply followed me in silence.

I didn't think he cared about himself.

I had once read something in a blog post:

"Those who aren't afraid of causing pain to others... know its flavor best. And they don't find it foreign, temporary, or unwelcome."

"I'm fine, nothing's wrong," he denied, already pale.

He hesitated for a moment.

He wanted to give up.

"No," I said, putting weight on the word.

"...You need to see a doctor."

"Sinem—"

"Shut up, Poyraz," I said, cutting him off without even thinking.

"Just shut up. We're going to the ER."

When I turned around to ask for the keys, blood had crusted on his temple.

A sharp ache rose inside me.

He let out a breath—weak and weary—between clenched teeth.

He would throw himself in harm's way for me without hesitation…

But also, without hesitation,

he'd take a piece of me every single day.

That was Poyraz Esen.

And I—

I was never going to heal the wound hiding beneath his dark eyes.

Whatever was buried there… as long as I stayed with him, it would keep bleeding— for both of us.