6: THE FADING PAIN OF THOSE WHO FALL, AND THE WRECKAGE WASHED ASHORE

"No matter what, I would always run to you…And I would fall every time.I fell so hard…I always ended up alone."

***

When I first met Poyraz, I was in my second year of university.

Back then, compared to now, life felt more vivid; I was more inclined to believe, to trust.

It felt natural to think that the steps I took toward the future would lead me somewhere better.

But my experiences at the time hadn't yet aligned with sadness or lies.

I still believed that life was infinite—that there was so much to explore.

I would wake up with happiness in the mornings, fill my to-do lists, study, meet up with friends…

And the love my family never gave, never made me feel—I acted like I didn't even notice its absence.

The truth is, in the smallest moments, I missed them deeply…

Even the things that never happened.

That longing numbed me so often that I became an overly cheerful person.

Joy, for me, wasn't a mask I wore for others.

It was the only way to survive.

And so, from the very first day, I built close bonds with people I met.

I appeared deeply engaged in my classes and with my professors.

I never hesitated to help my friends in any way I could—

And eventually, I let one of my friend groups introduce me to a boy I didn't know… Poyraz.

Sometimes the thrill of a moment is so strong that you don't question anything.

A single emotional connection can feel like a lifeline—something to pull you out of neglect and lack of love.

Especially if, even just for a second, someone offers you the chance to take off the mask on your face…

When I first met Poyraz, he was selling products for a mid-sized advertising agency.

We messaged for a while on Instagram.

He sold women's personal care products.

He was completely fluent in this topic—implied things, manipulative, bold, and persuasive.

Every sentence he ended would somehow conclude with, "A permanent solution to your problems."

And whenever I asked probing questions, he'd usually reply with, "I've already given you the answer."

Not believing him—even when there wasn't any actual answer, which, more often than not, there wasn't—felt… illogical.

I used to address him as Mr. Poyraz,

and he always treated me like an object—like a user being handled by a service.

Not maliciously—just… efficiently.

What I did admire in his words was how he always maintained his distance,

yet still managed to impress everyone with that sharp intelligence of his.

Eventually, though, conversations with him reached a point where expressing your own thoughts became almost impossible.

Take something as simple as your favorite color—

Even that would be turned into something up for debate. And before you knew it,

you'd forget the choice was ever yours to begin with.

He had every quality you'd find in a seasoned marketing manipulator.

Whatever he touched, he'd make it work, he'd sell it, and he'd always win.

That much was clear.

One day, I had a burn on my hand, and he recommended a repair cream.

He asked me a few questions.

And no matter how important my skin condition was— in his eyes, my ability to understand my own needs was never enough.

To his credit, he did say honestly: "This won't help with your burn."

Until he said those words, I had always thought of him as just a salesman—

someone serving only his own interests.

To me, there was no reason to talk to him about anything outside of the product.

He had no intention of helping me beyond that one narrow lane.

But then he surprised me.

He asked, "How did your burn scar happen?"

The message was cold, distant—yet somehow curious.

Most of all, I was unsure whether or not I should even answer.

He was just a marketer, a sales consultant—nothing more.

But assuming his question was related to the product,

I told him anyway.

My hand had been burned when I accidentally touched the lid of a pot filled with steam.

The marks were still there—resting on my skin like a permanent reminder.

That moment of carelessness had stained me like a lifetime sentence—

like a hidden sin I would carry forever.

After hearing my story, Poyraz didn't even say "I hope you're okay."

Instead, he said:

"This probably won't be effective for your case,"

and gave me a number to contact, in case he found a more suitable product.

Having spent a long part of my life searching for burn creams and healing products,

I was stunned by how easily he handed me that number.

And despite myself— I was pleased.

As my fear—and trust—nearly doubled, I considered the situation.

Then he asked for my number and quickly added,

"I won't bother you, not in any way."

And then one day, my phone rang.

He told me he'd found a suitable cream and asked if I'd thought about trying it.

In the two weeks that had passed,

he truly hadn't called me. Not even once.

That behavior alone began to stir a sense of trust in me.

Surprisingly, I didn't feel uncomfortable knowing he had my number.

But I had to admit— on a few mornings, I caught myself checking to see if he had called.

Why, I couldn't say...

Maybe I just wanted to know if he'd really keep his word, or how much weight his promises carried.

What good would it do me to know these things about a stranger?

I didn't know that either.

After the cream arrived, it left a few more irritated spots on my hand, and my skin started to swell.

When I saw the reaction, the first thing I thought of was messaging him.

My hand didn't look good.

So I contacted the agency via Instagram again— and once more, it was Poyraz who referred me to the agency's dermatologist.

He even asked for a photo to see the swelling on my hands.

Even though our communication had been so simple and professional,

his composed manner, his silence beyond business,

left an odd effect on me.

To him, I was nothing more than a client— someone he'd reached through a mutual friend.

So why...

Why was it that every time he tried to sell something, every time he explained a product,

or even that one day when he coldly—but politely—scolded me for not using the product properly...

Why did I never let go of my phone?

Why did I keep reading his messages as if they meant more than they did?

There wasn't much that happened in those messages.

The real thing happened inside my heart.

And it turned that place into dust and ash.

Now, what's left inside me

is a half-burned battlefield.

I was waiting for Poyraz to return from the ER doctor, in the area filled with green chairs.

The worry inside me, constantly flaring like a fire, surged even more when I saw his body appear at the doorway.

I got up from where I was, full of intense curiosity and hesitation, and ran toward him.

"Are you okay?"

The tremble in my voice came out noticeably clear.

Poyraz, casting his gaze on me, completely expressionless, said, "He ordered a brain scan," in a negative tone.

"What else did he say?" I insisted.

He had no intention of explaining anything on his own.

"Did he ask if I had nausea, vomiting, dizziness?"

"What did you say?" I was biting my lips.

If he had let me come near him, I could have seen and understood without even asking.

But during this exam—which he apparently found unimportant—he hadn't wanted me by his side.

"I said no." He shrugged indifferently and pulled me toward the wall.

"Really no?"

"I get a little dizzy." He placed his hand on his forehead.

"Poyraz, are you out of your mind? Why wouldn't you tell the doctor that?"

Raising his voice a little, he said, "A flowerpot fell on my head," and paused.

He didn't break eye contact.

"Isn't that perfectly normal?"

I rolled my eyes and exhaled through my mouth.

He was exactly the advertising sales consultant I knew.

Poyraz—the one who listed every feature of the products but still managed to be incredibly persuasive.

Poyraz—the one who could influence people not with lies, but with sheer facts.

I felt a heaviness inside me.

As he stared at me for a long time before going in for the scan,

I saw no emotion in his eyes.

Maybe…

he really was just the same Poyraz.

He hadn't changed at all—and he never would.

I, on the other hand, had changed with every passing second.

I had diminished, shattered, turned into wreckage.

But Poyraz... he was still the same person—

the one who, with a few shallow words, could burn my heart with hellfire,

make me nauseous,

cause stomach pain,

and lead my eyes to all kinds of agony just by staring at a screen.

Still the same Poyraz—

the one as distant from me as he was from himself,

yet just as close to influencing people as ever...

He was a man incapable of even touching his own soul.

"Let's get the scan," I said, breaking eye contact, in a gentle voice.

Right now, all I cared about was his well-being.

But he closed his eyes to it—plugged his ears.

Once again, he muttered with a sigh that I was exaggerating.

And finally, I took his arm and began to follow the arrows on the floor.

The weight dragging behind me was a burden on my heart.

After passing the signs, the attendant, the clinics, the x-ray rooms,

we arrived at the necessary place.

And I looked at the steel ring on Poyraz's thumb.

He always wore it there.

Simple. Plain.

I knew, deep down, that his ring finger would never be filled.

He was about to turn his back and leave me when I called out:

"Take off your ring."

He must have forgotten.

You couldn't enter the scan room wearing that.

His steps stopped.

He turned halfway toward me, removed the ring,

and placed it on the chair next to him.

He didn't even think to hand it to me.

I wasn't even worth that.

"Can you watch over it from afar?" he asked unexpectedly,

"Without touching it."

What could I even say to that?

I swallowed without understanding.

Was this an obsession?

Or some kind of… trait?

Most of all, despite how senseless his question was, I still found myself wondering whether I could actually do it.

Poyraz never let anyone touch his belongings anyway.

Similar warnings he'd made in the past came rushing back to me.

"Why?" I asked, confused, my brows furrowed.

Every second, I was struggling to tolerate his oddities.

My body had tensed.

A wave of anticipation washed over my heart.

His eyes now locked tightly onto mine.

An unreadable darkness fell over me like a shadow.

And in that moment, I saw a child in his gaze— a broken child.

That was all.

I didn't see Poyraz.

I was looking at someone hugging himself through his tears.

"Because when someone touches it… it no longer feels like it belongs to me."