It had happened once again. Eşref abi had lost his Rüyas all over again. It felt as if an invisible 45 caliber bullet had been shot straight into the center of his heart. The bullet wasn't tearing through his flesh, it was tearing through everything he had kept hidden inside for years as it moved forward.
“So, a person doesn’t just die from being shot,” Eşref abi thought to himself. Watching the one you love leave, seeing their eyes for the very last time, could also kill a person. Eşref abi was certain now. He realized at that exact moment that he was dead. Nothing that happened from this point on would matter. His own death would allow the dreams (Rüyas) to live on. That was his only wish. The woman he loved would live. His daughter would grow up. Perhaps years later, laughter would rise around a dinner table, windows would be opened without fear, and doors wouldn't be double-locked at night. And in the midst of all this, his name wouldn't even be mentioned.
Brother Eşref was resigned to it. Because the destiny of some men wasn't to be reunited with the ones they loved, but to look from afar and be grateful that they were alive. Eşref abi bowed his head. Within him, an entire lifetime quietly fell to its knees.
“It’s okay if I’m not around,” he said to himself. “It’s okay if I’m not around.”
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