You were going to come, but you did not come.

The writer says, “You never ask about my condition.” He waits—for you to come and shake off his wounds, to inquire after his well-being. I enjoy writing such sincere, heartfelt words here, because no one knows me. Moreover, what is shared here is not the past or a shared circle, but my very feelings and inner thoughts. I believe people must be allowed to breathe through this.

Anyway, something stuck in my mind: I cried over whatever saddened me. I endured so much, but in the end, I cried to you because you were not there—even though I waited for you to come. I know you always came; perhaps that is why I waited so long. But you never came. So I withdrew to my corner, saying, “You were going to come, but you didn’t,” and I stared at the sky for a long time. I want to share this feeling with you: the person who, since childhood, has always been beside us—on April 23rd, during report card ceremonies, when we were sick, when we were overjoyed...

He leaves—and even in your dreams, he says goodbye and simply departs. Is his departure acceptable? Can someone else ever take his place? This is precisely the sorrow his absence leaves behind. Not a day passes without me thinking of you. Let go of your name—how can I forget your pain? We wait for the one who left, because we are so accustomed to his presence that we cannot accept his absence. Why is that?

It is not because you did not come, but because we say, “You were going to come—why didn’t you?” Only someone who watches after the one who left truly understands this difference. I feel like the man in the story of Leyla and Mecnun, waiting on the shore, saying, “That ship will come one day and bring my father.” Even if he never returns, I gaze at the sea as if I might take a boat and go to him.