The café blurred around them. In that moment, the lyrics became a bridge. Leyla didn't need to say anything; the way she squeezed his hand back told him that the attachment wasn't a burden he carried alone.
"About how a soul can become a prisoner to another," he replied, sliding the notebook toward her.
"I tried to find the words to tell you," he said, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. "But they only came out as music. I am so attached to you that I don't know where I end and you begin anymore."
The rain drummed a rhythmic, melancholic beat against the window of the small café, mirroring the heavy rhythm in Tural’s chest. On the table before him sat a cold cup of tea and his phone, the screen glowing with a photo of a woman whose smile seemed to hold the sun.