Can sat in the dim light of his small apartment, the silence only broken by the distant sound of rain against the glass. On the table lay a single photograph, its edges curled with time. It was a picture of him and Elif from a summer that felt like a lifetime ago—a time before the silence between them became a permanent resident in his heart.

Can picked up a pen, his thoughts echoing the haunting rhythm of a melody he had heard: Senden insaf diler yarın (Tomorrow begs for mercy from you).

The lyrics of the song played in his mind like a mantra. He thought about how "tomorrow" is often painted as a canvas of hope, but for someone stuck in the shadow of a lost love, tomorrow feels like a judge waiting to deliver a sentence. He was pleading for mercy—not from Elif, but from the days to come. He wanted the sun to rise without the weight of her memory attached to it.

He remembered the day they parted. No shouting, no grand gestures of anger—just a quiet realization that they were moving in different directions. But as the months turned into a year, the "tomorrow" he thought would bring peace only brought a heavy sense of longing.

He realized that he wasn't just living for himself anymore; he was living in a constant state of apology to his own future. Every night he spent dwelling on the "what ifs" was a debt he was forcing his future self to pay. He was stuck in a loop, begging the version of himself that hadn't happened yet to forgive him for the time he was wasting in the past.

As the first light of dawn began to grey the sky, Can finally put the photo in a drawer. He didn't lock it—he didn't need to hide from it anymore. He just needed to let tomorrow be a day of its own, free from the mercy-seeking ghost of yesterday.