Tied in Her Rhythm

The first light of dawn gently seeped through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across our bedroom, wrapping the world in a peaceful, suspended stillness. In those early hours, as the sun stretched slowly over the horizon, I would always wake to the gentle sound of Aylin’s breathing—a soft, rhythmic lullaby that matched the rise and fall of her chest. She lay beside me, wrapped in the warmth of sleep, her features serene, her hand resting close to mine, as if—even in dreams—she reached for me.

In those precious moments, time seemed to slow down. The outside world dissolved until it was just her and me, cocooned in the intimate quiet of morning. My gaze would linger on her—on the way her dark hair fanned across the pillow, the soft curve of her lips that sometimes parted in the whisper of a dream. There was something ethereal about watching her sleep, as though, in that peaceful state, she became an embodiment of light and warmth that I could only ever dream of fully holding.

With the utmost care, I would reach out, brushing aside a stray strand of hair. My fingers would glide against the soft skin of her cheek—a touch so light it barely disturbed her slumber, but enough to fill me with a deep sense of contentment. She was here, beside me. She was mine.

Occasionally, Aylin would stir beneath my touch, her eyes fluttering open to meet mine. Sleep still clouded her gaze, but her smile—oh, that smile—would break across her face like the first rays of sunlight. A smile full of tenderness, one that spoke of unspoken promises and boundless love.

“Good morning, love,” she’d murmur, her voice thick with sleep but sweet as honey. She would reach for my hand, her fingers finding mine as if by instinct, and our hands would entwine in a familiar dance—a silent declaration of how deeply we belonged to each other.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I’d whisper back, my heart swelling with so much love it almost ached. These mornings were sacred, untouched by the world’s demands. Everything felt so simple, so perfect, when it was just us.

We would linger in bed a little longer, savouring the warmth of each other’s presence before finally rising. Our mornings were a ritual, carefully woven from the small, shared moments that defined our love. We moved in perfect sync, as if the rhythm of our lives had been choreographed to match one another.

Soon, the kitchen would fill with the comforting sounds of breakfast: the hiss of the coffee maker, the soft clatter of plates and utensils, the gentle sizzle of eggs in the pan. Aylin, ever the morning person, would hum as she moved about, her voice a soft melody that filled the space with peace and contentment. I would pretend to busy myself, but really, I was just watching her. I couldn’t help it. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—graceful, joyful, effortless.

“You’re staring again,” she’d tease, her eyes sparkling with playful mischief.

“I can’t help it,” I’d admit, stepping closer and wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. She would laugh—that sound, oh that sound—pure and infectious, like music to my ears. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Flatterer,” she’d reply, leaning back into me. “But I’ll allow it.”

We’d sit by the window with our coffee, hands intertwined, watching as the world slowly woke. The morning light would dance through the garden, casting shadows on the grass, while we marvelled at the beauty of a new day. Every morning with Aylin felt like the first. She could turn even the simplest moments into something extraordinary.

In those quiet moments, I often found myself reflecting on how lucky I was to have her. Aylin was a force of nature—her energy contagious, her laughter infectious. She made everything brighter, effortlessly bringing joy to those around her. I admired the way she carried herself with grace and kindness, always thinking of others. She was mature, responsible, and wise, yet with me, she was playful, even childish—and I adored that about her.

She could throw the cutest tantrums, pouting when things didn’t go her way, always in jest. I loved it. I loved the way she crossed her arms and glared at me with exaggerated frustration, only to burst into giggles moments later. She let herself be vulnerable, silly, carefree—with me. And that made me feel special, like I was the only one who got to see this side of her.

I often drifted back to the early days of our relationship, trying to pinpoint the moment it all began. I met Aylin when she first joined high school—I was eighteen, navigating my final year, and she was sixteen, wide-eyed and full of quiet determination. From the very beginning, there was something about her that drew me in, an unspoken connection neither of us could explain.

Looking back, I’m not sure when we truly fell in love. Was it her first fleeting smile? The endless conversations between classes, where we talked about everything and nothing? Maybe it had always been there, waiting for us to notice. From that spark, something extraordinary began to grow.

I vividly recall a particular afternoon during our university days. The sun streamed through the oak canopy, casting golden patches of light. We found a quiet, tucked-away bench, and she sat with her sketchbook balanced on her lap. Her pencil glided effortlessly across the page, her focus unwavering, her expression calm and serene. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—not just because she was beautiful, but because of how she saw the world, like it was one grand canvas she was determined to make more beautiful.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” she said suddenly, her voice soft, eyes glimmering with longing and peace.

I smiled, heart skipping a beat. “I think I could live with that,” I said, trying to sound light-hearted, though the weight of the moment settled deep. “But you’d probably get bored of me eventually.”

Her fingers paused, and she turned to me with a seriousness that stole my breath. “Never,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips against mine. “I could never get bored of you.”

That was the moment I knew—knew, with absolute certainty, that my life would never be the same without her in it. Something shifted between us, an unspoken promise that silently sealed our hearts.

Weeks turned into months, months into years, and our bond only grew stronger. From the noisy halls of high school to the quiet intimacy of university, Aylin was always there—my constant, my anchor. She knew me better than I knew myself, saw every part of me and loved me still.

We shared everything—dreams, fears, and the countless little moments that wove our lives together. We laughed until our sides ached, leaned on each other during heartbreaks, and celebrated milestones hand in hand. Even the mundane became magical with her. Aylin wasn’t just part of my life. She was my life.

As adulthood approached, our connection deepened. The carefree days faded into plans and promises. Through it all, Aylin remained at the centre—her presence the steady heartbeat amid chaos. She was my joy, my love, my other half. Ours was a timeless, infinite love, a bond so profound it felt unbreakable.

And in every moment, every memory, there was Aylin—her laughter, her warmth, her unwavering belief in me. She didn’t just change my world. She became my world.

But now, those mornings are only memories—distant echoes of a life I once lived. The sun still rises, the light still filters through the curtains, but the bed is cold. The space beside me, empty. I reach out, half-expecting to feel her warmth—but there’s nothing. Just the cold, hard truth: she’s gone.

It’s been two years since Aylin passed, and the pain hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown sharper. Mornings once filled with her laughter are now hollow. I wake to silence, the emptiness beside me a brutal reminder of all I’ve lost.

The memories play on repeat—her smile, her laugh, the way she’d throw her arms around me. I can still hear her voice, feel her touch, see the spark in her eyes. But they’re just that—memories, frozen in time. No matter how tightly I hold them, they can’t bring her back.

People say time heals all wounds. They’re wrong. Time doesn’t heal. It only teaches you how to live with the pain. I carry her absence with me every day—a constant ache. Some days, it’s a dull throb. Other days, it crushes me.

I miss her with every fibre of my being. I miss the way she lit up the world, how even the darkest days felt bearable with her. I miss her laughter, her touch, the way she looked at me like I was the only one.

But most of all, I miss the life we were supposed to have. We had so many plans, so many dreams. We were supposed to grow old together. Now all that’s left is the echo of what was—the memories, and the hollow ache where she used to be.

The coffee maker still sits untouched in the kitchen; the same one we used that last morning. I haven’t turned it on since. Every time I look at it, I see her—standing there, humming as she waited for it to brew, her eyes bright, her smile warm.

“Still not awake yet, are you?” she’d tease, offering me a steaming cup.

Now, standing there alone, the silence is deafening. The sunlight that once brought her joy now feels cruel. I find myself staring at the machine, paralyzed. Grief does that. It makes the ordinary unbearable.

The garden window looks out onto the patch we once tended together. She loved planting roses, lilacs, daisies. Every spring, it bloomed like magic. But now, the flowers are gone. The garden is overgrown. I can’t bring myself to touch it. I see her there still, in my mind—kneeling in the soil, sunlight in her hair. For a moment, I almost believe she’s still there.

Then the illusion fades, and the grief crashes over me again. She’s gone, and nothing I do will bring her back.

People tell me I’m strong, that I’m coping well. But they don’t see the truth. They don’t see how exhausted I am, how grief follows me like a shadow. I smile when expected. I laugh when I’m supposed to. But inside, I’m unravelling.

Each memory is a blade. Each object, a ghost. I see her in everything—in the trees, the breeze, the scent of rain. In the songs on the radio, the clothes in the closet, the unfinished paintings. She’s everywhere. And nowhere.

This house is too quiet. Her laughter is gone, and I am left with echoes. I whisper her name in the silence, hoping she can hear me. But there is no answer.

At night, I still reach for her in my sleep. And when I wake, the cold emptiness beside me reminds me she’s not coming back. I stare at the ceiling and wonder—how long can a heart keep breaking before it gives out?

I hold on to the memories. Even though they hurt, they’re all I have left. And I’d rather live with the pain of her memory than live in a world where she never existed.