The singer’s voice was a low, ghostly moan. In this tempo, the words didn't just tell a story of heartbreak; they felt like a physical weight. Kaan remembered the night Leyla had left. It hadn't been a cinematic explosion. It had been quiet, much like this song. She had simply stopped humming along to the music in his car, and then, eventually, she stopped being in the car at all.

As the final, distorted note faded into a hiss of static, Kaan stood up. He left a crumpled bill on the table and stepped out into the rain. The city was still moving fast, but for the first time in months, he was okay with trailing just a little bit behind.

Kaan closed his eyes. At this speed, he could hear the spaces between the notes—the silence where he usually hid his regrets. The song reached the bridge, the reverb washing over the room like a tide. He realized then that "easy" was a lie. If it were easy to forget, the song wouldn't need to be this slow. It wouldn't need to take its time breaking your heart.