Alia's voice is casual as she lifts her cup of coffee to her lips. The steam curls in the air between us, vanishing as quickly as my will to answer.
The truth? I don't feel like doing anything. The weight of my breakup still clings to me, heavy and suffocating. Moving on – people say it so easily, as if it's just another task to check off a list. But how do you move on when your heart aches for the person who left? When his name still lingers on your tongue, the sound of his voice?
And yet, I know what will happen if I let myself fall into that cycle again. I'll reach out. I'll beg. I'll humiliate myself all over again. And I can't – won't – do that anymore.
A sigh escapes my lips as I lower my gaze from the cat stretching lazily on the windowsill to Alia, who's watching me with a knowing, expectant look. But I have nothing to offer except another sigh as I stir my coffee absentmindedly, watching the dark liquid swirl.
"Noor?" her voice sharpens with impatience.
I drop the spoon into the cup, the soft clink somehow too loud in the quiet. Irritated, I frown. "I..."
"Are you hiding something from me?"
I'm not hiding anything. I just don't understand how to tell her. I'm lost in my own messed up thoughts.
"Wait!"
Her sudden outburst startles me, with the worry of people in the café staring at us weirdly. My breath catches, and I press my thumb against my front teeth. "You scared me." I mumble, under the strange gazes of people around us.
"You did something, didn't you?" she accuses, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Her fingers twitch before she lifts one, pointing it straight at me. A slow, knowing smile creeps onto her lips. "You did something," she repeats, her voice lowered this time, almost teasing.
How does she catch me every time like some psychic or something?
"I can sense it." She leans in, pale brown eyes gleaming. "Your eyes say it all that you're hiding something." She circles her finger at my face. "Tell me what it is and I swear, you'll be safe."
I sigh in defeat. There's no use hiding anything from her – not now, not ever.
Ever since that night, she's been watching over me like a guardian angel, making sure I don't break beyond repair.
That night had shattered me. Torn me apart in a way I never thought possible. My mind had become a storm, my body an unrecognizable vessel of grief and rage. I had spiraled into something dark, something I never wanted to be. Desperate, lost, alone – I had picked up my phone and called the only person who could hold me together when I was falling apart.
Alia.
We had met as colleagues in an apparel factory, but something between us has clicked instantly. She had become my lifeline – the one person I could trust, the only one who had never betrayed me. Unlike the others, who came and went, using my past against me when it suited them, she had never made me feel small or unworthy.
And that night, when I needed someone the most, she had been there.
"Noor!"
Her voice yanks me from my thoughts, a loud thud shaking the table as she slams her hands down, inviting the attention once again. I jump, startled.
"Alia, what are you doing? Everyone's looking at us." I whisper, panicked by the strange gazes on us.
"Tell me," She demands, her eyes burning with frustration and concern. I exhale slowly. "Okay, calm down and sit first."
She huffs but obeys, arms crossed as she waits.
"I'm not sure about it. But I applied for a job last week," I confess, watching her expression shift from anger to happiness.
"That's a good thing. By the way, where did you apply?" she asks, delighted.
"An intern position at an advertising company in Istanbul."
Silence. Then-
"An advertising company?" her voice incredulous, her eyes confused. "Why, you're a science graduate."
"I know. That's why I'm confused if I did the right thing or just went with the flow."
"Are you worried now?" she asks, confused as much as I am. But I knew this was coming. It doesn't make sense – not on paper, not to anyone else. A science graduate stepping into advertising? It goes against the blueprint of my life, the one my parents had carefully laid out for me.
But I don't care.
"Look, Alia. I-I want to give it a try. And it won't hurt to try plus they're recruiting based on the skills and I have them. I have the knowledge of that field. And, I enjoy doing it."
She still looks skeptical. "Do you even know how this is going to work?
"Pretty much." I answer. "You remember I did a course in digital creativity to keep me busy, to stop myself from thinking about him."
That seems to settle her, if only slightly. She nods slowly. "Sounds logical."
"So, did your parents know about this? She asks, sipping her coffee.
I hesitate. "Not yet. I haven't gotten any response from the company yet, so there's nothing to tell them for now."
The truth is, my parents have always had a clear vision for me: study hard, get a degree, secure a job, and live a respectable life. To them, success is a straight road – one that leaves little room for passion, for self-discovery.
But I refuse to live a life dictated by expectations alone.
I want more. I want to build something meaningful – not just a career, but a life that doesn't feel like a suffocating cycle of work and survival.
I have always yearned for a life led by my own desires, unshackled by obligation. I never hated education; I found solace in learning, in growth. For most of my school years, I stood at the top, my name gracing the honor roll.
But over time, the weight of perfection pulled at me. I grew weary of the unrelenting pressure to remain number one. I was always among the best – yet, I no longer chased first place. It was never about accolades; it was about the quiet joy of understanding, of discovering.
But whenever I shared my dreams – my passion for creativity, my hope for something beyond the mundane – I was met with dismissal. My mother, ever practical, never failed to remind me of the world's harsh realities, of how dreams not tied to something concrete would never amount to anything.
And so, I buried my dreams under the weight of expectations. I sacrificed the things that once brought me joy in favor of approval. I forged ahead – not for myself, but for the promise of stability.
Currently, sitting here, my mind tangled in regret, I stare into my cup. The dark liquid reflects the emptiness I feel.
What was it all for?
Would it ever be enough? Would I ever be enough?
🌸🌸🌸
Dawn unfurls with quiet elegance, golden sunlight threading through my window and brushing against my skin in a gentle caress. Outside, birdsong rises with the morning, crisp and untainted, as if the world itself is singing a quiet welcome. I inhale deeply, savoring the tranquility before stretching beneath the weight of my blankets.
A soft breeze drifts through the slightly open balcony doors, carrying the scent of damp earth. Drawn by the freshness, I slip from the sheets and step outside. Below, my father stands in the garden, his movements unhurried as he waters the flourishing greenery. He glances up, waves, and smiles—steadfast as ever. I return it instinctively, a flicker of warmth settling in my chest.
For a moment, I simply stand there, letting the serenity wash over me before turning back inside. Sleep fades as I slip into my morning routine, cleansing my face with cool water and tying my hair back with practiced ease and a comfortable outfit—soft fabric against my skin, a contrast to the rigid formality of the past year.
The aroma of freshly baked bread mingles with the faint zest of citrus as I head downstairs, drawn to the kitchen where my mother moves effortlessly between tasks. The sizzle of eggs punctuates the quiet hum of the room.
"Good morning, Mom," I greet softly, hesitant to disturb the peacefulness.
She glances over her shoulder with a knowing smile. "Good morning," she replies, deftly flipping an omelet as if she's done it a thousand times before—which, of course, she has.
The rustic wooden table is adorned with a modest yet inviting spread—a bowl of crisp salad beside a basket of warm bread, steam curling from its surface. A pitcher of fresh fruit juice sits next to a teapot, waiting to be filled. There's an unspoken comfort in the familiarity of it all.
Wordlessly, I take the teapot, fill it with water, and place it on the stove. While the tea brews, I gather the dishes and carry them to the backyard, where morning light filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the table. My father joins me, setting down the last of the plates, and together, we settle into our meal, the air light and unburdened.
Yet, even as I sip my tea, the past lingers at the edges of my mind.
There was a time when mornings felt effortlessly beautiful—before the factory job, before the slow disillusionment, before the heartbreak that unraveled me entirely. Ten months of highs and lows, fleeting joy and inevitable disappointment, culminating in a betrayal so cruel it drove me into a year of isolation. As if solitude could cleanse the wounds he left behind.
But those days are over.
Though echoes of the past still whisper in moments like this, I refuse to let them dictate my path. They are lessons, nothing more—reminders of what I have survived and what I will never allow myself to endure again.
I take another sip of tea, the warmth steadying me. The past is behind me. And for the first time in a long while, the future feels like it belongs to me again.
I should tell them. There's no point in waiting for the company's response only to spring a surprise on them later. I glance at my parents, quietly eating their breakfast—my father flipping through the newspaper, my mother slicing a piece of bread. The moment feels too peaceful to disrupt, but I know I must.
Clearing my throat, I speak. "Mom, Dad."
Their heads snap up instantly, eyes locking onto mine. I hesitate, caught off guard by their swift reaction, but push forward. "I applied for a job a few days ago."
Silence stretches between us. They exchange glances, their expressions flickering between surprise and something else—curiosity, perhaps? My father is the first to respond. "G-good," he says, though his voice holds more shock than certainty.
My mother places her knife down gently. "Oh... okay." She's surprised, of course. How could she not be? For a year, I was a shadow of myself, retreating from the world, uninterested in anything beyond my room and college. And now, out of nowhere, I'm stepping back into reality—into a career.
She finally asks, "Where did you apply?"
Relief floods through me at her question, breaking the tension. "An advertising agency. I applied for an intern position."
She blinks, tilting her head slightly. Confusion lingers in her gaze, though she tries to hide it. Another glance at my father. "An advertising agency? Why?"
I was prepared for this. "I know it seems unexpected," I admit. "You probably thought I'd apply to a hospital, considering my degree. But... I want to do this, Mom." My voice softens, carrying a quiet plea. "I know you and Dad always wanted the best for me, and I'm grateful. But this time, I need to choose my own path. I need to prove—to myself more than anyone—that I can succeed at something I truly love."
She studies me in silence. My heart thuds. "Just give me a year," I continue. "If I fail, I'll do whatever you think is best. But please, let me try."
The weight of my words lingers. For a moment, I think she'll argue, but something in her expression softens. "Noor," she says gently, "I'm not against your dreams. I just wasn't expecting this. But if this is what you truly want, then of course, I support you."
A breath I didn't realize I was holding escapes me.
"And we're proud of you," my father adds, his voice warm with encouragement. "After everything, seeing you take this step forward... It means a lot."
Something tightens in my throat. A year ago, I never would have imagined this conversation. My mother would have been stricter, my father more skeptical. But things have changed. I have changed.
I give them both a grateful smile. "Thank you," I whisper.
My father takes a sip of tea. "Where is this company, by the way?"
"Istanbul," I say.
"Istanbul?" My mother echoes, her brows lifting.
"It's a well-known company, famous for its campaigns. I heard a lot about it during my coursework, and when I saw the opening, I took my shot."
A pause. Then—"You did a course, too?" my mother asks.
"While finishing my degree," I say, a teasing smile creeping onto my lips. "I wasn't completely locked away, Mom."
My father chuckles, shaking his head.
"Well, the company hasn't responded yet," I add, "so nothing is certain. I just wanted to tell you now rather than shock you later."
They nod in understanding. The conversation settles into an easy rhythm, the weight of the past beginning to loosen its grip. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm moving forward—one step at a time.
I guess I gave them a big surprise today.
The thought crosses my mind as I watch them process everything. Their expressions—a mixture of astonishment and quiet acceptance—make me wonder if I should have eased them into it. But then again, life rarely offers the luxury of perfect timing.
Still, as I glance at them—my mother nodding in thoughtful contemplation, my father sipping his tea with a small, knowing smile—I realize something.
Maybe surprises aren't always a bad thing.
Maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something good.
🌸🌸🌸
"Where's Mr. Patches?" I ask, frowning. "I haven't seen him since I woke up."
Mom shakes her head. "That cat has developed a taste for wandering. Probably out roaming the streets, looking for a mate." There's a wry lilt in her voice. "Or maybe he followed your father to the bakery."
My brows lift. Mr. Patches, a creature of habit, suddenly transformed into a vagabond? That's news to me. Hopefully, he hasn't picked up any unsavory habits, like getting into alleyway brawls with the neighborhood strays.
"I'll go look for him," I say, drying my hands on a dish towel. "And take a walk while I'm at it. I need the air."
"Pick up some curd on your way back," Mom calls as I slip out the door.
The morning unfurls before me, crisp and golden. The scent of damp earth lingers in the breeze, mingling with the yeasty warmth of fresh bread drifting from the bakery down the street. It's been a long time since I took a walk simply for the sake of it. Longer still since I let myself enjoy the world outside my own walls.
The door swings open just as I'm reaching for my phone, and I'm met with the radiant smile of Mrs. Pinar. She owns the flower shop on the corner, her presence as bright and effortless as the blossoms she tends.
"Good morning, Noor." Her voice is warm, familiar.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pinar."
She looks younger than her years, carrying an easy elegance. No wonder her husband fell in love with her at first sight. Some people are simply blessed with love that comes easily, naturally. Unlike me.
As I make my way down the street, I'm met with nods, waves, familiar faces. The barista pouring the coffee with steady precision, the tailor adjusting a mannequin in the window, the elderly man on his porch, lost in the folds of his newspaper. The air hums with the sounds of morning—clinking cups, distant laughter, the chatter of shopkeepers setting up for the day.
And suddenly, I feel it. The quiet pulse of belonging. The love I spent so long chasing had always been here, nestled in the spaces between everyday moments. I had simply been too blind to see it.
"Hey, my dear!"
Before I can react, a weight lands on my back, nearly knocking the breath out of me. An arm snakes around my shoulders, and I feel the press of a warm kiss against my cheek.
"Good morning, love."
I don't need to turn to know who it is. "Alia."
I wipe at my cheek, sending her a glare. She grins unapologetically, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her shorts—utterly indifferent to the chill in the air.
"Where are you off to?" she asks, falling into step beside me.
"Looking for Mr. Patches. He didn't come home for breakfast."
"That fat cat is always making you worry."
"He's not fat," I say instinctively.
She scoffs. "Noor, he's shaped like a loaf of bread."
I roll my eyes, but before I can argue, she adds, "By the way, did you know he has a girlfriend?"
I stop mid-step, turning to her in disbelief. "Excuse me?"
"I saw him last week, on a date. It was very romantic."
I stare at her, unimpressed.
"It's true," she insists. "Next time, I'll take a picture."
Shaking my head at her nonsense, I push open the door to the bakery. The scent of warm bread and cinnamon immediately envelops me, wrapping around me like a childhood memory. Behind the counter, my father moves with quiet efficiency, kneading dough, exchanging laughter with customers.
I don't want to disturb him, so I simply send him a smile before scanning the shop for any sign of Mr. Patches. No luck.
While I search, Alia—being Alia—effortlessly steps behind the counter, jumping in to help customers as if she's worked here all her life. She's always been like this—seamlessly fitting in, belonging wherever she goes.
And in a way, she belongs here, with us.
After a few moments of searching, he finally makes a grand entrance, sauntering into the bakery with a delicate, almost theatrical meow. "Mr. Patches." A wave of relief washes over me, as if my soul has just settled into place. I rush forward, scooping him into my arms, holding him close as his warmth seeps into me.
"Welcome back, you little troublemaker," Alia teases, booping his nose with an affectionate smile. But Mr. Patches, true to his moody nature, responds with a swift, playful swipe at her finger before leaping gracefully from my arms. Tail held high, he struts toward my father with the air of a feline prince returning from an important expedition.
"There you are, my little customer," Dad greets him, tearing off a piece of freshly baked bread and offering it as a tribute. Alia and I watch, amused, as Mr. Patches accepts the offering with measured dignity, as if bestowing us with his favor.
I think back to the day Alia and I first brought him home—dirty, scrawny, and trembling with hunger. My parents had resisted at first, insisting they wanted no pets in the house. But time had softened their resolve, and now they doted on him more than they ever imagined they would.
As the bakery grows busier, my plans for the day slip into the background. Instead, I tie an apron around my waist and join Alia at the counter, seamlessly stepping into the rhythm of work. Dad kneads the dough with practiced hands, shaping it into delicate cookies and biscuits, while I arrange the freshly baked bread in neat rows, their golden crusts gleaming under the warm bakery lights.
I will miss these slow, peaceful days once I begin my job. The steady hum of life here, the scent of warm bread in the air, the quiet comfort of working alongside my father.
But I have made my decision.
This time, I am stepping forward for myself—not for anyone else, not to prove anything to the world, but to reclaim what I lost. I may be late to the race, but I will win.
Just then, my phone chimes, breaking the steady rhythm of the bakery's warmth. I slip a hand into my pocket, retrieving it with absent curiosity—until my eyes catch the sender's name.
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me.
The company I applied to.
My fingers tighten around the device as I stare at the screen, my heartbeat quickening. The world around me—the scent of freshly baked bread, the murmur of customers, the clatter of trays—fades into a distant blur. For a moment, I can't bring myself to open the message.
This is it. The moment that could change everything.
For a fleeting second, uncertainty grips me—a brief, suffocating fear of rejection. But I push it aside, forcing myself to read. Every word. Every letter.
And then—
My phone slips from my fingers, landing limply in a basket of the cookies as the weight of what I've just read crashes over me. A surge of uncontainable exhilaration builds within me, a bubbling, overwhelming energy I can't suppress. My chest tightens, my hands tremble, and before I can stop myself—
"Dad!"
The words burst out in an exhilarated scream, silencing the bustling noise of the bakery.
My dad and Alia turn to me in unison, their faces mirroring my shock before realization dawns in their eyes.
"I got selected," I whisper at first, as if testing the weight of the words. Then it hits me like a jolt of lightning. "I got the job!"
The bakery stills for a heartbeat, the scent of warm bread and freshly brewed coffee thick in the air, before Alia erupts into a joyous shriek, flinging herself at me. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, her laughter ringing in my ears, and I can barely breathe—not from the hug, but from the sheer, overwhelming exhilaration surging through my veins.
My father, frozen in surprise, breaks into a wide, proud grin before clapping—loud and firm, the sound cutting through the hum of the bakery. The customers, caught in the ripple of celebration, turn toward us, their faces lighting up with curiosity and warmth. A few of them begin to applaud, others offer their congratulations, their voices blending into the rich, golden morning like a chorus of well-wishes.
The world around me sharpens—every detail heightened, every sensation electric. The clatter of cups, the scent of dough crisping in the oven, the faint hum of the street outside. I close my eyes for a moment, just to hold onto this feeling a little longer.
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