Someone was kissing her. Softly at first, almost hesitant, then deeper, more insistent, as though he feared she might slip away if he didn't hold her there. A rush of adrenaline pulsed through her veins, hot and electric, flooding her until she could hardly breathe.
Her body trembled under his touch. She felt intoxicated, restless, ravenous, like some wild creature starved for warmth, ready to devour the heart of whoever dared to seek her out in the dark.
His lips trailed from her jaw down to the curve of her neck, leaving behind a path of fire that made her skin ache with longing. Without thinking, she tilted her head, offering herself to him, though her vision was blurred and swimming.
She couldn't make out his face. The shadows blurred him into something half-real, half-imagined. He was close enough for her to feel the weight of his body above hers, yet distant, as if she were caught between waking and dreaming.
There was tenderness in the way his hand slid across her cheek, but also hunger, a burning urgency that unsettled her. Each breath he exhaled against her skin seared like flame, and she shivered, not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
Was she dreaming?
Or had she drunk so much that she'd forgotten his name, his voice, the moment they first collided? She tried to remember, but the night was a blur, spilled laughter, broken fragments of music, the dizzy haze of too many glasses raised. And now this… him.
The night stretched endlessly, timeless, as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but his mouth, his touch, his warmth pressing into her. Whatever it was, dream or delirium, it carved itself into her, a secret she would never shake free.
What they shared in the dark could never be forgotten.
-
Her parents must have been away again, perhaps on another vacation. It was summer, and her mother didn't have classes, so of course she must have gone with her father on one of his business trips.
They could have told her they wouldn't be home, but that was always their way, moving in and out like shadows, while she filled the silence of their houses with her own thoughts.
She sent her mother a quick message, letting her know she'd be staying in her own house. The reply would likely be brief, a heart emoji, perhaps a simple take care, and Ahce wouldn't ask for more.
There were three houses in all: one at District A - Zone 4, the second in District B - Zone 5, and the one she called hers, in District B - Zone 1. Each place carried its own silence, but it was her little house she longed for most.
She missed it, not just the walls and rooms, but the feeling of stepping into a space that reflected her in every corner, where her books rested like loyal companions, and the windows let in light just the way she liked it.
In 2026, Ahce had been sent to a faraway village to teach high school students in a public school. A year earlier, she'd taught at a university, clean classrooms, polished floors, students who carried their futures like polished résumés in the making. But she had wanted to understand why her mother, a doctor of education, had always chosen the path of the public school.
Her mother used to tell her that real education happened where the struggle was hardest, where students didn't arrive with silver spoons or ready-made answers. And when Ahce finally went, she understood. Their hunger for learning was raw, alive, unpolished, and it changed her.
Still, she never forgot her dream to be a writer. The kind of writer whose words found their way into the hearts of strangers. Teaching was what her parents wanted, stable, respectable, secure. Writing was what she wanted, wild, unpredictable, maybe even selfish, but real.
So she chose both. She left home, built a life with her own hands, found stability, and tasted independence.
But now… everyone urged her to get married. Aunts, cousins, family friends, every conversation peppered with that question, every smile laced with expectation. As if all the roads she'd walked, all the dreams she'd chased, led only to that one destination.
She told them she wasn't ready. That she still had books to write, lessons to teach, and places to see. Yet late at night, when the house grew too quiet and the walls seemed to breathe around her, doubt would creep in. Was she resisting because she truly didn't want it yet? Or because she feared that marriage would mean surrendering the pieces of herself she had fought so hard to keep?
Ahce had lost count of how many relationships she'd entered or people she'd crossed paths with. Faces blurred together when she looked back, but she remembered the longest one, almost five years. They had started dating when she first entered college. He was a year older, though in many ways, he felt much younger.
He had been nonchalant, detached, as if the world could never truly touch him. Immature, stubborn, difficult. He needed her to guide him, to steady him, yet he resisted her at every turn. And she… she was no better.
She had pretended at maturity, wearing it like a costume that never quite fit. Still, she gave everything she could, believing that maybe love could grow out of sheer persistence.
But love could not be forced. That was the lesson she carried away from him. From the very beginning, she had known she wasn't his choice. She had chosen him, pulled him into her orbit, not out of some great passion, but out of curiosity, as if love were an experiment.
She had wanted to taste it, to see what kind of magic people whispered about. Instead, she discovered betrayal. His heart had always belonged to someone else, his best friend, and no matter what she did, it was never hers to hold.
So she walked away.
It was painful, yes, but necessary. She braced herself for grief, for the sharp edges of heartbreak, but what she found instead was peace, a strange quietness, a kind of nothingness that wrapped around her like a shield. It gave her the strength to move on, step by step, until the weight of him no longer clung to her.
That was when she realized she had never truly loved him. What she had loved was the idea of love itself, the way it looked in books, in films, in other people's eyes. She had been chasing an illusion, not a person. And yet, even illusions could wound. The scars remained, small but undeniable, faint reminders etched into her heart.
Because she was human, after all.
And even when we walk away, even when we grow stronger, we carry the proof of where we've been.