Бесплатный фрагмент - Tell me the truth

Author’s Foreword

Dear Reader,

Before you lies not just a love story. It is a story about truth. About the truth we are so afraid to tell each other, and the truth we are afraid to admit to ourselves.

I have always been captivated by Turkish series — not only for their passion and beauty but also for their astonishing emotional depth. They possess something that is often so lacking in life: the courage to feel without hesitation, to speak without concealment, to love against all odds. It is this very inspiration that I wanted to preserve within the pages of this book.

My characters, Selin and Demir, are successful, intelligent, attractive. They have everything associated with an ideal life: careers, recognition, views of the Bosphorus from their windows. But behind their flawless facade lie loneliness, fear, and a quiet longing for something real. They must strike a dangerous bargain with themselves — 30 days without lies.

What happens when all filters disappear? When you can no longer hide behind professional jargon, elegant dresses, and witty jokes? When all that remains is you — vulnerable, alive, authentic — and another person, looking at you without pretense?

This novel is that very experiment. For me. For you. For everyone who has ever feared getting burned by the truth, but feared even more living a life in comfortable, beautiful deception.

I believe that it is in sincerity — even if bitter, even if inconvenient — that true, genuine love is born. The kind of love that withstands any “I know you” and any “I see you.”

Speak the truth. To yourself. To those you love. Even if it’s scary.

And may this book become for you that quiet, honest conversation with yourself — the one after which it is no longer possible to live the same way.

With love and faith in your stories,

Madina Fedosova

P.S. And yes… if after reading this book, you feel the urge to call a loved one and say what has been put off for years — consider my mission accomplished.

Introduction

In an era of total digitalization and the eternal pursuit of an ideal, where genuine feelings have become hostages to flawless social profiles, and sincerity a rare currency in the world of social approvals, we have unlearned how to be real. We sacrifice our true essence to virtual perfectionism, hide vulnerability behind filtered selfies, and the quiet tragedies of everyday life behind glossy success stories. This burden is especially hard to bear for those whose lives have become public domain, whose smiles have become commodities, and whose personal dramas — subjects for discussion by a multimillion-strong audience.

Istanbul — a city of paradox, a city of mystery, an eternal bridge between Europe and Asia, past and future, tradition and modernity. Here, in the shadow of majestic Byzantine walls and Ottoman minarets, to the incessant accompaniment of the Bosphorus waves and the piercing cries of seagulls, countless human dramas unfold. The air of this city is saturated with the aromas of strong coffee, Eastern spices, and unfulfilled hopes. Its heart beats with a rhythm woven from the sounds of the adhan, ferry horns, and the ticking clocks of luxurious hotels, behind whose closed doors lie the most intimate secrets.

It is here, in the shining skyscrapers of the Levent business district and on the chic promenades of Bebek, that those who have reached the pinnacles of professional success live, but have paid a high price for it — the price of their inner peace. Their lives are an endless race for recognition, an eternal celebration with empty eyes, and perfect photographs concealing a chilling void of loneliness.

At the epicenter of this maelstrom of passions and ambitions, two find themselves — Selin Yilmaz and Demir Arslan. Two brilliant minds, two experts in human relationships, two idols for thousands of followers. Their joint podcast, “The Psychology of Love,” has become a true life raft for many desperate hearts in the turbulent sea of modern life. From the outside, their duo appears to be the embodiment of harmony — they look great together, their intellectual battles are captivating, and their apparent romantic connection makes audiences freeze at their screens, believing in the existence of ideal relationships.

But behind the flawless facade lies a bitter truth. Their “romance” is nothing more than an artfully staged performance, a PR move in a grand game for ratings and popularity. After filming concludes, they part ways to their sterile apartments with panoramic views of the strait, where luxury and comfort cannot drown out the oppressive feeling of existential loneliness. Each is trapped in their own gilded cage, each plays a role, long forgetting where the stage ends and real life begins.

Everything changes in an instant when, during a live broadcast, an uncomfortable, provocative question is asked, a question that, like lightning, tears through the veil of lies that has surrounded our heroes for years. This question threatens everything they have so carefully built — their reputation, their career, the future of the project. And in a desperate attempt to save the situation, driven by a mixture of fear, ambition, and a hidden desire for change, they make a crazy bet.

Thirty days. Thirty days of total, absolute, uncompromising honesty. No masks. No unspoken words. No saving, false conventions. Only the naked truth — unfiltered, frightening in its frankness. They agree to this dangerous experiment, not understanding that they are playing with fire, capable of incinerating everything around them.

What will happen when all protective barriers crumble?

Will they be able to bear the weight of mutual revelations? What will remain of their carefully crafted images when all fears, complexes, and disappointments are laid bare? And can something real be born in this crucible of mutual destruction — a fragile, vulnerable, but genuine feeling, unafraid of the light of truth?

This book is not just a love story. It is a deep psychological exploration of the nature of human relationships. It is a journey into the most hidden corners of the soul, where our darkest fears and brightest hopes lie concealed. It is the confession of a generation that has become too engrossed in perfectionism and has forgotten simple human sincerity.

It is an invitation to a conversation. To a dialogue with yourself. To a brave look in the mirror without pretense or filters. Perhaps, after turning the last page of this story, you will find the courage to utter the most important words of your life — those that have remained unspoken for years.

Tell Me the Truth. Are you ready to hear it?

Part One

The Lie Upon Which We Built Paradise

Chapter 1

An Artificial Paradise Under the Spotlights

The “Psycho-Love” studio was drowning in an unnatural semi-darkness, broken only by the blinding beams of the spotlights. The air, thick and cool from the air conditioners, smelled of ozone from expensive equipment and the sweetish aroma of Turkish coffee, untouched on a small table between the armchairs. Beyond the vast soundproof windows, the evening Istanbul was slowly fading: the lights of the Bosphorus shimmered like scattered diamonds, and the silhouettes of ferries glided across the black water like phantoms.

“Dear viewers,” Mehmet’s voice sounded honey-sweet, “today we once again dive into the endless universe of human relationships. And with us, as always, are our stars — the incomparable Selin Yilmaz and Demir Arslan!”

The cameras smoothly zoomed in on them. Selin felt their cold, glassy eyes on her. She sat with a perfectly straight back, dressed in a beige tweed jacket that cost as much as a month’s rent for a small apartment in the Besiktas district. Her fingers nervously fiddled with the edge of the jacket, but her face remained calm, almost detached.

“Ms. Yilmaz,” Mehmet addressed her, “your new book, ‘How to Manage Love with Reason,’ has become a bestseller. You claim that love is primarily a rational choice. Doesn’t such an approach kill the very essence of passion?”

Selin smiled softly, adjusting a non-existent strand of hair with a practiced gesture. “Love without reason is a ship without a rudder in a stormy sea, dear Mehmet. Yes, passion is beautiful, but it is reason that helps us not to crash against the rocks of disappointment. Control is not the absence of feelings, but a manifestation of respect for them.”

“Complete nonsense!” Demir leaned back in his armchair with feigned nonchalance. His dark eyes sparkled with excitement. “Love is born from chaos, from that divine, uncontrollable element! Your ‘control’ is simply fear. Fear of getting lost in another person, fear of being vulnerable.”

“Vulnerability is not a synonym for strength, Demir Bey,” Selin retorted, feeling the familiar irritation rising somewhere deep inside. “Throwing yourself into the abyss of emotions without thinking about the consequences is not bravery, but irresponsibility.”

“And living in the sterile room of your fears, afraid even to take a full breath?” He leaned towards her across the table, his voice dropping, but becoming only more intense. “Is that living? Your ideal relationships, the ones you describe in your books — they are dead, Selin Hanim. They have no soul, no breath!”

Outside the window, a seagull cried piercingly, and that sound momentarily broke the tense silence in the studio. Selin felt a blush creep onto her cheeks. She hated him in such moments. Hated him for being able to throw her off balance so easily.

“You confuse passion with hysteria, Demir Bey,” her voice rang out like thin glass. “Your ‘chaos’ is often simply an unwillingness to grow up and take responsibility.”

Their argument continued for several more minutes, flowing like a polished dance. The viewers on social media must have been going crazy — this perpetual dispute of theirs was one of the show’s highest-rated moments.

And then, that very call came.

A quiet, trembling female voice filled the studio:

“Excuse me for asking… I respect both of you immensely. You seem like such… ideal partners. But…” the voice faltered, and only nervous breathing could be heard. “Tell me honestly. Do you yourselves believe in what you say? Have you ever been truly honest with each other? Have you, even once, told each other the truth, without all your beautiful TV phrases?”

The studio froze. Even the perpetually flustered producer was motionless behind the glass. Mehmet opened his mouth to break the silence, but couldn’t utter a sound.

Selin felt the ground disappear from beneath her feet. She looked at Demir and saw in his eyes the same stunned disbelief she felt herself. This simple question, asked in a trembling voice, had shattered their meticulously constructed façade to pieces.

And then, Demir did something no one expected. He didn’t laugh, didn’t make a joke. He leaned towards the microphone, and his voice sounded unusually serious:

“No. We are not always honest. Sometimes the truth is too… dangerous.”

A deathly silence fell over the studio, broken only by the quiet hum of the equipment. The red “Live” light went out, but no one moved.

The producer was the first to snap out of it, his voice sharp as a shot: “What do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

But Demir didn’t listen. He was looking at Selin, and a strange fire burned in his eyes — a mix of fury and admiration.

“Enough,” he said quietly, but so that it could be heard even in the farthest corner of the studio. “Enough of this lie.”

He stood up, walked over to her, and extended his hand: “Thirty days. Thirty days of absolute truth. No masks, no fake smiles. Only pure, naked truth. Agreed?”

Selin looked at his outstretched hand. Her entire mind screamed: “No! This is madness!” But something else, something deep and long dormant within her, was already awakening.

“I am not afraid of the truth,” she said softly, feeling her fingers tremble. “I agree.”

And at the moment their hands touched, the world around them changed. The lights of Istanbul outside the window suddenly shone brighter, and the cries of the seagulls sounded like harbingers of a storm.

The game had begun.

Chapter 2

The First Bites of Truth

The luxurious car glided smoothly along the night streets of Istanbul, leaving behind the shimmering lights of the embankment. The interior smelled of expensive leather, sweetish tobacco, and the faint aroma of men’s cologne with notes of sandalwood and bergamot — tart and intrusive, like Demir himself. Selin silently watched the window, where the silhouettes of minarets and modern skyscrapers created a bizarre symbiosis of centuries. The bright signs of Turkish restaurants, ceramic shops, and jewelry stores flashed by like frames from a silent film.

The silence between them was tense, almost palpable. Demir broke the silence first, his voice sounding muffled in the confined space:

“Do you really think one can live an entire life controlling every movement, every emotion? Like a chess game, where you have to calculate moves decades in advance?”

Selin slowly turned to him. Her fingers nervously fiddled with a strand of hair that had escaped her perfect hairstyle.

“And do you really believe one can throw themselves into the abyss of passion without thinking about the consequences? Like a moth to a flame — beautiful, but senseless?”

“Ah, a moth…” he chuckled, deftly maneuvering around a suddenly stopped tram. “But isn’t that the beauty of life? Its spontaneity? Those moments when your breath catches and your heart beats as if it wants to escape your chest?”

“And shatter against the first stones?” Her voice sounded sharper than she intended. “No, thank you. I prefer to watch the fire from a safe distance, admiring its beauty, but not getting burned.”

The car smoothly stopped at the entrance to her building — an ultra-modern skyscraper with golden lighting, reflecting in the dark waters of the Bosphorus. Demir turned off the engine, and silence fell in the cabin, broken only by the distant honking of ferries and the cries of seagulls.

“You know…” he turned to her, his dark eyes appearing almost black in the dim light. “I’ve always been curious: what lies behind that flawless facade? Behind your perfectly chosen suits, impeccable manners, and textbook phrases about love? A living person? Or just a beautiful doll, afraid to make a wrong move lest she disturb the dust on her pedestal?”

Selin felt blood rush to her face. She proudly raised her chin: “And don’t you think your ostentatious emotionality is just the same mask? A mask of someone afraid of appearing boring, ordinary? Someone who is ready to talk about lofty matters but runs from real responsibility like the devil from holy water?”

He looked at her intently, and something akin to respect flickered in his gaze.

“Want to play a game? Right here, right now?” His voice became quieter, almost intimate. “Let’s tell each other only the truth. Without pretense, without masks. For five minutes, at least.”

Selin felt a slight dizziness. Somewhere deep inside, a small voice screamed that it was dangerous, that she shouldn’t risk it. But something else, long dormant within her, was waking up and reaching for this challenge.

“I’m listening,” she said softly, feeling her heart pound faster.

“I hate your perfume,” he exhaled. “Those cloying floral notes… They don’t smell of a woman, but of a perfume shop display. As if you’re trying to hide your real ‘you’ behind them.”

Selin froze. No one had ever spoken to her so directly. Somewhere deep inside, something ached painfully, but at the same time, she felt a strange sense of relief.

“And I…” her voice trembled, but she continued, “I’ve always thought your ostentatious charisma was just a cheap trick. Like a street magician who distracts attention with flashy gestures to hide the primitiveness of his trick.”

Demir smiled slowly — for the first time that evening, genuinely, without his usual sarcasm.

“See?” his fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel. “It’s already easier, isn’t it? Like shedding a heavy cloak you’ve worn for years.”

They looked at each other in the dim light of the cabin, and the first spark of something real flashed between them — awkward, prickly, but alive.

“Tomorrow,” Demir said, breaking the prolonged pause. “At seven in the evening. The Melek restaurant in Beyoglu. Our first… experimental date. Will you come?”

Selin nodded, already opening the door: “I will. But I warn you — I won’t hold back.”

“I’m not asking you to,” his smile widened. “See you tomorrow, Selin Hanim. Good night.”

She got out of the car, not looking back, but feeling his gaze on her back. The cold night air smelled of the sea, roasted chestnuts, and the distant city lights.

It was only upon reaching her impeccably clean, lifeless apartment with panoramic windows that Selin allowed herself to tremble. She stood in the middle of the living room, gazing at the lights of Istanbul, and thought that she had just made a deal with the devil.

And below, on the empty embankment, Demir was still sitting in the car, looking at the light in her window. He took out his phone and dialed a number.

“Cancel all plans for tomorrow,” he said, without taking his eyes off the illuminated window. “Yes, I know. No, this is more important.” He falls silent, watching her silhouette flicker in the window. “Tomorrow, the most interesting part begins.”

He hung up and glanced up again. Somewhere up there, behind the glass, was the woman who had just called his charisma a cheap trick. For the first time in many years, he felt truly alive.

The truth game had just begun.

Evening Istanbul enveloped them in a warm breath, imbued with the aromas of the sea, roasted chestnuts, and sweet baklava. The narrow streets of Beyoglu wound in a whimsical labyrinth, where new scenes of life unfolded around every corner: here, they are selling fresh simit bagels, scattering golden sesame crumbs on the counter; there, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans wafts from a coffee shop; and here, an old fisherman cleans freshly caught fish, throwing silvery scales right onto the pavement. The bright signs of shops selling ceramics and carpets were adorned with enticing inscriptions, and the sounds of folk songs wafted from open windows, mingling with the cries of seagulls and the honking of ferries.

Demir was waiting for her at the entrance to a small meyhane, hidden deep in an alley. The inconspicuous door led to a realm of authentic Istanbul life — a place where time flowed slower and conversations were more sincere. He leaned against an old stone countertop covered in centuries-old patina, and a slight nervousness could be read in his usually confident pose.

“I was beginning to think you had changed your mind,” he said, noticing her approach on the pavement. “That you’d prefer some fashionable restaurant overlooking the Bosphorus to this… little place.”

Selin stopped in front of him, her eyes assessing the simple sign with gilding that had peeled slightly at the edges. “I said I’d come. Although, I must admit, I expected something more befitting your image as a flamboyant playboy.”

“You see,” he opened the door slightly, releasing a wave of sounds and aromas, “it is in places like this that true truth is born. There is no room for ostentatious luxury, behind which one can hide. Only simple emotions and honest words.”

They were greeted by a thick cocktail of smells: anise-flavored raki, fried seafood, fragrant herbs, and old wood. The small room with low vaulted ceilings was filled with noisy companies sitting at simple wooden tables. In the corner, a gray-haired musician with closed eyes plucked the strings of a saz, extracting piercingly sad melodies. The walls, decorated with old photographs and copper utensils, held memories of countless confessions and revelations.

The owner of the establishment — a portly man with generous mustaches and hospitable eyes — nodded to Demir as an old acquaintance and led them to a table in the far corner, hidden from prying eyes by a carved wooden screen.

“Why here?” Selin asked, looking with slight bewilderment at the simple earthenware and faded napkins. “I thought you’d choose something more… befitting our television image.”

“Precisely because of that,” he poured her raki, diluting it with ice water from a clay pitcher. “Here, we are not Selin Yilmaz and Demir Arslan — stars of the screen. Here, we are just a man and a woman trying to understand whether the game is worth the candle. In places like this, the walls absorb so much truth that any lie here sounds like sacrilege.”

They watched in silence as the transparent liquid in the glasses slowly clouded, acquiring a mysterious milky-pearlescent hue. Somewhere in the kitchen, dishes clattered, the shouts of cooks could be heard, and the saz continued its mournful song about love and loss.

“Let’s start small?” Demir suggested, raising his glass. “Three truths for the evening. About ourselves. About each other. And about what is happening between us right now.”

Selin felt goosebumps run down her spine. The game was really beginning, and the stakes were higher than ever.

“I…” she took a sip, feeling the burning liquid spread warmth through her body, “have been afraid of the dark since childhood. Not of fairy-tale monsters, but precisely of this absolute, impenetrable darkness. And even now,” her voice trembled, “when I’m alone, I leave the light on in the hallway.”

Demir looked at her intently, and there was no usual mockery or condescension in his eyes — only understanding.

“And I…” he took a sip of raki, thoughtfully swirling the glass in his hands, “have a panic fear of loneliness. That’s why I’m always surrounded by people, noise, bustle. Even if I’m deeply indifferent to these people. Any company is better than the silence of my own thoughts.”

They fell silent, listening to the strange lightness that had come after these simple, yet so frank confessions. The saz music became quieter, as if giving them space to speak.

“Now, about each other,” Demir put down his glass. “I always felt that your apparent coldness was just a shield. Like those crabs we saw at the market — with a hard shell outside and tender flesh inside. You hide behind your books, your theories, your perfect suits… because you’re afraid someone will see the real you and… leave.”

Selin felt her heart clench. She took another sip, giving herself time to gather her thoughts.

“And you…” she looked him straight in the eyes, “use your charm as a weapon. Like those street performers in Sultanahmet Square — you distract attention with flashy gestures and smiles so that no one can see how vulnerable you really are. You’re afraid that if you show your true face, people will be disappointed and turn away.”

Tension hung in the air, thick and sweet as Turkish kunefe dessert. The musician began to play a new melody — passionate and mournful, telling of love that burns hearts.

“And now… about what’s between us,” Demir’s voice became quieter, almost a whisper. “I feel something between us… real. Something frightening and beautiful at the same time. As if we are standing on the edge of an abyss, and the next step could change everything. And that scares me more than anything else.”

Selin lowered her eyes, watching the light tremble in her glass. Somewhere inside, everything screamed at her to run away, preserve her safety, return to her usual world of controlled emotions. But something else, warm and alive, which had long slept in the depths of her soul, was now breaking free.

“I feel it too,” she whispered, not raising her eyes. “This… connection. This spark. And I am afraid too. Afraid of what will happen next. Afraid that I won’t cope. Afraid that it will destroy everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

They sat in silence, listening to the evening Istanbul murmur outside the window. Somewhere seagulls cried, trams rang, people laughed, and life went on its way. And in a small meyhane, at a humble table, two people, for the first time in many years, were speaking the truth — without pretense, without masks, without protective shells.

And somewhere in the distance, behind the veil of night, the lights of the Bosphorus flickered — witnesses to countless human dramas and revelations.

Chapter 4

The Night Bosphorus Reveals Its Secrets

Night in Istanbul spread its velvet canopy, strewn with myriads of twinkling stars. The air, recently filled with the thick aromas of raki, fried mussels, and oriental spices, gradually cleared and filled with the freshness of the night sea. Somewhere in the distance, on the Asian shore, the lights of Kadikoy twinkled, reflecting in the dark waters of the Bosphorus like thousands of golden snakes dancing on the gentle ripples. The narrow streets of Beyoglu gradually emptied, with only occasional late-night passers-by and purring street cats warming themselves against the warm walls of bakeries, from which the aroma of fresh bread and simit still wafted.

They walked in silence along the pavement, paved with age-old stone, and this silence was special — not awkward, but filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings that hung between them like an almost palpable haze. Selin felt how each word spoken that evening in the meyhane echoed within her, like a stone thrown into calm water. She glanced furtively at Demir: his usually sarcastic, confident face was now thoughtful and somehow defenseless, illuminated by the soft glow of the old lanterns.

“Where to now?” Demir finally broke the silence, his voice sounding particularly loud in the night quiet. “Back to our perfect, sterile apartments with panoramic views of the Bosphorus? Into those beautiful cages where even the air seems canned?”

A bitter, ironic note sounded in his voice, and Selin involuntarily smiled, catching herself realizing that this smile was completely natural, unpracticed:

“What, the great preacher of chaos and spontaneity is afraid to be alone with his thoughts after everything that’s been said? Afraid that the truth won’t be as attractive as beautiful lies?”

“I won’t hide it,” he sighed, his breath forming a light cloud in the cool night air. “Truth has an unpleasant tendency to change the established order of things. Like an earthquake in Marmaris — first a small tremor, seeming like nothing, and then suddenly everything collapses, and you’re left amidst the ruins of what you so meticulously built for years.”

They walked out onto the Ortakoy embankment, where the night air was imbued with the scent of the sea, fresh fish, cotton candy, and corn, still sold by enticing vendors at the pier. The lights of the Bosphorus Bridge reflected in the black water, creating the illusion of an endless celebration, a magical carnival that would never end. Somewhere, live music played, people laughed, snippets of conversations in Turkish, English, and Arabic drifted by, but here, by the water, it was relatively quiet, with only occasional lovers and pensive fishermen passing by.

“You know what I’m feeling right now?” Demir stopped, leaning against the cool stone parapet. “A strange sensation… as if I’ve removed the casing from some important mechanism inside me, which has been hidden for years under layers of dust and cobwebs. It hurts, it’s unfamiliar, raw nerves are exposed… but… it’s freeing. As if I can finally breathe deeply, instead of those sips of air I’ve been dosing myself with.”

Selin leaned against the cold stone next to him, feeling the wind play with her loosened hair, tearing the last vestiges of the mask she had worn for so long, she had almost become one with it, from her face.

“I always thought truth was supposed to liberate,” she said thoughtfully, looking at the dark waters of the strait. “But for some reason, I feel more vulnerable now than ever. Like a snail pulled from its shell and left under the scorching sun.”

“Maybe because true freedom always requires the courage to be vulnerable?” He turned to her, and the city lights reflected in his eyes, creating a bizarre play of light and shadow. “We’ve spent our entire lives building fortresses around our hearts, erecting walls, digging moats, hiring guards… and now we ourselves are taking up picks and breaking down these fortifications. It’s scary. Scary enough to make your knees tremble.”

They watched the water in silence, listening as a luxurious yacht sailed by in the distance, its lights twinkling like fireflies in the night, leaving a silvery trail on the water behind it.

“I leave a light on at night too,” Demir suddenly confessed, and his voice sounded quieter, more heartfelt. “Not in the hallway… but in the bathroom. Since childhood. After my parents…” He fell silent, as if catching himself on too deep, too personal a revelation, and reached for a cigarette to occupy his hands.

Selin felt something clench inside her — warm, compassionate, almost maternal. She silently placed her hand on his — a light, almost weightless touch, but one that meant more than any words right now.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and her fingers gently squeezed his palm. “For the trust. It… means a lot.”

He looked at her hand — elegant, with slender fingers, now devoid of its usual defensive crossing over her chest — then at her face. In his eyes flickered something warm, almost tender, something real, un-rehearsed for the cameras.

“You know what’s strangest?” his voice sounded deeper than usual, without its usual bravado. “I’m more nervous now than before any broadcast, than before the most demanding audience. As if something very important depends on these few hours, on these few revelations. Something that will change everything.”

“Because on air, we play roles,” Selin whispered, her voice almost drowned out by the sound of the surf. “Like those actors in the traditional Turkish shadow theater, Karagöz — we put on masks, speak memorized lines, hide behind characters. But here… here we are trying to be ourselves. And that is far scarier, because the stakes are higher — not ratings, not popularity, but our souls.”

They fell silent again, but this time the silence was different — filled with understanding and a new, fragile trust that was being born between them, like the first sprout after a long winter. Somewhere in the distance, the horn of a night ferry sounded, carrying late passengers from one shore to the other. The night wind brought the scent of magnolias and jasmine blooming somewhere, mixed with the salty breath of the sea.

“I don’t want this evening to end,” Demir said unexpectedly, and an almost childish note sounded in his voice. “I’m afraid that in the morning it will all seem like a dream, a mirage, and we’ll put on our masks again, hide behind our roles… and pretend that none of this happened.”

Selin looked at him — at this man whom she had considered a superficial playboy, flighty and incapable of deep feelings, only to discover that beneath the mask of bravado and feigned confidence lay a vulnerable, deep soul, wounded and lonely.

“Masks…” she smiled thoughtfully, and her eyes softened. “You know, in the Ottoman Empire, there were special craftsmen who made masks for shadow theater. They said that each mask is not just a piece of leather or paper; it’s a frozen emotion embodied in material. And by putting it on, the actor doesn’t hide themselves, but rather shows some part of their soul, some facet of their character.”

Demir looked at her intently, and a genuine, sincere interest ignited in his eyes, not feigned:

“Perhaps our masks are also a part of us? Only frozen, petrified, turned into armor? It’s not that we put them on — we simply allowed them to grow onto our skin, to become our second nature.”

“Perhaps,” Selin nodded, and the wind played with her hair, creating a halo of dark strands around her head. “And now we are simply trying to revive them, to warm them with our own warmth, to make them express real, living feelings again, rather than hiding them like treasures in a chest at the bottom of the sea.”

They walked along the embankment again, their steps echoing in the night silence. The night grew deeper, the city lights gradually dimmed, giving way to silence and stars that blazed brighter in the sky, like diamonds on velvet.

“You know what else I realized today?” Demir said as they approached her building, sparkling with lights among the older structures. “That being sincere is like learning to walk again after a long illness. At first, it’s unfamiliar, painful; every step is difficult, it seems you’ll never be able to run and jump as before… but with each step — it becomes more natural, freer, and at some point, you realize you can go anywhere without looking back at crutches.”

Selin stopped at the entrance, and the golden light of an old lantern fell on her face, making it softer, younger, washing away the traces of fatigue and tension that usually lay on it like a mask.

“Thank you for this evening,” she said, her eyes serious, deep. “For… the truth. For the courage. For showing me that behind the mask of Demir the playboy hides a person who knows how to fear and to feel.”

He smiled — truly, without his usual smirk, and this smile transformed his face, made him younger and kinder:

“This is just the beginning, Selin Hanim. Tomorrow… will be more interesting. Prepare yourself — tomorrow I will be even more frank.”

She nodded and turned towards the door, feeling his gaze on her back. And strangely — today, that gaze didn’t seem heavy or judgmental, it didn’t make her tense up and choose a mask. It was… warm, almost tender, like an embrace.

And Demir stood on the deserted embankment for a long time, looking at her window, where a light came on — yellow, warm, alive. And for the first time in many years, he didn’t want to rush anywhere, didn’t want noise, fun, people, attention. He simply wanted to stand here, in the cool night air, inhaling the scent of the sea and blooming plants, and feel — feel this strange, new, frightening, and beautiful truth that was being born somewhere deep inside, like a sprout through asphalt.

Somewhere in the night, the muezzin’s call to the night prayer echoed — his voice floated over the sleeping city, pure, sad, sublime, as if reminding of something eternal, important, often forgotten in the hustle of days, in the pursuit of illusory ideals.

And in Demir’s heart, a new melody was being born — a melody of something real, something alive, that was just beginning, something fragile, like the first ice on the Bosphorus, but already changing everything around.

Chapter 5

The Mirror of the Soul in the Abyss of Night

Returning to her sterile white living room with panoramic windows, Selin felt as if she had returned from a battlefield — not wounded, but forever changed. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, echoing in the absolute silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The air in the apartment, usually filled with the scent of expensive candles with notes of bergamot and sandalwood, seemed suffocatingly sterile today, smelling not of life, but of its complete absence — like in a museum or a high-end real estate exhibition, where everything is perfect, but no one lives there.

She slowly walked to the window, looking at the lights of the Bosphorus, which twinkled in the night like scattered jewels on black velvet. Somewhere out there, in that mysterious night, he remained — the man who had seen not the flawless TV presenter Selin Yilmaz, but the one hiding behind her perfect facade. And that gaze burned her from within more than any public condemnation or criticism.

“The truth of love is hidden in your eyes…” she whispered involuntarily, recalling a line from a song that unexpectedly came to mind. Why now? Why did these words resonate within her with such a poignant, almost physical pain? She ran her fingers over the cold glass, feeling a slight tremor run through her body. For her entire conscious life, she had built impenetrable fortresses around her heart, created the image of an ideal, unflustered woman, untouched by fear and doubt — a woman who taught others how to manage love with reason. And today, in a few hours, this meticulously crafted image had collapsed, crumbled like a sandcastle under the onslaught of the sea surf.

“We cannot wash away our love with lies…” the thought flashed through her mind again. What bitter irony! Their entire “love” until this moment had been one big, beautiful, packaged lie — a product meant for sale to a trusting audience yearning for a fairy tale.

Selin closed her eyes, feeling tears welling up — the first truly sincere tears in years. They flowed down her cheeks slowly and solemnly, leaving bitter, salty traces, and she didn’t try to stop them, finally allowing herself this weakness here, within the four walls of her perfect prison.

Demir was still standing on the embankment, leaning against the cool stone parapet, which carried the scent of night moisture and the distant sea. The night wind ruffled his unruly black curls, bringing with it an intoxicating mix of aromas — the salty breeze from the Bosphorus, the sweetish scent of magnolias blooming somewhere nearby, spicy notes from restaurants closed for the night, and something else, elusive, smelling of memories and longing.

He mechanically reached for his phone, intending to call one of his girlfriends — a habitual gesture, honed to an automaton, of escaping loneliness, of avoiding the need to be alone with his thoughts. But his fingers froze above the bright screen, unable to find the right name. For the first time in many years, he didn’t want empty, non-committal conversations, didn’t need light, superficial relationships that left only a bitter aftertaste of emptiness.

“Do you love me?” a line from an old song flashed through his mind, one he had once written in a fit of despair after another breakup, but had never shown anyone, hiding it deep within himself, like many other of his true feelings.

He stared intently at the golden light in her twenty-second-floor window, trying to guess what she was doing now in that shining cage. Undressing, shedding her impeccable tweed armor? Drinking herbal tea, trying to calm her nerves? Or, like him, standing by the window, gazing into the night and replaying every word, every glance, every second of this strange, frightening, and beautiful night? Something — perhaps a barely perceptible thread stretched between them — suggested that she was not asleep. That she, just like him, was overwhelmed with emotions that found no outlet.

Demir took a deep breath, pulling out a pack of cigarettes — another of his weaknesses, carefully hidden from the public, creating the image of an ideal healthy person. The flame of the lighter illuminated his face for a moment — tired, suddenly softened, stripped of the usual mask of bravado and self-confidence.

“The heart speaks, you don’t listen…” he whispered, exhaling a stream of smoke that was immediately carried away by the night breeze. How often had he himself not listened to his heart! He had drowned out its insistent voice with the noise of endless parties, the squeal of tires on racing tracks, empty conversations with even emptier people, work that had long ceased to bring satisfaction.

But today… today it spoke so loudly and insistently that it drowned out everything around. It spoke of her. Of the one hiding behind that perfectly polished facade. Of the one who was afraid of the dark like a little girl, but who at the same time had the courage to look truth in the eye.

He threw the half-smoked cigarette into the dark waters of the Bosphorus and looked up at her window one last time, as if making some strange, unspoken vow.

“Tomorrow,” he promised himself and the night. “Tomorrow will be a new day. And a new truth. No matter the cost.”

Turning, he walked with firm steps towards his car, parked in the shadow of an old plane tree, feeling a strange, unfamiliar lightness throughout his body — as if he had shed an invisible burden he had carried on his shoulders for many years, without even realizing its weight.

And in his heart, a new melody was playing — quiet, tender, full of hope and a kind of childlike trust in the world. A melody of something real, something alive, that was just beginning, something that was fragile, like the first ice on the Bosphorus, but was already changing everything around.

Selin was still standing by the window, gazing entranced at the night city, when from the distance, on the Asian side, the voice of the muezzin reached her, calling believers to the night prayer. His pure, sad voice floated over the sleeping Istanbul, reminding of something eternal, important, of that spiritual component of life which she had so diligently ignored, immersed in the pursuit of success and recognition.

She listened to this ancient sound, feeling how a strange, unfamiliar peace gradually filled her from within, washing away the remnants of tension and fear. Yes, it was scary. Yes, it was painful to lay bare her soul to an almost unknown person. But in this pain and vulnerability, there was a strange, bitter truth — the truth of life, which she had so long and carefully avoided, preferring comfortable, beautiful illusions instead.

“Tell me the truth…” she whispered, looking at the flickering lights of the Galata Tower. “I am ready to hear. I am ready to accept.”

And for the first time in many years, these words did not evoke panic and a desire to hide within her. Only a quiet, timid, but persistent hope — like the first ray of sun after a long stormy night.

Hope that somewhere out there, in this warm Istanbul night, there is a person who also hears this call. A person who is also tired of lies — both others’ and their own. A person who also wants the truth, however bitter and inconvenient it may be.

Even if that truth is painful. Even if it forever changes everything to which they have become so accustomed.

Because only the truth, painfully earned and prayed for, could lead to something real. To something important. To that for which it was worth living and for which it was worth risking their perfectly constructed, but so empty world.

She finally tore herself away from the window and slowly walked to the bedroom, feeling a strange, pleasant weariness throughout her body — the fatigue of a traveler who has completed a long and difficult journey and knows that a new, even more difficult path lies ahead.

But now she knew — she was not alone on this road. Somewhere out there, in the night, walked the one who was also taking his first timid steps towards the truth. The one with whom she was destined to walk this path to the end — hand in hand, heart to heart, soul to soul.

No matter how frightening, complex, and unexplored it might be.

And this thought warmed her better than any blanket, promising a new morning — a morning filled with fear, doubt, but also with endless possibilities.

Chapter 6

The Morning After Honesty

The first rays of the rising sun timidly pierced through the panes of the panoramic windows, painting Selin’s sterile white interior in soft peach and golden hues. The air, which had seemed suffocating in its perfect purity just recently, was now filled with the freshness of the coming morning — a light breeze from the Bosphorus carried through the slightly open balcony door the scent of sea salt, blooming hibiscus somewhere nearby, and the sweetish, tantalizing aroma of fresh pastries from the bakery on the ground floor. Somewhere in the distance, the piercing cries of seagulls could be heard, the deafening horns of ferries, and the growing hum of the awakening city — Istanbul was waking up, filling with its usual Eastern bustle, so distant from the secluded silence of her luxurious apartment.

Selin lay with her eyes open, listening to the familiar rhythm of the city outside the window. Her body responded with a pleasant heaviness — as if after a long journey or an intense workout. But her soul was filled with a strange, unfamiliar peace, mixed with trembling anticipation of something new. She recalled the previous evening — his words, her confessions, that incredible moment when the walls between them crumbled, revealing something real and fragile.

“Thirty days of truth…” she whispered, getting out of bed and walking barefoot to the window. “Day one.”

Approaching the panoramic glass, she saw that the city was living its usual life. The streets were filling with people — rushing to work, opening shops, delivering fresh simits with golden sesame. Everything was as usual, but for her, the world had irrevocably changed — the colors seemed brighter, the sounds more expressive, and the air more saturated.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the insistent ringing of her phone. “Demir” flashed on the screen. Her heart involuntarily skipped a beat — a mixture of fear and sweet anticipation.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded a little hoarse from sleep.

“Good morning, Selin Hanim,” his voice was calm, but a slight, almost imperceptible tension could be felt. “How are you? How did you greet this morning?”

“Alive,” she couldn’t help but smile, looking at her reflection in the glass. “Like I ran a marathon through the hills of Sultanahmet, but alive. And you?”

He gave a short laugh, and this laugh sounded somehow domestically warm: “I understand. I have a similar feeling. Listen, about yesterday…”

Selin froze, instinctively clutching the phone in her hand, preparing for the worst. Now he would say it was a mistake, that they should forget, return to their usual roles…

“I regret not a single word spoken,” he said firmly after a pause. “And I want to continue this journey. If you… if you haven’t changed your mind yet.”

A wave of relief washed over her body, making her tense shoulders relax: “I haven’t changed my mind. But…” she paused, choosing her words, “let’s set some rules. So we don’t go insane and destroy everything in a fit of frankness.”

“Alright,” he agreed immediately, and a slight smile could be heard in his voice. “I’m listening, Professor. What rules do you propose?”

“For example…” she pondered, looking at a ferry sailing across the Bosphorus, white and elegant as a swan. “We won’t pressure each other. Telling the truth doesn’t mean pouring everything out at once, without discrimination. Let’s be… cautious in our sincerity. Like with a precious antique carpet — you can’t pull on a single thread, or the whole thing will unravel.”

“I understand,” real respect sounded in his voice. “Like doctors who administer potent medicine in small doses, observing the body’s reaction.”

“Exactly,” she sighed with relief, feeling the tension gradually dissipate. “And one more thing… let’s not tell anyone about our experiment. Neither the producers, nor our friends, nor our families. This should remain between us — our personal space, inaccessible to outside eyes and opinions.”

“I agree one hundred percent,” he replied without the slightest hesitation. “Otherwise, our producers might decide it’s a great idea for a new show. ‘Truth or Survival’ or something like that. They’ll put our souls on display to the accompaniment of dramatic music.”

They fell silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, but this pause was no longer awkward — it was filled with understanding.

“What are we going to do today?” Selin finally asked, watching a sunbeam play on the surface of a crystal vase.

“How about… a completely ordinary day?” he suggested after a moment’s thought. “No grand gestures or theatrical confessions. Just… being honest in the small things. In how we drink coffee, how we look at each other, how we discuss our plans for the day. Let’s start with that. With the small things.”

“That sounds… reasonable and not so frightening,” she nodded, though he couldn’t see it.

“Then, see you at the studio,” he said, and a hint of tenderness could be heard in his voice. “And, Selin…”

“Yes?” she froze in anticipation.

“Thank you. For yesterday. For… the courage to be yourself.”

He hung up, leaving her with a warm, bright feeling somewhere deep inside. Perhaps everything would indeed be alright. Perhaps truth not only hurts but also heals.

Demir stood on the spacious balcony of his apartment, a traditional narrow cup of strong Turkish coffee in his hand. The view from here was truly stunning — the whole of Istanbul lay at his feet, from the old quarters of Fatih with their majestic minarets and mosque domes to the modern skyscrapers of Levent, sparkling with glass and metal. But today, he barely noticed the familiar, everyday beauty — his thoughts were occupied with her. Selin. The woman who turned out to be nothing like she had seemed all these months. Fragile, vulnerable, but incredibly strong inside — strong enough to admit her weaknesses.

He recalled her eyes from yesterday — filled with fear, but also with unwavering determination. He remembered how her voice trembled when she spoke of her childhood fear of the dark. How gently, and yet uncertainly, she touched his hand — as if afraid of getting burned or doing something wrong.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he asked himself, taking a sip of the bitter, almost black coffee. “Will I be able to withstand this truth myself? Not just hers, but my own? Won’t I hide back in my comfortable shell when it comes to the truly dark corners of my soul?”

His phone vibrated — a message from one of his “girlfriends,” whom he had met a couple of times. He would have answered immediately before, scheduled a meeting at an expensive restaurant or on his yacht. But now, he simply looked at the screen, at the bright selfie of a smiling girl, and put the phone aside. Not the time. Not the right thing. All of it suddenly seemed so empty and unnecessary — like childhood toys that lose their appeal as one grows up.

He returned to the apartment — spacious, stylish, decorated by the best designers, but just as empty and impersonal as a showroom sample. Expensive appliances, designer light oak furniture, contemporary abstract art on the walls… and not a single truly personal item that spoke of who lived here. No photos, no souvenir trinkets, nothing that held the warmth of human hands and memories.

“I wonder,” a thought crossed his mind, “what’s in her apartment? What does she keep behind her impeccably sterile walls? What secrets lie hidden behind her perfect facade?”

Perhaps he would find out soon. If he had the courage to look there. If they both had the courage to open not only their souls but also their homes to each other — these last fortresses where each of them had walled themselves off from the entire world.

He glanced at his expensive watch — it was time for the show. Their first truly “honest” show, where they would have to play their old roles, but with a new, deeper understanding of each other.

Something told him that today’s broadcast would be… interesting. Possibly even a turning point.

Selin approached the gleaming glass building of the TV channel, feeling a slight but pleasant nervousness. Usually, she came here with a sense of complete control — she knew her role by heart, knew every passage in the script, knew how to smile, joke, parry Demir’s jabs. Today, everything was different — as if someone had turned up the sharpness on the entire world, and now every movement, every word acquired a new, profound meaning.

“Good morning, Selin Hanim!” greeted her the elderly security guard, Mehmet, who always met her at the entrance. “How are you? How’s your mood this beautiful morning?”

Usually, she would reply with the standard, rehearsed “Excellent, thank you!” and hurry on. But today, she stopped and really thought about it, listening to her feelings.

“Scared-optimistic, if I can put it that way,” she finally answered honestly, catching his surprised gaze.

The guard raised his thick eyebrows in surprise, but then smiled broadly, his face splitting into wrinkles: “Allah basharyah olsun! Good luck with the show! May the truth always be on your side.”

His words sounded like an unwitting farewell wish, and Selin nodded with sudden gratitude.

In the dressing room, the usual bustle awaited her — stylists, makeup artists, costume designers with their next perfect outfits. But today, their care somehow irritated her, seemed intrusive and superficial. She just wanted to be left alone with her thoughts, not to put on her usual mask before the filming even began.

“Selin Hanim, you have simply a wonderful complexion today!” exclaimed the young makeup artist, Ayse, applying foundation. “You must have rested? You look younger!”

“No,” Selin answered honestly, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “I barely slept. I tossed and turned all night, feeling nervous. But… thank you for the compliment.”

Ayse froze with her brush in hand, clearly unsure how to react to such uncharacteristic frankness from her boss. A moment of awkward silence fell in the dressing room.

At that moment, the door swung open, and Demir appeared. Their eyes met in the mirror, and something passed between them — an invisible but strong thread of understanding and a new, not yet fully realized intimacy.

“Herkese hoş geldiniz,” he said, and his voice sounded somehow new — calmer, deeper, without its usual bravado. “Selin, may I have a moment? Before we dive into this crazy whirlwind.”

She nodded and followed him out into the semi-empty corridor, smelling of freshly ground coffee and expensive furniture polish.

“How are you?” he asked quietly, looking at her intently, as if checking whether the girl from the embankment had run away, whether she had hidden back behind her walls.

“Scared,” she admitted, not lowering her eyes. “But… ready. More than ever.”

“Me too,” he smiled, and the familiar sparks flashed in his eyes, but this time they shone differently — warmer, more reliable. “Remember our rules? Small doses. No shock therapy.”

“Small doses,” she repeated, feeling the last vestiges of anxiety gradually recede under the influence of his calm confidence.

“Then let’s go,” he unexpectedly extended his hand to her — open, sincere. “Our audience is waiting. And today… today will be a special broadcast. I feel it.”

She hesitated for just a second, then placed her palm in his. His fingers closed around her hand — warm, strong, surprisingly steady.

And at that moment, she understood — no matter what happened, no matter what storms raged around them, they would get through it together. Day by day, truth by truth, step by step.

And this knowledge gave her more strength and confidence than all her clever books on control and reason combined. Because this was real. And it was just the beginning.

Chapter 7

The First Sincere Broadcast

The studio, usually seeming like a familiar workspace, felt completely different today. All the same dazzling spotlights casting bright glares on the glossy floor, the same cameras on ingenious suspensions, slowly turning like living creatures, the same deep burgundy chairs, resembling ripe pomegranates. But the air was filled with a different tension — not the professional excitement of television professionals, but the trembling nervousness of two people standing on the verge of something real, something that was about to happen right before the camera lenses.

Selin subtly adjusted the fold of her sea-green dress — deliberately choosing softer, pastel tones today instead of her usual strict black-and-white palette. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clenched them into fists, trying to quell the treacherous tremor. The air smelled of charged electricity — a mixture of ozone from the operating equipment, the sweetish aroma of hairspray, and the tart scent of the men’s cologne that Demir always used before broadcasts.

“Ready?” producer Mahir cast an appraising glance at them from behind the glass partition, his face focused and slightly tense. “Today, we expect a lot of viewer calls. The topic is ‘Love After Disappointment.’ Try to be… convincing.”

Demir nodded, his gaze met Selin’s — quick, encouraging, full of some new understanding. “Small doses,” he reminded her without words, smiling faintly at the corners of his lips.

The red light turned on, bathing their faces in an crimson glow.

“Good evening, beautiful Istanbul!” Demir’s voice sounded as usual — velvety, confident, filling the entire studio space. “This is ‘Psychology of Love,’ and today we’re talking about the most difficult thing — how to learn to trust again after being betrayed, how to make your heart open to love once more.”

Selin took the floor, feeling the cameras move closer, their glass eyes fixed on her: “Disappointment is not the end of love, dear viewers. It’s just a sign that our expectations didn’t match reality, that we made some miscalculations somewhere, but it doesn’t mean we should give up on our feelings.”

Their dialogue flowed in the usual channel — polished phrases, light arguments, appropriate jokes, practiced to automatism over months of joint broadcasts. But today, a new, invisible depth emerged between them — now they knew that behind every piece of advice, every clever phrase, lay personal pain, their own experiences of disappointment and falls.

The first call sounded like a shot in the silence:

“My name is Ayse. I listen to you every evening… You seem like such an ideal couple, such a model of love and trust. Tell me, have you yourselves ever been betrayed? Do you know what it’s like to lose faith in love?”

The studio froze. Even the producers behind the glass stopped gesturing. Demir broke the silence first:

“Yes,” he said simply, without his usual theatricality. “I have been betrayed. And, I admit, I have betrayed myself.” His voice lost its professional smoothness, gaining the rough edges of living, genuine pain. “And you know what I’ve realized over the years? Betrayal doesn’t start with loud actions or infidelities. It starts with a small, almost imperceptible lie to oneself. With silence, when one should speak. With escape, when one should stay.”

Selin felt her throat tighten. She could see how difficult these words were for him — she saw the slight tremor in his hand on the table, how he subtly clenched and unclenched his fingers.

“The fear of being deceived again is natural, it’s a defense mechanism of our soul,” she said quietly but clearly, looking directly into the camera, but addressing that unknown woman on the other end of the line. “But if you close yourself off from the world, build an impenetrable fortress around yourself, you might miss something truly important. That very love we are waiting for.”

The second call caught them off guard with its directness:

“You speak so beautifully about trust, about honesty… Do you yourselves believe what you advise? Or is it just work, beautiful words for a TV broadcast?”

Demir exhaled slowly, and Selin saw how his shoulders tensed, how his fingers clenched — white knuckles, tension throughout his posture.

“You know,” he began, and his voice sounded unusually quiet, almost confessional, “just recently I realized one simple, but very frightening thing for myself. That I’ve been afraid of real intimacy my whole life.” He looked at Selin — not at the camera, not at the viewers, but directly at her, openly. “It’s much easier to wear the mask of a cheerful person, a jester, a playboy, than to let someone see the real you — with all your fears, weaknesses, insecurities.”

Selin felt something shift inside her — something warm, aching, alive.

“And I…” she began, and the words came out on their own, without the usual internal editor, without censorship, “I always thought that control could replace trust, that love could be calculated like a mathematical formula, broken down into components, and managed.” She paused, catching her breath. “But now I’m beginning to understand — true intimacy begins precisely where control ends. Where you voluntarily surrender your vulnerability to another.”

Their gazes met — and for the first time during all their broadcasts, there was no game in them, not a trace of pretense. There was only pure, unprotected truth, visible to all of Istanbul.

The silence in the studio became thick, significant, filled with some new meaning. Even the cameramen forgot about their equipment, frozen by their apparatus.

“You know what’s the scariest thing?” Demir said quietly, still looking at Selin, but addressing all the viewers. “To show someone your weak spots. To bare your soul. But that’s precisely… that’s precisely what makes us truly human. Real.”

The red light went out. The broadcast ended.

They sat in silence, unable to move, as if mesmerized by what had just happened. Somewhere beyond the glass, the producers rushed about, gesticulating, shouting something, but here, in the circle of light, only the two of them existed — and the truth that hung between them, almost palpably.

“We just…” Selin began, but the words got stuck in her throat, dry from emotion.

“Yes,” Demir nodded slowly, his eyes dark and very serious. “We just told the truth. In front of the whole country. Unvarnished.”

His hand lay on the table next to hers — just an inch between them, but it seemed like an insurmountable abyss and, simultaneously, a magnet. She could see him breathing — deeper than usual, as if he had just surfaced from a great depth.

“I’m scared,” she admitted in a whisper that only he could hear in the silence of the empty studio. “So scared my hands are shaking.”

“Me too,” he turned his palm upwards — open, defenseless, offering trust. “But this is… the right kind of fear. The kind that precedes something real.”

Their fingers touched — not like actors playing love for the cameras, but like two real people who had found support in each other in this sea of lies and pretense.

Behind the glass, the producer gestured frantically, pointing at the monitors — social media was exploding with their revelations, but they didn’t see it. They saw only each other — and the bridge that had begun to be built between them across the abyss of distrust and fear.

The first step had been taken. The scariest one — the first step towards truth.

Chapter 8

The Wave of Revelation

The silence in the studio after the broadcast was deafening, saturated with the energy of the words just spoken. The air, recently charged with the tension of live television, now hung still, filled with the vibrations of a revelation that palpably hung between them. Behind the glass partition, producer Mahir was excitedly saying something, waving his hands, his face expressing a mixture of panic and delight, but the sound didn’t penetrate the thick glass — as if they were observing him from underwater, from another dimension.

Demir was the first to break the heavy and significant silence. His fingers were still touching hers — a light, almost weightless touch, but it sent shivers down Selin’s spine, and her heart beat faster than after hours of intense training.

“Looks like we just caused a bit of a commotion in this fishbowl of ours,” he said, and his voice held a mix of horror and strange, almost childish excitement. “I wonder if this wave will spill beyond the studio?”

Selin slowly withdrew her hand, feeling her palm still burning from his touch, leaving the memory of his fingers on her skin. She looked at the monitors behind the glass — there were colorful graphs flashing, rapidly growing numbers, and the producers’ faces expressed something between panic and incredible delight.

“They… don’t know how to react to this,” she said quietly, watching Mahir speak into his phone, gesticulating actively. “We broke all the unwritten rules, crossed all the boundaries we ourselves had set for years.”

The studio door swung open with a soft pneumatic hiss, and Mahir burst in. His face was flushed, his eyes gleaming like those of someone who had found treasure. He smelled of strong coffee and excitement.

“Are you completely insane?” he rushed towards them, his expensive shoes softly slapping on the glossy floor. “That was… that was…” He stammered, searching for words, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “It was brilliant! Social media exploded! Ratings are through the roof! I’ve already had three calls from advertisers!”

Demir slowly stood up, his movements calm, confident, as if he had just woken from a long sleep.

“We just told the truth, Mahir. The very truth we always spoke about on air. The truth people came to us for.”

“But it was… real!” The producer clutched his head, his fingers digging into his graying temples. “People are crying in the comments! They’re writing that they’ve never heard such a revelation on television! That it breathes real life, not memorized phrases!”

Selin stood beside Demir, feeling a strange solidarity — as if they stood against the whole world, shoulder to shoulder, and this feeling was both frightening and incredibly inspiring.

“What do we do next?” she asked, looking at Mahir, but feeling Demir’s warmth beside her. “Do you want us to continue in the same vein? For every broadcast to turn into a group therapy session?”

The producer froze, his face expressing an internal struggle between professional excitement and fear of the unknown.

“I don’t know… On one hand — it’s gold, pure gold! On the other — we might cross some line that shouldn’t be crossed…”

“The line between truth and lies has already been crossed,” Demir said firmly, his voice sounding unexpectedly deep. “We started this path. Now we must go to the end, wherever it leads.”

Mahir looked at them — at Selin with her usually cold, but now soft and vulnerable face, at Demir with his new, uncharacteristic seriousness, devoid of his usual jester’s mask.

“Fine.” He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “But be careful. Truth is a dangerous thing. It’s like fire — it can warm you, or it can burn you to ashes.”

He left, leaving them alone in the deserted studio. The spotlight went out one by one, leaving only the emergency lighting, casting long, bizarre shadows on the walls adorned with the show’s logos.

“Looks like we’ve gone too far to turn back,” Demir said, turning to Selin, a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes.

She looked at him, at this man who, in just a few days, had become closer to her than anyone else in years of lonely success behind glass walls.

“Are you scared?” she asked directly, looking into his dark eyes, which reflected her own uncertainty.

He paused, his gaze becoming serious, adult.

“Yes. But it’s a good fear. Like before a jump from a height. It’s scary, but the adrenaline makes you feel truly alive, not just existing.”

They silently gathered their belongings — notebooks with notes, expensive pens, phones that were already starting to vibrate with messages. Every movement seemed significant, imbued with new meaning, as if they were packing not just work supplies, but symbolic barriers that had separated them from real life for years.

“Will you come with me for a coffee?” Demir suddenly offered, holding her gaze. “Not for the broadcast. Not for show. Not to discuss work. Just… to talk. Like two ordinary people who have just done something extraordinary.”

Selin hesitated for just a moment. Old habits, old fears screamed within her: “Dangerous! Retreat! Get back into your shell!” But something new, just born within her during this broadcast, was stronger — alive, trembling, yearning for the real.

“Yes.” She nodded, feeling something tighten in her chest from a mix of fear and anticipation. “But not to a fancy place. Somewhere… real. Without posers and pretense.”

A smile touched his lips — the first truly genuine smile, without his protective irony, all evening.

“I know a place. Not far from here. There are no celebrities there, only real people.”

They went out through the back door, avoiding journalists and onlookers gathered at the main entrance. The night air was cool and fresh after the stuffy studio, smelling of the rain that had just passed, and the sea, always present in the Istanbul air. The streets of Istanbul lived their nocturnal life — somewhere live music played, laughter and lively conversations could be heard, it smelled of roasted chestnuts, sweet corn, and the distant, alluring sea.

Demir led her through narrow, winding alleys, away from the main, illuminated streets. They passed small shops selling Turkish sweets and spices, a workshop where old sazes were repaired, a coffee house from which the rich aroma of freshly ground beans wafted and passionate debates could be heard at the tables.

Finally, they stopped at an inconspicuous door between a jewelry store and a ceramics shop. Above the door hung a small, almost invisible sign with an image of a traditional coffee cup.

“There’s no pretense here,” Demir said, opening the wooden door, which let out a light creak. “But there’s the best coffee in Istanbul. And real people, not mannequins.”

Inside, it smelled of coffee, cardamom, cinnamon, and old wood, saturated with thousands of conversations and confessions. The small space was filled with simple wooden tables, at which sat a variety of people — students with books and laptops, elderly men playing backgammon, lovers whispering over cups of tea.

The owner — an elderly man with kind eyes and a gray mustache — nodded to Demir like an old acquaintance.

“Welcome, Demir Bey. The usual?”

“Yes, Mustafa Amca. And for my companion too. Only the best.”

They sat at a small table in the corner, by a wall adorned with old black-and-white photographs of Istanbul. The light from an old copper lamp cast warm, dancing glints on their faces, hiding fatigue and revealing something new, something real.

“I often come here,” Demir said quietly, running his fingers over the old, scratched tabletop. “When I need to think. To be alone with myself, but not lonely. Here, solitude and a sense of community somehow coexist.”

Selin looked around the room — real, alive, not embellished for tourists, holding the memory of thousands of human stories.

“How did you find this place? It’s hidden so well you could walk past it a hundred times and not notice.”

“By chance,” he smiled, and a shadow of memory flickered in his eyes. “I was running from paparazzi about five years ago after a particularly scandalous interview. I hid here, in this alley. Just came in to catch my breath. And I stayed. Since then, this has been my place of power.”

The coffee was brought — in traditional small cups with delicate patterns, with grounds at the bottom. The aroma was rich, tart, with notes of cardamom and something else, elusive.

“To truth,” Demir said, raising his cup, his eyes serious. “No matter what pain it brings, what joy it gives.”

“To truth,” Selin replied softly, clinking her cup against his, and the sound of porcelain rang like a bell, marking the beginning of something new.

The coffee was bitter and beautiful, burning and warming. Like the truth they had just told the whole world, not knowing what it would bring — pain or healing.

“What do we do next?” she asked, placing her cup on its saucer with a light, melodious clink. “After a broadcast like that, they’ll expect us to continue. They’ll expect more and more revelations.”

Demir looked at her — attentively, seriously, seeing not the TV presenter, but a woman facing a difficult choice.

“We will speak the truth. To ourselves. To each other.” He paused, his fingers wrapping around the warm cup. “As long as we can bear it. Not for the viewers. Not for the ratings. For ourselves.”

A car drove by outside, and its headlights briefly illuminated his face — tired, but calm, without its usual tension.

“And what if we can’t bear it?” Selin asked, feeling the old, familiar fear stir somewhere inside, whispering about caution, about protection, about walls. “What if the truth turns out to be too heavy? Too painful?”

“Then at least we’ll try,” he replied, and his voice sounded surprisingly tender. “That’s already more than most people can say about themselves. Most prefer a comfortable lie to an inconvenient truth. But we… we’ll at least try.”

They finished their coffee in silence, but this silence was comfortable — no need to fill it with empty words, awkward jokes, or professional discussions. They simply were. Two people who had started something important. Something real, which could either destroy them or make them truly alive.

When they left, the sky was already dawning, painting the horizon in soft peach and lilac tones. The first rays of the sun gilded the minarets of the mosques, and the city gradually awoke, filling with the sounds of morning — the cries of seagulls, the horns of ferries, the ringing of bicycles.

“Thank you,” Selin said at the entrance to her building, feeling the cool morning air nip at her cheeks. “For the coffee. For… everything. For that crazy broadcast and for this even crazier night.”

Demir nodded, his eyes in the morning light seemed especially dark, almost black.

“See you tomorrow, Selin. It will be interesting, I promise.”

He turned and walked down the deserted morning street, his silhouette gradually disappearing into the morning mist rising from the Bosphorus, and she watched him go, feeling something new being born in her soul — fragile, like the first spring flower pushing through asphalt, but already changing everything around.

The truth had been set in motion. Like a snowball that could no longer be stopped, it would grow, gain strength, sweeping everything in its path. And it was terrifying. And beautiful. And inevitable.

Chapter 9

The Morning After the Storm

The first rays of the morning sun timidly pierced through the heavy silk curtains in Selin’s bedroom, painting the sterile white walls in soft peach and golden tones. The air in the room, usually filled with the scent of expensive candles with notes of bergamot and sandalwood, smelled different today — it carried echoes of the night’s coolness, the sea’s freshness, and something new, unfamiliar, as if the scents of real life, not its perfect copy, had entered the house.

Selin lay with her eyes open, listening to the familiar morning sounds of Istanbul — the piercing cries of seagulls, the low horns of ferries, the distant hum of the city awakening from sleep. But today, these sounds were perceived differently — sharper, deeper, as if someone had removed the usual filter from her hearing, and now she heard every shade, every note of this urban symphony orchestra.

She slowly got out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the soft natural wool carpet. Approaching the panoramic window, she pulled back the curtain — and froze, struck by the scene before her. The Bosphorus, usually so majestic and distant, today seemed close, almost intimate. The waters of the strait reflected the morning sun, scattering thousands of golden glints, and on the Asian shore, the lights of Kadikoy were slowly waking up, like scattered amber beads.

Her thoughts returned to yesterday evening — to that broadcast that turned everything upside down, to that conversation in the small coffee house, to his eyes, so serious and real… To the feeling that they were on the verge of something important, something that would change their lives forever.

A sudden phone call made her jump. “Mahir” flashed on the screen.

“Selin, did you see the news?” his voice sounded agitated, almost hysterical. “We’re everywhere! Our broadcast from yesterday is being discussed on all the morning shows! Can you imagine? Even the main channel did a special report!”

She silently walked over to the large, wall-mounted television and turned it on. Familiar TV presenters’ faces flashed across the screen, and screaming headlines ran at the bottom: “Sensational Confessions of the Psychology Show Stars!”, “The Truth That Shocked Istanbul!”, “Love Without Masks: The Revelations of Selin and Demir.”

“Mahir,” she said softly, looking at her own image on the screen, where a close-up showed her face at the moment of revelation, “what have we done?”

“What have we done?” he laughed nervously. “We’ve made a revolution! Ratings are through the roof! Everyone is talking about our show! Advertisers are besieging my office! I’ve already received five partnership offers!”

Selin slowly sank onto the snow-white sofa, feeling her legs give way. Her face on the screen seemed alien — vulnerable, open, real. The way no one had ever seen her before.

“They… they’re showing the most personal moments,” she whispered, watching as the TV screen replayed clips where Demir spoke of his fear of loneliness, and her eyes filled with tears.

“These are golden shots!” Mahir exclaimed enthusiastically. “People are crying at their screens! They’re writing that they’ve never seen such sincerity on television! That it breathes real life!”

The doorbell rang. Selin flinched, goosebumps prickling her skin. Who could it be at this early hour?

“Mahir, hold on,” she said and went to the front door, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

Demir was standing outside. In his hands were two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and a paper bag, from which wafted the tempting aroma of fresh pastries — simit with sesame seeds, and it seemed, poppy seed buns.

“I thought you might need some support on this difficult morning,” he said quietly, handing her one of the glasses. “The morning after a storm is always difficult, and after such a storm — especially so.”

She silently stepped aside, letting him in. His presence in her sterile, perfect apartment felt both strange and incredibly right. He brought with him the scent of the morning air, the sea, and something else she couldn’t quite identify.

“Did you see the news?” she asked, closing the door and feeling goosebumps prickle her skin.

He nodded, his face serious but calm. “I saw it. It’s… unexpected, but logical.”

“Unexpected?” she laughed nervously, and the laugh sounded sharp in the silence of the spacious living room. “Demir, they’ve quoted our broadcast everywhere! They’ve put our most intimate thoughts and feelings on display! This is…”

He placed the juice and pastries on the glass coffee table and turned to her. His eyes were calm, confident, like a ship’s captain during a storm.

“And what did you expect? We told the truth. The real truth. People are starving for the real. They’re tired of falsehood, of masks, of those perfect pictures that have nothing behind them.”

“But they have no right!” Her voice trembled, and she was surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes. “That was between us! That was… personal! Sacred!”

He gently took her hands. His fingers were warm, firm, steady.

“Selin, we said it live. In front of all of Istanbul, in front of the whole country. We can’t regret it now. We opened the door, and now it can’t be closed.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the anxiety gradually recede under the influence of his calm, his confidence.

“I know,” she whispered, looking at their joined hands. “It’s just… I wasn’t ready for such a reaction. For such… attention.”

He smiled, and the familiar sparks appeared in his eyes, but this time they shone differently — warmer, deeper.

“No one can be ready for the truth. It always comes unexpectedly. Like an earthquake — first a small tremor, and then everything collapses, and you have to build anew. But on a solid foundation.”

They moved to the kitchen — spacious, gleaming with chrome and glass. Selin automatically reached for the copper cezve, starting to make coffee. The familiar movements were calming, restoring a sense of control.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, pouring the fragrant ground beans with hints of cardamom into the cezve.

“What we agreed to do,” he leaned against the light marble kitchen counter, watching her movements. “Tell the truth. Go to the end. Don’t deviate from the path, no matter how difficult it may be.”

“And what if…” she fell silent, afraid to voice her deepest fears.

“What if?” he asked softly, and there was no mockery in his voice, only understanding.

“What if the truth turns out to be too heavy? What if we can’t bear its burden? What if it destroys everything we have?”

He was silent for a moment, looking at her seriously, his dark eyes seeming bottomless.

“Then at least we’ll know we tried. That we weren’t afraid. That we were real — at least for a moment. And that’s already more than most people can say.”

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, mingling with the smell of fresh pastries that Demir had brought. Outside, a white ferry slowly sailed by, its hull gleaming in the morning sun like a swan on the water.

“You know what’s strangest?” Demir said, taking a cup of steaming coffee from her. “For the first time in years, I feel… truly free. As if I’ve shed a heavy backpack I’ve been carrying on my back without even noticing its weight. As if I can breathe deeply.”

Selin pondered, inhaling the coffee’s aroma, which seemed particularly rich and deep today. “And I… I feel naked. As if all the protective layers, all the armor I’ve hidden behind for years, have been removed, and now everyone can see… the real me. With all my fears, weaknesses, insecurities.”

He placed the cup on the marble countertop and stepped close to her. His eyes were serious, deep, as if he saw through her — and accepted her completely, without reservation.

“And you know what you are like, for real? You are brave. Strong. Vulnerable. Real. And that… that is beautiful. That is… rare.”

They stood in silence, looking at each other, and something important, unspoken, hung in the air, something that could change everything — or destroy it.

Demir’s phone suddenly rang, breaking the moment. He sighed, pulling it from his pocket.

“Yes, Mahir…” he paused, listening. “Okay. In an hour. Yes. We’ll be there.”

He put the phone down and looked at Selin.

“A meeting. About the new format of the show. Mahir wants to discuss our next steps. He’s in a state of incredible excitement.”

She nodded, feeling reality with its demands and obligations returning.

“I need to change. Get ready.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, and smiled, and there was something new, unfamiliar in his smile. “I won’t leave you alone in this difficult hour. We’re partners in crime now, after all.”

While she changed in the bedroom, he walked around the living room, looking at her books, neatly arranged on the shelves, the few photographs in silver frames, those few personal items that adorned this sterile space. His presence filled the room with something new, alive, disturbing its perfect order.

“Done,” she said, emerging from the bedroom in an elegant, soft gray suit that perfectly matched her eye color.

He whistled, smiling, and his eyes sparkled.

“Always perfect. Even the morning after a revolution. Unflappable Selin Yilmaz.”

She smiled back, feeling the tension gradually ease, replaced by a strange lightness.