Mira's throat was tight as she turned the next page, her fingers trembling against the fragile edges of the paper. The lamp's light caught the faint indentation of Ozan's words — written in the kind of hurried, desperate scrawl that only comes from a memory too heavy to carry silently.
She shook her head, whispering under her breath,
"Why am I still reading this…"
But her hands didn't stop. They wouldn't.
Dear Diary,
After that incident, I stopped talking to İskandar completely. A week passed. I made new friends — decent ones — the kind who don't laugh at filth or whisper things that make your skin crawl. But disgusting people like him… they're everywhere. The world hides too many monsters under clean clothes.
Mira could almost hear his voice in those lines — calm, protective, but trembling with restrained anger.
I've seen İskandar with other guys, talking about girls as if they're toys. Their laughter made me sick. That evening, I was waiting for Seyran outside the campus gate. I saw him walking toward me — that same smirk, that same arrogance. He tried to talk to me.
The words shifted from neat to jagged, the pen pressing too deep, bleeding through the next page.
I told him, "I'm here to study and work hard, not to waste time on people like you. You have distractions — I don't."
As Mira read, she could see it — the autumn light fading over the university steps, Ozan standing still, jaw clenched, while İskandar's sneer twisted with something darker.
Then —
Seyran came walking toward us, all smiles and chatter, carrying her sketchbook. I could see his eyes follow her — that look, that filthy look — and something inside me snapped. I said, "Bye." Firm, loud. Grabbed her hand and walked away.
Mira's chest tightened as the next lines began — their words coming alive in her mind, cinematic and aching.
"Was that your friend?" Seyran had asked, pouting, swinging their joined hands like a child.
Ozan's voice was short, cold: "Not anymore."
"Why not?" she asked softly, her tone more curious than hurt.
He looked ahead, his jaw set. "I've written the reason in the diary you gave me. When it's full — when there are no pages left — you can read it."
"Okay," she said after a pause, her eyes lifting to him with that familiar innocence. "Then… can I ask you something?"
"Sure," he replied, already softening.
"Alina invited me to her birthday party. You know how we always wanted to go to one?" Her voice carried a fragile excitement, like a child asking permission. "Can I go?"
Ozan stopped walking. Mira could almost see it — the tension snapping between them like a wire pulled too tight.
"No."
The word came out too sharp, too final. Seyran blinked, confused.
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know what kind of people go to those parties," he said, voice low, protective but laced with panic. "I'm a guy, Seyran — I know what they're like."
Her expression hardened, the sweetness fading. She folded her arms.
"You can't decide that for me!" she said. "You're not my father!"
Ozan paused — then cracked the faintest grin, an echo of their old warmth.
"Oh, but I am your father," he said in a mock-serious tone.
Seyran gasped, wide-eyed, before bursting into laughter.
"Star Wars?" she said, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
The tension melted away, like the final note of a long-held symphony.
No matter how much we fought, Star Wars always brought us back together. Popcorn, Doctor Who, Sheldon's sarcasm — they were our peace treaties.
He dropped her at her dorm, watched her disappear inside, and smiled before walking back to his own.
Dear Diary,
It's past midnight. I can't sleep. My head feels like it's splitting open. So I went out to walk.
Mira's eyes followed the words, her breath shallower now.
Across the park, there's a house — lights flashing, music shaking the windows. Laughter, shouting, the smell of smoke and alcohol in the air. I wanted to yell, to make it stop. My head throbbed with every beat of the music.
The scene unfolded in her mind like a film — Ozan's figure in the dim parklight, the sounds of a party echoing through the fog.
Then I saw her.
Mira's pulse skipped.
Seyran. Running out of that house — stumbling, terrified, her hair loose, her shirt half-open — she looked just like she did when she was five. Helpless. Small.
Tears stung Mira's eyes.
And behind her — İskandar.
The writing turned chaotic, the ink darker, angrier.
I didn't think. I didn't need to. I stepped in front of her, shoved him back, and when he came at me — I hit him. Again. And again. Until the world went silent, and all I could hear was my breath. Seyran was shaking, crying, holding onto me like she'd fall apart if she let go.
Mira's hand flew to her mouth, her heart pounding in her chest.
I wanted to yell at her. To ask what she was doing there. To tell her, she scared me to death. But I couldn't. Not when she looked that broken.
She could see it — the quiet night air heavy around them, the two of them under the streetlight, his shirt smeared with dust, her mascara running down her face.
I took her back to the dorm. She didn't want to go inside alone, so I let her stay in my room. I slept on the floor.
The next line was smaller — the kind of whisper someone writes to themselves.
Professor Aydın says women are princesses. Never question them. They'll tell you everything when they're ready. So I won't ask her. Her secret is safe with me.
And below it, written faintly, almost invisible unless tilted against the light:
I trust her with my life. Even if she doesn't trust herself.
Mira closed the diary halfway, pressing her fingers to her lips, trembling. The air in the room had changed — thicker, heavier, as though the ghosts of Ozan and Seyran were standing right there with her.
She whispered into the silence,
"What did you do, Alden… where do you fit into this?"
Her voice cracked as she looked down at the open diary again.
"And who were you, Ozan Aydın?"
The lamp flickered once — and in its dim light, the ring between the pages gleamed again, a silent promise that the story was far from over.