The room lay in half-light; only a thin strip of brightness slipped through the gap between the curtains, painting a strange pattern on the wall. Her morning did not begin with an alarm or a ray of sun. It began with movement — a small palm on her neck, warm breath, and contented snuffling.

— Ma-a-a… — Derin drawled without opening her eyes.

Bahar drifted slowly out of sleep. First she felt the blanket slide off her, and only then did the weight settle on her stomach. Derin’s leg, childishly unabashed and confident, rested on her belly. The girl nuzzled into her neck and breathed softly.

Bahar did not answer right away. Not because she was asleep, but because she was trying to hold on to that light state of waking. Any sudden movement at that moment meant the day would begin earlier than it should. That instant between sleep and wakefulness was the only time when she could simply be a mother.

— I’m here, — Bahar whispered, barely audible.

Derin shifted, made herself comfortable, and went still again. Bahar instinctively held her breath, afraid to scare away this sweet, fleeting moment. Their daughter was already two years old. Their little daughter, whom Evren so often carried into their bed.

She had not yet opened her eyes, but she had already sensed movement nearby. Evren woke at once. He gently touched Derin’s shoulder. Bahar barely had time to think — wait — before Derin was already in his arms.

— Shh, — he whispered, pulling his daughter close.

Derin muttered something in displeasure but did not cry. Evren left the bedroom and softly closed the door behind him. The door shut soundlessly, as if it had taken a piece of her soul with it, leaving only a cold emptiness behind.

Everything was too right. Bahar stayed lying in bed. She sighed, opened her eyes, and stared at the ceiling. Her stomach still held warmth, but the contact with her daughter was already gone.

She understood that Evren wanted her to sleep a little longer, and she knew that — but at the same time, he had not given her even a single second to simply be a mother. Not a doctor, not a coordinator, not a mentor, but just a mother who could hold her daughter and breathe in her scent.

Bahar sat up on the bed and ran her hand over her stomach, and only then did she stand. She had already taken a step toward the bathroom when her phone vibrated on the bedside table. She picked it up immediately, and time seemed to slow as her gaze slid over the lines of a message from her interns… no, no longer interns — young doctors who had passed their final exam and received their certification.

Ovarian cyst. Small size. Patient stable. We are thinking of operating today.

Bahar read the message, and nothing showed on her face. She was simply trying to grasp the meaning of what was written. A cyst, small size… maybe this was the very operation she could already let them handle on their own?

Bahar washed her face, gathered her hair into a bun, and looked at herself in the mirror. She understood perfectly that they had to learn to act independently. For a year now they had been operating under her supervision. She had to let them go. She must not enter the operating room if she wanted them to become real doctors.

This realization brought her no relief. Every muscle in her body resisted the decision, as if trying to hold her back. The phone vibrated again.

Can we do it ourselves?

She did not reply, only read the new message. She could not answer without studying all the data, without checking everything. Her thoughts spun like surgical instruments on a tray, and every touch of the situation demanded precise calculation.

Bahar put on her blazer. She felt a light sheen of sweat appear on her forehead, her breathing becoming shallow, the air in her lungs growing thinner, as if she were climbing a mountain without an oxygen mask. Her heart ached strangely in her chest. Between the desire to protect and the necessity to let go lay a chasm, and every step toward its edge came with pain. Her palms grew damp from the awareness of responsibility, pressing heavier than any burden. She left the bedroom, knowing she would inevitably run into Evren in the kitchen.

Every step down the corridor echoed dully in her chest with unresolved questions, and the silence seemed louder than any words. She understood that they would collide like two people who loved too fiercely, who held on too tightly and controlled too much… each in their own way… but they were a family, and yet this family had begun to weigh on her… to weigh on him…

The phone vibrated again in her pocket. She did not take it out. She was trying to come to terms with the thought — let them try. It was the right decision… probably the right one… and even the right decisions required air… and breathing was becoming harder and harder.

***

Rengin pulled back the curtains and flung the window open, letting fresh air in, and the kitchen flooded with morning light — but it did not become any cozier. Instead, a clarity settled in, the kind that was hard to hide from.

Serhat sat at the table. He leaned slightly forward, watching his son closely. Mehmet was studying his spoon with intense concentration, as if something important depended on it. Serhat followed every one of his movements.

— Don’t rush, — he said calmly.

Mehmet did not even pay attention to him; he frowned harder, as though he had discovered something valuable in the spoon.

Rengin took out her phone. She was already fully dressed. Impeccably neat, collected. Her movements were honed to automatism, as if she were performing a complex surgical operation. Her coffee was cooling on the table, but she did not sit down — she took sips on the move, never taking her eyes off the screen.

— Rengin, — Serhat said without turning toward her, — at least look at him.

— I am looking, — she answered at once. — I’m here.

An invisible thread of tension stretched between them, thin but strong, like surgical suture. Rengin really was in the kitchen. Physically present — but her finger slid across the screen. One message. Then another. The phone screen glowed in her hands like a beacon calling her to work, and she could not resist that call.

— You’re always on your phone, — Serhat said, without reproach, simply stating a fact.

— I’m the chief physician, — Rengin replied just as evenly. — Morning does not cancel responsibility.

Mehmet, like a small explorer, studied the world through the prism of his spoon, unaware of the storm raging beside him. Suddenly he dropped the spoon. It hit the floor with a soft but sharp sound. Serhat immediately leaned down, picked it up, wiped it with a napkin. He smiled at his son. Rengin tore herself away from the phone for a second.

— I could have done it myself, — she began, but did not finish.

— I already did, — Serhat replied, without looking at her.

They fell silent, and a quiet settled over the kitchen, but tension was already woven into it. Rengin finally sat down at the table, placed her phone beside her, screen up, and it immediately lit up. Work pulsed through her veins like a second heart, demanding attention, leaving no space for family.

— I talked to Parla last night, — Rengin said, not looking at Serhat. — We talked about the internship.

Rengin’s muscles were tense, as if she were preparing for an emergency operation rather than sitting at the kitchen table.

— What did you tell her? — Serhat asked, without taking his eyes off his son.

— Last night? — Rengin repeated.

— So you were working at night too, — he noted.

— And you didn’t sleep because of Mehmet, — she shot back. — We’re even.

— I just don’t want to miss anything, — Serhat said, looking at his son.

Rengin took a sip of the cooled coffee. Every careless word could become a scalpel, cutting into the thin tissue of their relationship.

— And I don’t want to lose what I’ve been building for years, — she sighed. — And that’s about family too, Serhat.

He nodded, pretending he understood, though at the same time he did not agree with her methods.

— Esra called yesterday, — he said after a short pause. — Said Aylin didn’t sleep well.

— Children sometimes don’t sleep, — Rengin reminded him. — That’s not a diagnosis, Serhat.

— For you everything is either a diagnosis or work, — he replied quietly.

Rengin tensed.

— And for you everything is total control, — she said. — You’re always nearby, Serhat. Sometimes too much.

Serhat finally looked at her. He looked for a long time, then shifted his gaze to his son.

— Someone has to be there, — he said, taking the spoon from his son and scooping up the porridge.

— And someone has to hold the system together, — despite their argument and disagreements, she smiled as she watched him feed their son.

They both fell silent. Rengin’s phone vibrated again, but this time she did not pick it up right away. She held the cup of cooled coffee in both hands, then, with a sigh, set it down on the table and finally took the phone.

Serhat said nothing. He simply slid Mehmet’s plate a little closer. They were both right in their own way — but it was precisely this righteousness that was slowly, yet inevitably, destroying what only yesterday had seemed unbreakable. Their love was not tearing at the seams. It was simply overloaded.

***

The cracks in their relationship, like fine lines in porcelain, were becoming more visible with each passing day, even though both of them kept pretending that everything was fine. And yet Bahar could no longer deny it. She felt it with every fiber of her being as she approached the kitchen, where everything looked so sweet, so ordinary — and at the same time, there was simply too much of everything.

Derin was standing on her high chair, holding on to the table with one hand while stubbornly reaching for a mug with the other. Evren was right beside her. He caught her before she had time to lose her balance.

— Careful, — he said and moved the mug a little farther away. — Hot, — he added in such a serious tone, as if their daughter could understand him.

— I can do it myself! — Derin protested.

— I know, — he replied, but did not move the mug back.

Bahar froze for a moment in the doorway, like a statue, watching the scene — one that should have warmed her heart, but instead only intensified her inner unease. Shuddering, she seemed to shake off the numbness, and only then did she step into the kitchen.

— Good morning, — she said.

Evren turned to her at once and locked his gaze onto her eyes.

— Make sure you eat! — he looked at her as if trying to read her thoughts.

His gaze pierced her like a scalpel, laying open every hidden wound and fear.

— I’ll manage, — Bahar waved it off, her fingers trembling as she reached for her daughter.

Derin immediately reached back toward her, but Evren gently intercepted her, protecting her from falling.

— Wait, — he asked, — she’s standing unsteadily.

Bahar flinched. Her hand froze in midair.

— I see that, — she tried to keep her voice calm.

He nodded as if agreeing with her, but still lifted Derin into his arms himself. Bahar turned away, inhaled, then exhaled.

— You could have just said it, — she said, gripping the back of the chair with both hands.

— I did, — he replied in surprise, shrugging. — Careful.

Evren set Derin down on the floor and straightened her T-shirt.

— She’s dressed too lightly, — he added. — It’s windy outside, — he frowned, glancing at the window.

— Evren, — Bahar turned to him, — this is the kitchen.

— Drafts, — he insisted stubbornly.

He reached for Bahar, intending to kiss her. She unintentionally turned her head just slightly — but enough for the kiss to miss her lips, sharp and painful like a razor blade. Evren clenched his teeth at once.

— Sorry, — she said, taking a cup from the table. — It’s hot.

He almost imperceptibly stepped half a pace back.

— You’re not eating again, — he muttered quietly, through clenched teeth.

— I’m not a patient, Evren, — Bahar replied too quickly. — Not yet.

He flinched but said nothing. Derin reached for the chair, and Evren immediately bent down and picked her up.

— I can do it myself, — Bahar said and took her daughter from his arms.

Their fingers touched for a second, and he released her at once.

— I just… — he began.

— I know, — she interrupted him. — You’re taking care of us.

She seated Derin, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and Derin wriggled away.

— Not like that, — Evren said automatically, catching her hand. — She doesn’t like it when —

Bahar looked up at him, and he fell silent mid-sentence.

— You don’t let me make mistakes, — she said, looking into his eyes. — And that means you don’t let me live, Evren, — she added quietly. — You make it so that I can’t spend time with my own daughter.

He froze.

— I’m afraid, — Evren breathed out. — Bahar, I’m just afraid I won’t manage. This is all new to me. You have no idea how scared I am, — he confessed.

The fear in his eyes was as deep as the chasm between them, and his words only made that chasm wider.

— And I’m afraid of disappearing, — she replied, standing up. — Here. Next to you. In this house, as if there’s no place for me in it.

Bahar suddenly felt herself dissolving within her own family, becoming invisible to the people she loved more than anything.

Derin suddenly laughed and clapped her hands on the table. Juice splashed out of the glass, leaving a yellow, uneven stain on the tablecloth. Evren and Bahar both reached for her at the same time — and stopped at the same time.

They looked into each other’s eyes. They were not arguing, not shouting. They felt an immense exhaustion, built up to its limit. Love was still there — but with each passing day, it was becoming harder and harder for it to breathe.

***

For a long time now, they had not had a truly quiet morning. Melek was sitting on the floor, surrounded by toys that had nothing in common with one another: a plush giraffe, a plastic stethoscope, half a puzzle, and something sticky that Cagla preferred not to examine too closely.

The chaos of a child’s morning contrasted sharply with Carter’s impeccable organization, as if two parallel universes had collided in the same room.

— That was a new rug, — Carter said, looking at the stain with a certain curiosity rather than reproach.

— It was white, — Cagla replied without lifting her head.

The white rug, once flawless, now preserved traces of a small exploration of the world, like a map of Melek’s discoveries.

With one hand, Cagla was trying to tie Melek’s hair; with the other, she held her phone, which kept threatening to slip out of her grasp.

— White is always a risk, — Carter remarked philosophically with a chuckle.

He was standing near the couch with a mug of coffee and a notebook. There were already some notes in it — short, neat ones, as if even his morning required structure.

— Are you writing everything down again? — Cagla asked.

— I’m not writing, — he smiled. — I’m documenting.

Melek wriggled free from Cagla’s hands and ran over to him.

— Daddy! — she reached out her arms.

Carter immediately set down the mug, put away the notebook, and crouched just in time. He caught her and spun her around. Melek laughed — loudly, raspily, the way only children who are allowed everything can laugh. He tossed her up and caught her.

— Careful, — Cagla said, automatically raising her hands.

— I’ve got her, — Carter replied calmly. — Don’t worry, I won’t drop her!

He really did have her. Confidently, easily, even laughing, he held her. Cagla watched them, then sighed and turned away. She crouched down and began picking up the scattered toys.

— Everything is going off plan today, — Carter said casually. — Melek needs to be picked up earlier, my conference was moved, and you…

— And I don’t even know what I have today at all, — she interrupted him. — Except that Melek woke up at five, fell asleep at seven, then woke up again and decided the day had already started.

— There, — Carter smiled. — That’s exactly the problem. You don’t have a plan.

— But you do, — Cagla looked at him. — You have an answer and a plan for everything!

— A plan is support, — Carter shrugged.

— For you, — she said. — For me, it’s suffocation.

Carter sat Melek down in her high chair and carefully wiped her hands.

— I just don’t like surprises, — he admitted. — In my work, surprises end badly.

— And in my life, you can’t live without them, — Cagla replied. — Melek is one big surprise.

At that moment, Melek dropped a puzzle piece from the table and clapped her hands happily. Carter sighed and smiled.

— I keep thinking, — he paused slightly, — that if I calculate everything in advance, I’ll be able to protect all of us.

— From life? — Cagla asked.

He looked at her very closely. Carter’s fear was written on his face in invisible ink that Cagla was only now learning to read.

— I just didn’t expect that it couldn’t be calculated, — he confessed.

Cagla stepped closer, touched his notebook, and closed it. His notebooks were full of plans, but only life knew how to write its story on a blank page.

— And I didn’t expect control to be so… polite, — she said. — And still so heavy.

Her life was like a puzzle without an assembly guide, while his existence had a clear structure that he followed.

— So we were both wrong in our forecasts, — Carter smiled.

Melek laughed, as if supporting him. Cagla picked her daughter up, Carter automatically reached out to help — and stopped himself. They looked at each other. They were living a life that stubbornly refused to fit into any calculation. A life that, like an uncontrollable current, crashed against the walls of their plans, leaving only the option to accept its unpredictability.

***

She needed to accept the fact that they had become doctors. Bahar was sitting at the table in her office, flipping through the medical chart. She studied it carefully, unhurriedly, without interrupting anyone. She involuntarily felt that every page of the chart held the patient’s breath, her fears, her hopes.

Yesterday’s interns — today already young doctors — stood nearby. They looked more confident than before, yet still watched her face closely, catching every microreaction. Her first interns, for whom she had become a mentor. Their confidence was fragile, like the first ice on the surface of a pond — it seemed that one touch would be enough for it to crack.

— The patient is twenty-nine years old, — one of them began. — Complaints are moderate. Pulling pain in the lower abdomen, without clear localization.

— For how long? — Bahar asked without lifting her head.

— About four months, but she… — he hesitated, — didn’t come in right away. Says she got used to it.

Bahar frowned slightly and nodded.

— She associated it with her cycle, — the second added. — Sometimes with her back, sometimes with her intestines. Nothing acute. No progression.

— Fainting? — Bahar уточнила, something clearly bothering her.

— No. No fever. Labs are normal, — he laid out the printouts in front of her. — Ultrasound: a mass in the projection of the right ovary. Up to six centimeters. Clear contours. No signs of invasion. Conclusion: functional cyst.

Bahar was silent, as if listening to the silence, which sometimes spoke louder than words. Every mention of symptoms sounded like a hammer striking the lid of the young doctors’ confidence. Bahar studied the image closely, as though reading a map of fate, ready to reveal all its secrets.

— The patient is young, — the young doctor continued, — of reproductive age. Complaints are typical. We decided to proceed as planned, according to protocol.

— Why not earlier? — Bahar asked. — Why today? Why now?

— There were no indications for urgency, — they answered all at once. — The pain was tolerable. She didn’t complain.

That was true — and that was the most dangerous part. Bahar set the images aside and crossed her arms over her chest. Anxiety stirred inside her like a snake in the grass — unseen, but dangerous. Bahar understood perfectly well that the clinical picture could be deceptive.

— This is a common clinical trap, — she said, trying not to reveal her concern, — when everything fits together too neatly.

The young doctors tensed, exchanged glances, as if she might not trust them with the operation.

— Not because you’re inattentive, — Bahar added, sweeping her gaze over them all. — But because this is how we’re wired. When the patient is young, the symptoms familiar, the ultrasound shows a cyst, our thinking switches off the alarm.

— But everything fits the clinical picture right now, — one of them said cautiously.

— Yes, — Bahar agreed. — It fits, — she tilted her head slightly and fell silent. — And still, — she added more quietly, — if at any moment it seems to you that something is wrong… not because you’re scared, but because something doesn’t match — you call me.

— Will you be present during the surgery? — they asked her.

Bahar exhaled and looked at them carefully. She looked at those to whom she was about to entrust a patient’s life.

— No, — she finally said. — It’s a planned operation. You’ll handle it yourselves.

She saw them straighten up, saw their eyes light up — how relief and fear appeared at the same time. Her decision not to be present at the surgery was like a jump off a cliff — terrifying, but necessary.

— I’m nearby, — she added more gently. — I’m in the hospital, but not in your operating room.

She stood up, closed the chart, turned off the tablet. Inside her, a brief, almost unformed doubt flickered. Not a thought. Not a conclusion. More a sensation — but she had to allow herself not to hold them back. Just like at home, with Evren. Her first interns had to learn to cope on their own. She handed them the chart and took a step back, allowing them to act on their own… to act like adults now, professionally…

Inside Bahar, the struggle between the desire to protect and the necessity to let go still continued — and she let them go. She let them go not because she was confident in their strength, but because she knew that only this way would they learn to fly.

They stood on the threshold of adult medicine, and Bahar understood that she had to allow them to take this step on their own, even if her heart was screaming with anxiety…

***

She tried to hide her anxiety. Gulchichek was rearranging containers in the drawer. She always did that when she was nervous — putting order into small things. She even smiled, despite her fingers trembling, because every container already held a story of their life together, a story she was trying to place neatly on its shelves.

— Are you saying you’ll go without lunch? — she asked without looking at Reha.

— It’s nothing, — Reha replied. — I’ll eat later.

— Later you’ll say your blood pressure dropped, — she snorted, — or that I failed to keep an eye on you again.

— You always know what I’m going to say, — Reha smiled and hugged her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

He held her tightly, as if afraid she might dissolve into thin air. Gulchichek closed the drawer and placed her hand over his.

— I’ll stop by to see you, — she nodded with a smile. — I’ll bring you lunch.

Reha lifted his head.

— Why? — he asked too quickly.

— Because you’re there, — Gulchichek replied. — Because you’re my husband.

Reha looked out the window.

— You haven’t been to the hospital in a long time, — he said casually. — Why today?

His expression changed; his embrace grew a little tighter.

— Why can’t I come today? — Gulchichek asked. — You said you have a long surgery.

— It’s just… there are a lot of new faces there now, — he released her and stepped aside. — A lot of new doctors, — he did not finish.

Gulchichek tapped her fingers on the table.

— What are you talking about right now? — she asked quietly, turning toward him.

— Nothing, — Reha waved it off, unable to hide how all the color had drained from his face. — I was just asking.

— No, — she said, looking into his eyes. — You weren’t asking. You were checking.

— Gulchichek, — Reha sighed, — I don’t want — — but again he did not finish.

— And I don’t want, — she interrupted him, — to feel tied to the house and just wait for you.

— Do you think, — Reha continued carefully, — that I’m afraid of doctors in white coats?

— I think, — she said, — that you’re afraid of being left alone while I’m alive.

— Maybe, — he admitted. — Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t want to wait.

Gulchichek looked into his eyes intently.

— And I don’t want to ask permission to bring you soup, — she stepped closer and took his hand.

Reha squeezed her fingers.

— Come, — he gave in. — But not for long, — he could not help asking.

— I’ll decide that, — she replied. — Not you. It’s not just you there. My Bahar is there, my granddaughter is there, my grandchildren are there, Reha. Your son is there.

He nodded slowly, realizing that the hospital truly held more family than just himself. It was agreement and, at the same time, a refusal. He watched as she took her bag.

— I’ll come closer to the evening, — she said. — Your surgery will be finished by then.

Reha did not answer. He only clenched his teeth more tightly. Gulchichek left the kitchen, feeling his gaze on her back — not accusing, not jealous, but begging her to stay home.

They had simply taken a step back, like people who had forgotten that it was possible to simply be together…

***

Bahar tried not to forget the promise she had made to herself… and yet her feet treacherously kept pulling her toward the operating wing. The corridor seemed to tighten around her, as if trying to stop her. Today it felt noisy, unusually alive.

Bahar was moving very quickly, scrolling through messages as she walked. She almost ran into him.

— Evren, — she said, lifting her eyes and grabbing his hand.

He was in regular clothes, holding a phone to his ear. He spoke briefly, to the point. Steadying her, he gestured for her to wait, then finished the call and hung up.

— You’re not in the operating room, — he said immediately, slipping the phone into his pocket.

It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact.

— No, — she answered, not letting go of his hand.

— Why? — he was still surprised.

— Because I decided not to be there, — Bahar sighed, involuntarily showing how hard this decision was for her. — They’ll manage.

Evren looked at her closely. Too closely.

— You’re not trying to control everything again, are you? — he asked cautiously.

His concern was so dense that she felt like she was suffocating in it, like under an overly warm wool blanket.

— And you’re trying to back me up again, — she smirked.

Evren was about to say something, but she interrupted him, squeezing his hand tighter.

— Wait. Where is Derin? — panic crept into her voice.

Evren blinked.

— I took care of her, — he tried to sound calm.

— How? — she asked too sharply. — If you’re here and she’s not with you — how? Where is our daughter, Evren?! — now Bahar wasn’t even trying to hide her panic.

— She’s safe, — he leaned slightly toward her. — Don’t try to control everything.

Bahar trembled slightly, her breathing turned shallow. She was trying to understand where he had taken their daughter.

— She’s my daughter, — she said quietly. — Ours.

— That’s exactly why I decided, — Evren replied, — so you could work, so I could.

— I didn’t ask for that, — she said. — You didn’t warn me!

— Was I supposed to? — he looked straight into her eyes. — You never ask, — Evren shot back. — You just pile everything onto yourself!

Bahar closed her eyes for a moment.

— We’re both afraid, Evren, — she said, opening them again. — Just in different ways.

He clenched his teeth.

— I’m afraid that if I stop backing you up, — he said, — everything will fall apart — our life, and you first of all!

— And I’m afraid, — she replied, as if not even hearing him, — that if you don’t stop acting like this, I’ll simply disappear.

Their fear of losing each other was so great that they were losing themselves. Evren’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen.

— I need to go, — he said, as if hiding behind the call, as if he didn’t want to argue anymore.

— Of course, — she nodded. — As always, you’re running away — and you still didn’t tell me where our daughter is! And most importantly, with whom!

Evren had already stepped aside but paused for a second. He wanted to touch her cheek — but didn’t make it. Bahar had already stepped back. They walked off in different directions…

For a while, Bahar even forgot that she had let her chicks go to perform their first independent operation…

***

Ismail was used to acting on his own, so much so that for a moment he missed the instant when Nevra stepped aside, trying not to get in his way.

She sat down by the window and picked up a cup. The tea had long gone cold, but she still took small sips — more out of habit than desire. Nevra held the cup with both hands.

Ismail was gathering documents. Calmly, without fuss, like someone who had known for many years what should lie where and in what order. Every movement of his was precise, measured.

— Are you leaving? — she asked with a sigh.

— Yes, just for a bit, — he replied. — Everything is calm at the hospital. I’ll be back quickly.

— When you say “calm,” — Nevra said without looking at him, — it means you’re more needed there than here.

He closed the folder without lifting his head.

— I just don’t want to interfere, — he answered.

— You’re not interfering, — she said. — You’re disappearing.

Ismail stopped and slowly turned toward her.

— Nevra, — weariness crept into his voice, — we agreed.

— We agreed not to argue, — she reminded him, — not to become strangers.

He looked at her closely. The way one looks at a difficult patient — without emotion, but with interest.

— I don’t know how to do it differently, — he admitted honestly.

— You leave, and I stay, — Nevra nodded, — and once again I become invisible.

Ismail stepped closer, but stopped at a distance, not touching her.

— I thought distance was respect, — he frowned slightly.

— Sometimes it’s just fear, — Nevra shrugged.

— I’ll be back soon, — he nodded, not arguing.

— You always say that, — she replied. — And you always come back.

Ismail took the folder and paused for a second by the door.

— Do you need anything? — he asked, frowning, not understanding her.

— No, — she said, shaking her head. — Not anymore.

Ismail left. Nevra stayed by the window. She was holding an already empty cup with both hands, trembling slightly…

***

No one was trembling, no one flinched. The operating room was calm — exactly as calm as it ever was before a scheduled surgery. No tension. No unnecessary words.

— Blood pressure is normal, — the anesthesiologist announced.

— Ready, — someone responded from behind.

The young doctors exchanged glances almost imperceptibly. Adult faces. Collected movements. They already knew how to hold themselves. Their first independent surgery without a mentor.

— So, — one of them said, pulling on his gloves, — a routine case.

— We’ll be done before lunch, — another replied. — If there are no surprises.

Someone gave a brief chuckle. The instruments were laid out perfectly. The light was ideal. The world seemed manageable, controllable.

— We’re starting, — said the tallest of them.

It was he who made the first incision — confident, precise. No tremor, no rush. For a while, everything went exactly as expected, exactly as described in the medical chart, exactly as the ultrasound had shown.

— Strange… — someone said quietly.

Too quietly for it to sound like alarm. More like a thought spoken aloud.

— What? — a note of unease crept into the voice.

— The position… — he hesitated, — it’s not quite right.

A brief pause settled over the operating room, but it felt dense, heavy.

— Possibly adhesions, — another suggested. — That happens.

They continued, but more cautiously now, moving slower.

— Wait, — said the one who had started, — look at this.

They all leaned closer. What they saw did not match the picture in their minds.

It wasn’t screaming. It wasn’t frightening. It simply wasn’t what it was supposed to be.

— This isn’t… — someone began, then fell silent.

The silence in the operating room changed, became almost tangible, the moment they understood that something had gone wrong. The instruments in their hands wavered.

— She… — someone tried again, but stopped short once more.

They looked at each other. One glance. Then another. No one knew who should speak first.

— It’s not in the ovary, — the tallest finally said.

He didn’t say it loudly. There was no certainty in his voice — only a statement of what he saw. The illusion of simplicity vanished instantly. Only one thing remained — the truth they were not ready for.

What was supposed to be a simple operation had turned into a battlefield with the unknown.

And outside the operating room, life went on as usual. Someone was drinking coffee. Someone was laughing in the corridor. But here, under the surgical lights, control had failed for the first time. And the responsibility they had taken on so easily that morning suddenly became heavy — real.

And Bahar, their mentor, was not there. She had forbidden herself to enter the operating room…

***

The house was too quiet. Daytime quiet — the kind that settled in when the children had finally fallen asleep and the adults had not yet gone to bed.

Mert was sleeping with his arms spread wide. Leyla’s breathing was uneven, with pauses — Siren had already gone in several times to check that everything was all right.

Uraz sat on the edge of the couch, still wearing his shoes. The phone in his hand had gone dark long ago. He stared at one spot, as if he were still at work.

— You can take your shoes off, — Siren said softly.

— In a minute, — he replied without moving.

She went into the kitchen, poured herself some water, but forgot to drink it. She came back and sat down across from him.

— You’re late today, — she said.

— I know, — Uraz nodded and fell silent, offering no explanation.

— Mert didn’t want to eat again, — Siren added. — He said he was tired.

Uraz nodded again.

— Leyla cried before bed, — Siren went on. — For no reason. Just like that.

— It’s their age, — Uraz sighed. — It’ll pass.

Siren looked at him more closely.

— And us? — she asked quietly.

Uraz did not answer right away, rubbing his face with his palms.

— Today I… — he began, then stopped. — Never mind, — he grimaced.

— You always do that, — Siren leaned back against the couch, — start and then stop.

— Because it’s always the same, — Uraz followed her example and closed his eyes. — Work, home. Work, home.

— This is our home, — Siren said without opening her eyes, — and I still feel like a guest here.

— I’m trying, — Uraz sighed. — I really am.

— I know, — she replied, — but we’re tired all the time.

Uraz wanted to move closer, but stayed where he was. As if the distance had already become familiar, as if there was no strength left to move.

— I made a mistake today, — he admitted suddenly. — At work.

— Seriously? — she opened her eyes at once.

— No, — Uraz shook his head. — Nothing critical. But before, I wouldn’t have made it.

— We push ourselves for a long time too, — Siren admitted. — Without stopping. And then we’re surprised when something goes wrong.

Uraz finally took off his shoes and placed them neatly beside the couch.

— Sometimes I don’t feel, — he confessed, — that you’re with me, even when you’re here.

— And sometimes I don’t feel, — she replied, — that you come back at all.

They fell silent again. A rustle came from the children’s room. Siren tensed, but the sound faded.

— The operation dragged on today, — Uraz said, as if remembering. — Longer than we planned.

— That happens, — she replied.

— Yeah, — he nodded. — Everyone gets tired. And then…, — he trailed off.

— Then mistakes are inevitable, — Siren finished for him.

— Are you still here? — Uraz looked into her eyes.

— Yes, — Siren nodded. — For now, yes.

It was not a promise. Just a fact. They sat in silence, not touching each other, but not leaving for separate rooms either…

***

The corridor was almost empty — the kind of moment when the hospital seemed to be holding its breath. Evren stood by the window, his shoulder resting against the wall. In his hands he held a paper cup of water he had not touched.

— You’re not in the operating room, — he heard Rengin’s voice behind him.

— I’m not supposed to be there, — Evren turned around.

— I know, — she nodded, — but you’re usually there anyway.

— Usually, — he agreed with a shrug.

Rengin stepped beside him and looked out the window as well.

— They’re holding on, — she said. — Too confidently for the first time.

— Is that bad? — he asked, frowning slightly.

— It’s dangerous, — she replied with a sigh, — but inevitable, — she fell silent, studying the outlines of the buildings. — You’re strange today, — she added. — Even for you.

Evren ran a hand through his hair.

— I’m watching time, — he admitted.

— I noticed, — Rengin replied. — You count faster than you live.

He did not even argue with her.

— I know I look… — he hesitated, — excessive.

— You look scared, — she said calmly.

Evren sighed heavily and, for the first time, did not try to defend himself.

— When you have a child, — he said, — you suddenly realize there is no longer a “right to make a mistake.”

— That’s an illusion, — Rengin snorted. — The right remains, it just becomes more expensive.

— Today I didn’t leave Derin with Bahar, — he confessed. — I decided myself.

— And that was the right decision, — Rengin said.

He looked at her in surprise.

— But not an honest one, — she added, — not with yourself, — she almost smiled.

Evren exhaled.

— I’m afraid, — he lowered his head, staring at the water in the cup. — If I stop backing her up… she’ll take everything on herself again. And disappear from sight. Like before… and everything in her life will repeat itself.

Rengin nodded. She understood what he meant; she did not even need to ask.

— And haven’t you thought, — she still asked, — that your control is also a way of disappearing? Just disguised as care.

Evren looked at her.

— You don’t let her take risks, — Rengin continued. — Which means you don’t let her be alive next to you.

— And if she breaks down? — he asked. — If she can’t handle it? If she gets sick again?

— Then you’ll be there, — Rengin replied. — Not ahead of her. Not behind her. Beside her.

He glanced toward the operating room doors.

— We can’t live like this anymore, — he sighed. — All of us. Me, her, us.

— Then, — Rengin turned and also looked at the operating room doors — she understood perfectly that he was simply standing guard, not allowing Bahar to lose control and enter the operating room, — you already understand that. All that’s left is to learn not to fix what was meant to be lived through.

Evren’s phone vibrated. He looked — there was a message from the operating room, but he did not open it.

— I don’t know how to let go, — Evren squeezed the paper cup slightly, almost crushing it.

— No one does, — she lightly touched his elbow, — that’s where the risk lies.

He nodded, pulled himself together, became a professor again — but something inside him no longer fit back into place so easily. The operation continued. The young doctors were learning. And Evren — a man accustomed to keeping control — remained, for the first time, suspended between fear and trust, between care and life…

***

Esra was rarely alone. She stood in the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror. Her gaze slid along the scar cutting across her chest. For more than two years now, a different heart had been beating inside her. The scar did not ache; it simply reminded her of that.

She absentmindedly traced it with her fingers, touched it as if checking its reality, and immediately pulled her hand away, as if burned.

— Are you ready? — Doruk asked from the other room.

— Almost, — she replied.

Esra put on a long-sleeved top, even though the apartment was warm and the bright June sun was shining outside the window. She hid her body, concealed the scar, and only then stepped out.

Aylin was sitting on the floor, putting together a construction set. The pieces refused to fit, and the girl snorted angrily.

Doruk crouched down beside her and helped. He simply guided her, without taking the pieces out of her hands.

— Try it like this, — he smiled and adjusted her hair.

Esra watched them from the bathroom doorway. Her family. She had never even thought that life would give her such a chance. A chance to live, a chance to see her girl grow up.

— You didn’t eat much, — Doruk looked at her very closely.

Unspoken worry for her was written in his eyes.

— I’m not hungry, — she answered too quickly.

— You always say that, — he noted. — And then…, — he sighed, not finishing.

He no longer recognized his cheerful Esra; over the past few days, it was as if she had been replaced.

— Doruk, — she asked softly, — please don’t.

He stood up and stepped closer. His hands trembled; he wanted to hug her and stopped himself.

— You have a check-up with Professor Evren today? — he asked.

— No, — she shook her head. — Just an exam. Routine. Ordinary.

Routine, ordinary — it sounded like a verdict. Aylin lifted her head and looked at her parents.

— Mom? — she reached out to her.

— Sunshine, — Esra smiled and crouched down. — I’ll just be gone for a little while.

Doruk noticed her hands tremble.

— I’ll go with you, — he said. — We’ll go together, and Aylin can see her grandfather while we’re at it.

— You don’t have to, — Esra looked up at him. — You’re already there all the time, and…

— I want to, — he interrupted her. — I just want to be near you.

— You look at me like this, — Esra looked away, — as if I’m lying under an IV again, unable to get up.

— I’m afraid, — Doruk lowered his gaze, his fingers curling into fists. — Every time you go to an appointment, I’m afraid I’ll hear that something has gone wrong.

— And I’m afraid, — Esra straightened Aylin’s blouse and stood up, — of becoming just a body again. Not a person. Not a mother. A patient.

Sensing the adults’ tension, Aylin grew quiet, gathering the construction pieces. Doruk stepped closer, gently took her hand, and she squeezed his fingers.

— You are not a patient, — he said firmly. — You’re alive, — he looked into her eyes. — Every day, every morning, you prove it. I see it.

— You look for symptoms, — a bitter smile touched her lips. — And I live as their aftermath.

Suddenly Aylin waved her hands and laughed, scattering the pieces of the construction set.

— It fell! — she exclaimed happily, clapping her hands.

Esra and Doruk both bent down at the same time — and stopped at the same time. Esra sighed and smiled.

— See? — she said, gesturing at the pile of pieces. — We’re always afraid we won’t manage, and Aylin breaks things easily and builds them again just as easily. We just need to learn that from children.

— We already failed once, — Doruk replied; he no longer understood himself.

He did not understand where all his lightness had gone… perhaps because the heavy burden of family responsibility had settled on his shoulders? And now he was responsible not only for himself, but for two women dear to him.

— Failed? — her hand touched her chest. — If we had failed, I wouldn’t be here with you now. We’re here now, — she added. — Together, — as if reminding him of it, pushing her own fear into the farthest corner.

Esra allowed herself to lean against him for a moment. Her body clearly remembered the fear, but life went on… and that was the most vulnerable realization of all, because no one knew when it would all end…

***

Bahar desperately wanted the surgery to end as soon as possible. She was sitting in the residents’ room, a place where she rarely stayed longer than five minutes.

On the table in front of her lay a tablet, a stack of patient charts, and a cup of tea she had not touched. The tablet screen was on, but she was not scrolling — just watching the lines refresh.

The surgery was still going on. She knew that even without notifications. Bahar stood up, walked to the window, and stopped. In the residents’ room, it felt as if time itself had frozen, while behind her the corridor seemed alive. She heard someone walk by, someone laugh, someone talk on the phone. The hospital was functioning as always. An ordinary day — but not for her.

Her phone vibrated. A message… but not from the operating room. Just a regular notification from one of the groups she was subscribed to. Bahar swiped it away without emotion. Her hand reached for the phone again on its own. She wanted to check whether she had missed something important. No. There were no alerts… the speaker was silent.

Bahar sat back down and folded her hands on her knees. She felt the tension rising, climbing up to her chest, reaching her throat, squeezing it tight.

— I can go in, — she thought.

It would be so simple. Stand up. Walk in. Wash her hands, put on sterile clothes. Take control back. Take over their first surgery.

She knew exactly where her first interns — now doctors — were standing. She knew how each of them held their instruments. She knew how they breathed. She could almost see it.

There were still no messages from the operating room. Bahar picked up the tablet and set it aside, then picked it up again, as if that could somehow bring it to life. It did not. No messages. No short work updates. Nothing. That was worse than bad news. She knew this rhythm. If everything was going perfectly, they wrote. If something went wrong, they wrote immediately. And if there was silence, it meant the process had gone beyond the familiar. Bahar exhaled — slowly, deliberately. She pressed a hand to her chest.

For some reason, the morning came to mind. Derin, whom he had carried out of the bedroom before she had time to hug her. Evren… somehow he had started deciding everything for her, anticipating her actions, as if stripping her of participation in their lives. His and Derin’s. Even today he had left Derin with someone, without telling her anything. She wanted to scream… but instead she clenched her teeth harder.

She wanted so badly to intervene, to make herself present, to do something — anything… but she did not move. She did not demand explanations from Evren, she did not interfere in the surgery… and yet she could not just sit there.

Bahar went to the sink and washed her hands. She washed them very carefully, as if before an operation. Her gaze lingered on the door, but she returned to the table and sat down, straightening her back — not because she wanted to look strong, but because she needed not to break.

— They have to live through this themselves, — she kept repeating to herself.

Not as an excuse, but as a choice she had made. Yes, inside there was no calm. Not a trace of certainty. Only endurance. She wanted to believe in those who today and tomorrow would save hundreds of lives.

— You’re waiting, — she heard behind her.

Bahar did not even flinch; she simply turned around. Serhat was standing in the doorway, a folder tucked under his arm. He was not in a hurry, did not come any closer.

— Yes, — she replied.

— They’re not calling you? — he asked.

She silently shook her head.

— That’s the hardest part, — Serhat said. — When they don’t call.

He came closer and sat down across from her, not invading her space.

— You know, — he continued, — if it were really bad, they would have already come running.

— I know, — Bahar replied. — And still…, — she did not finish.

Serhat nodded. He understood her without words.

— When Esra was in intensive care, — he went on quietly, — what scared me most was the silence. Not the machines. Not the verdicts. The silence, — he admitted.

Bahar closed her eyes, groaning inwardly.

— Because in silence, you control nothing, — he added.

— And I always controlled everything, — Bahar whispered. — I was always there.

She opened her eyes and looked at the tablet, then checked her phone. There were no messages.

— You can go in, — Serhat placed a patient chart on the table. — No one would say you did anything wrong.

— I know, — Bahar agreed.

— Then why don’t you go? — he asked.

Bahar took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

— Because if I go in now, — she said, — I will never come out again.

— That’s what responsibility is, — he looked at her very carefully. — Not when you hold on, but when you allow others to act on their own.

She closed and opened her eyes again. Sometimes reality did not match expectations… just as her fear could no longer be silenced by habitual action. Bahar glanced at the clock — the surgery had been going on longer than planned… and she was still sitting in the residents’ room, not even in her own office.

For the first time, she stayed where she was not because she could not help, but because she had, for the first time, chosen not to save. And it turned out to be the hardest decision she had made in a long time.

***

It turned out that the bench by the hospital was already occupied — someone was sitting there, as if it, too, refused to belong entirely to anyone.

Umay sat down on the other end. Pulling her legs up, she placed a folder on her knees, filled with printouts and sketches. She had come straight from class, carrying with her the smell of markers and coffee drunk on the go.

Yusuf came out of the hospital and noticed her immediately.

— Have you been here long? — he asked, coming closer.

— Long enough, — Umay replied, — to start thinking too much.

He sat down beside her and moved a little closer.

— Mom is still inside? — she asked.

— Yes, Dad too, — Yusuf nodded. — The surgery is taking longer than expected.

— I keep thinking, — Umay said, — that it’s in their blood. The ability to hold on when everything around them is burning.

— It’s not always an ability, — Yusuf replied with a shrug. — Sometimes it’s just an attempt not to fall.

Umay turned and looked at the hospital windows, behind whose glass it was impossible to guess what was happening.

— In digital modeling classes, — Umay began, turning back to Yusuf, — we create virtual bodies. Shapes. Spaces. Things that don’t exist yet, but definitely will.

— Sounds… almost safe, — Yusuf remarked with a shrug.

— Yes, — she agreed, — because if something goes wrong, you can always press “undo.”

— In real life and in the operating room, there’s no such button, — Yusuf sighed.

— Exactly, — Umay said. — And I keep thinking — what if I chose this field only because of that? Because I’m afraid of the real thing?

— You think I’m not afraid when I walk into an operating room? — he asked. — Every day. I just don’t have an “undo” option.

Umay looked at him very closely.

— Aren’t you afraid of becoming like them? — she asked quietly. — Like Mom, like Evren?

— I am, — Yusuf leaned back against the bench. — I’m afraid of living in constant tension. Afraid of realizing one day that there’s nothing left in my life except work.

Umay pressed the folder with her sketches to her chest.

— And I’m afraid, — she admitted, — that we’ll keep waiting forever for things to become safe.

Yusuf ran a hand over his leg, as if brushing off invisible dust.

— Right now we’re like interns, — he said. — Standing at a difficult point, afraid to make a move.

— Because one wrong move and you can ruin everything, — Umay replied.

— Or you might never even start, — he added, turning his head.

People walked out of the hospital. Someone was laughing, someone talking on the phone. Life around them went on.

— I don’t want to repeat their mistakes, my mother’s mistakes, — Yusuf said, staring into the distance, — but I’m afraid that by trying not to repeat them, we’ll just freeze, like we are now.

Umay placed the folder back on her knees.

— I’m tired of being careful, — she said. — I don’t want to live in preview mode.

Yusuf turned and looked at her. Then he carefully placed his palm next to hers, without touching.

— I don’t promise I’ll be brave, — he said, — but we have to do something.

— And I don’t promise I won’t be afraid, — she admitted with a smile. — I keep remembering how we were sitting in the living room, looking at the 3D model of a heart, — she whispered, — and now the world is one step away from — , — she stopped.

Umay looked into his eyes. Yusuf shifted his hand slightly. Their fingers touched.

— Do you want… — he began, but she touched his lips with her fingers, making him stop.

— I’m still thinking, and if I decide, I’ll have to leave, — Umay whispered, — to continue studying, to do research.

Yusuf smiled; his lips brushed against her fingers. He nodded, silently accepting her unspoken decision — one that had not even fully taken shape yet. There, on the bench by the hospital, two young people allowed themselves, for the first time, not to freeze. Without making a sudden move, but without pulling their hands away either, they chose to move forward — without repeating the path of their parents, who did not yet even know what their children were thinking…

***

Bahar had no idea what was happening in the operating room, and she snapped suddenly. Not after a signal. Not after a message. But after that oppressive silence.

She stood up abruptly, so sharply that the chair slid back, and started walking fast. At first she was just walking, then a little faster, and then she was almost running. The hem of her coat fluttered as she moved; she had already reached for the operating room door when she was stopped.

— Bahar, — Evren blocked her path.

He looked far too calm compared to what was raging inside her.

— Step aside, — Bahar asked, without raising her voice.

— They didn’t call you, — he replied.

— I know, — she looked straight into his eyes.

— Then why are you going? — he asked.

Bahar looked at him as if he had asked the most wrong question possible.

— Because I can’t wait anymore, — her voice trembled.

He stepped closer.

— You decided, — he reminded her. — You said yourself they would manage. You trained them very well. You promised.

— I didn’t promise you anything, — Bahar rubbed her temples with her hands. — I promised them.

— You always say that, — he said with familiar stubbornness, — when you’ve already decided.

— Are you tracking the time? — she leaned slightly toward him. — The messages? Who’s standing where?

— Yes, — Evren answered without hiding it, — because the surgery is taking longer than it should.

— Because they are learning, — Bahar said. — Because this is their step.

— And if it’s their mistake? — he asked. — Are you ready to take that on yourself?

— I always do, — her voice hardened.

— Exactly, — he smirked, though there was no malice in it. — You always keep yourself the right to step in at the last moment.

She moved closer.

— And you, — she said, — never leave me the right to make a mistake.

— This isn’t a mistake, Bahar, — he clenched his teeth. — This is a risk.

— This is life, — she shot back. — And you have no right to turn it into a sterile corridor.

— And you have no right, — he said quietly, — to pretend everything is under control when more than just patients are at stake.

— I decided to check, — Bahar replied too sharply. — That’s not the same thing.

Evren fell silent. He looked at her intently, as if reading her faster than she could catch herself.

— You still keep an exit for yourself, — he said quietly, without looking away. — Always.

— And you always close it for me in advance, — Bahar smirked, and this time her smirk was bitter.

— I don’t want you to take everything on yourself again, — Evren frowned, clenching his fists, barely holding himself back from hugging her.

— You don’t want, — she cut him off, — me to decide anything at all without you.

They fell silent, drilling into each other with their eyes, standing a step away from the operating room. Their fingers trembled, betraying their tension.

— Where is Derin? — Bahar suddenly asked too sharply, crossing her arms over her chest, as if shielding herself from him.

— She’s safe, — he replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. — I took care of her. He spoke calmly, and that calm made her want to scream, to shove him in the chest.

— How? — her voice dropped. — If you’re here and she’s not with you, then how did you take care of our daughter, Evren?

— You have to trust me, — Evren countered. — I didn’t steal your daughter. I’m her father. And your husband, — he reminded her. — And yes, I decided myself, because today that was safer for both of us.

Bahar exhaled slowly.

— She’s not with my mother, — she was breathing heavily, staring into his eyes.

— You called Gulchichek, — Evren nodded, as if he knew exactly what she would do.

— Derin isn’t with Cagla either, — Bahar continued.

Evren gave a short huff… he had managed, for a moment, to shift her focus.

— You didn’t even think to ask me, — she snapped. — You just decided I wouldn’t manage.

— I decided it was hard for you, — he sighed.

— That’s not the same thing, Evren, — now she really wanted to hit him.

— And you decided, — now he was angry too, — that you could take risks because at any moment you could walk in and fix everything.

— I’m a doctor, — her voice shook. — This is my job!

— You’re also a mother, — Evren leaned toward her. — And you are my wife, Bahar!

Bahar flinched, closed her eyes for a second, then opened them.

— You talk as if, — she began slowly, — if I make a mistake, the world will collapse.

— Because I’ve already seen it collapse, — he nodded. — And I don’t want to go back there.

They fell silent again, looking into each other’s eyes. People passed by them without stopping, while they stood a step away from the operating room, holding each other in place with nothing but their gaze.

— You don’t trust me, — her arms dropped, hanging limply at her sides; she said it as a statement of fact.

— That’s not true, — Evren stepped toward her.

— You trust me, — she continued, shaking her head, involuntarily stepping back, — only as long as I control everything, as long as I don’t take risks. But I don’t know how to live like that, — she admitted.

Evren wanted to argue, but found no words.

— You don’t give me the right to make a mistake, — she said, stepping back as she spoke. — And that means you don’t let me be alive next to you.

He stopped, shoved his hands into his pockets. For the first time, he was not ready to argue with her.

— Bahar, — he said after a long pause, — you’re always ready to go where you think you’re needed most. And you just leave us waiting.

She recoiled at his words. They struck her heart with pain.

— I’m not leaving, — she said. — I just don’t want to be held back by fear.

A signal from the operating room sounded — an ordinary work signal, nothing urgent.

They both turned toward it. Neither moved.

— We’re stuck, — Evren admitted. — Between holding on and trusting.

— And neither of us wants to let go first, — Bahar looked at his profile, at his stubbornly clenched lips.

They stood facing each other. Too close. Too far.

— I don’t know what’s right, — Bahar went on.

— Me neither, — Evren replied. — But I know one thing: it can’t go on like this.

Bahar looked at the operating room door, then at him. She stayed where she was. So did he. The surgery went on. Their conversation did not. The deadlock was not a shout. It became a silence in which it was no longer possible to pretend that everything was under control…

***

The small café near the hospital was very quiet. They came here not because they deliberately chose it — just out of habit, simply because it was convenient, close.

Parla stirred her coffee, even though the sugar had long since dissolved. Ekrem was looking out the window, where nothing in particular was happening.

— You’re late today, — Parla broke the silence first.

— I was at the site, — Ekrem shrugged, — then another meeting.

— You always have something going on, — she noted, without reproach.

— And you have a shift, then classes, then another shift, — Ekrem took a sip. — We’re very stable in that sense.

— Is that bad? — Parla tensed slightly, turning the cup in her hands.

— It’s… — Ekrem thought for a moment and then said just one word, — tight, — he absently took a napkin and began sketching something on it.

— Tight is when it’s bad, — she frowned. — And we’re good, — Parla looked at him.

— We’re calm, — Ekrem corrected her carefully. — That’s not always the same thing.

— Ekrem, — Parla set the cup aside, — I’m studying right now. It’s important for things to be simple. I don’t need extra conversations, — she admitted, and there was a note of desperation in her voice.

— And it’s important to me that we do have them, — he looked into her eyes, — because if we’re silent all the time, that’s also a decision.

Having said that, Ekrem fell silent and turned back to the window.

— Do you want to leave? — she asked directly.

— I want to understand, — Ekrem turned back to her, — where we’re going.

— We’re here, — Parla replied and placed her hand on the table next to his, without touching it. — Isn’t that enough?

— Do you really think that “as it is” can last forever? — he looked at her closely.

— I think, — Parla sighed, — that sometimes you shouldn’t destroy what is stable for now, what works.

— And if it only works because no one is moving? — Ekrem asked, tilting his head slightly.

— I can’t take risks right now, — Parla said more quietly, looking away. — Everything is already on the edge. Mom, Mehmet. Serhat. And Doruk with Esra and Aylin. Suddenly there are so many people, when I was used to it being just the two of us — and even then, Mom was always at work.

— And I can’t freeze, — he admitted, shifting his hand slightly closer. — I’ve only just started living. Everything interests me. There’s so much I want to see, to do.

They fell silent. At the neighboring table someone laughed. The barista dropped something. Life around them kept moving, kept going.

— You’re always wanting something from me, and sometimes I don’t even know what exactly you want, — Parla lowered her head. — And I want to not be pulled at, — her voice grew quieter.

— I’m not pulling, I’m not interfering, — Ekrem replied, leaning slightly toward her, as if trying to reach her. — I just don’t want to stitch it up and walk away, — she looked at him, and then he continued. — That’s what my dad says when they see an inoperable tumor. They just stitch it up, without touching anything.

— And if I’m not ready? — she asked, looking into his eyes.

— Then we’ll still have to talk about it, — Ekrem almost touched her fingers, but stopped, pulled his hand back from the table, — because not talking is also a choice.

Parla nodded. She really did feel good. Warm. Familiar. And that, suddenly, began to feel unsettling… even frightening. They didn’t argue. They didn’t finish the conversation. It simply became clear, for the first time, that there was no longer a way to walk away from it — just as there was no way to stitch it up and pretend that everything would somehow heal on its own…

***

— They should have closed already! — the outburst hit the corridor wall and bounced back as an echo.

It was quiet near the operating room. Two interns stood against the wall; a third sat on the windowsill, swinging his leg. They didn’t look at one another. From time to time, all of them turned their heads in the same direction — toward the doors behind which the surgery was still ongoing. Their fingers nervously worried the hems of their scrubs. With every passing minute, the silence grew heavier. Every glance at a watch felt like an eternity.

— It’s long, — someone finally said.

— Definitely not on schedule anymore, — another replied.

— Yeah. If it were on schedule, — the first nodded, — they’d already be out.

— There are good doctors in there, — the third said without lifting his head. — They’re not interns like us anymore.

— Of course, — the second responded. — They’ll manage for sure.

He said it as if ticking a box. That mattered to them. To those who would soon be performing the same kinds of operations on their own. Someone pulled out a phone, scrolled through the news, and immediately put it away.

— It’s just… — one began, then fell silent.

— It’s just that things can go differently, — another picked up. — Not always like in the textbook.

— In textbooks it’s always shorter, — the third remarked.

— If something were really wrong, — the first said, — they would’ve come out by now.

— Or called us, — added the second.

— Yeah, — the third nodded. — Of course.

They fell silent again. Rationalization was working. The words were right. The logic seemed flawless. And yet inside there remained a strange feeling — as if all the formulas added up, but the answer still came out wrong. No one said, “something is wrong,” but each of them thought it…

***

Sert had never imagined that his office would turn into a child’s space. Neat stacks of papers, nothing unnecessary, a desk like an operating table — only meant for decisions.

Derin was standing on his chair. Not sitting — standing, swaying slightly, holding onto the edge of the desk with one hand and reaching for the buttons of the internal phone with the other.

— No, no, — Sert said. — You can’t touch that.

Derin looked at him, kept reaching, and pressed the very first button.

— I can, — Derin replied confidently, unmistakably reminding him of someone.

The screen went dark. Sert froze.

— So… — he said, not sure to whom exactly. — That’s not how it’s done.

Derin tilted her head slightly, then smiled. Wide. Triumphant. As if she had achieved exactly what she wanted.

— Derin, — he said more sternly than he intended. — Sit down, please.

He even added the word please, which he used extremely rarely… Sert still did not understand how he had agreed to be a babysitter when Evren brought his daughter into his office, saying that this was the only place Bahar wouldn’t look for her.

Derin did not sit down. She climbed off the chair and ran around the desk.

— Stop, — Sert said, and immediately realized he had said the wrong thing. — Wait… Derin… no, you can’t go there…

She had already pulled the handle, opening the lower drawer.

— Those are documents, — he said, almost frightened. — They’re important.

— Important, — she suddenly repeated and pulled out a folder.

The papers spilled onto the floor. There was a knock on the door.

— May I? — someone’s head appeared in the doorway.

— One minute! — Sert said louder than usual, and the door closed very quickly.

Sert crouched down beside Derin, finding himself at her level for the first time.

— Listen, — he said, trying to sound calm, — let’s make a deal.

— Let’s, — she immediately agreed, looking at him with curiosity.

— You don’t touch… — he glanced around the office, — all of this.

— And you? — she asked bluntly.

Sert was caught off guard.

— And I… — he thought for a moment, — I’ll give you water. And… — he hesitated, — cookies.

Derin’s eyes lit up.

— Cookies! — she sat down on the floor at once.

Abruptly. Demonstratively. Sert exhaled. He poured the water, spilled some, wiped it with napkins, and handed her the glass. She took a sip, then another, and immediately spilled some water onto the floor.

— Oops, — she said and looked at him, checking his reaction.

Sert closed his eyes for a second.

— It’s okay, — he said, opening them. — That… happens. I’ll wipe it up now.

The phone on the desk vibrated. Then again. And again.

— Mr. Sert, we need a decision on the transfer, — a voice came from behind the door.

— In a moment, — he replied. — I’ll come out. Don’t come in, — Sert was sitting on the floor next to Derin, wiping up the puddle with a handkerchief.

He looked at Derin. She was already standing, examining his watch on his wrist.

— You can’t do that, — he reacted immediately.

— I can, — she said confidently.

Sert laughed. Briefly. Uncharacteristically. And then suddenly burst out laughing.

— You’re just like them, — he said quietly. — Both of them at once.

Still chuckling softly, Sert picked her up. He did it not very confidently, even a bit awkwardly. Derin wriggled and settled more comfortably, resting her head on his shoulder.

— Grandpa, — she suddenly said, pressing into his neck.

Sert froze. He did not correct her. Did not ask her to repeat it. He simply stood there, in the middle of his office.

Behind the door, they were waiting for his decisions. In the corridor — for his instructions and signature. And in his arms was a small miracle that could neither be planned nor controlled.

And for the first time in a long while, Sert understood: being a support did not mean doing something. Sometimes it meant simply holding on — even without knowing how — still holding on.

***

No one understood what they were supposed to do next. For several hours now they had simply been standing there, looking at what had revealed itself — at something that did not match their expectations.

It did not fit into any familiar framework. It had no boundaries you could simply “enter and exit.” The formation went deeper, spreading wide — not destroying, but displacing.

— The vessels run here, — one of them said, pointing, — very close.

— Very close, — another agreed.

The monitors kept working. The numbers were holding. For now.

— If we go deeper… — the second began.

— A massive risk of bleeding, — the other finished.

They looked at one another.

— If we close, — the third said, — we leave her without surgery.

The phrase hung in the air. Without judgment. Without intonation. Time passed. Not sharply.

Not dramatically. It simply passed.

— Pressure… — the anesthesiologist reminded them and fell silent, checking the numbers. — Stable for now.

For now.

Their inexperienced hands moved again — more carefully, more slowly. Not because they knew what to do, but because they were afraid to stop.

— We went the wrong way, — someone said very quietly.

— We can still… — another started.

— Still what? — the first interrupted.

There was no answer. Everyone understood: going deeper was an immediate risk. Closing was a delayed one. Standing still meant the risk was already happening.

— The vessels, — sighed the one who had made the first incision, — one wrong millimeter…, — he stopped, did not finish.

The monitor beeped slightly differently than before.

— Pressure is dropping, — the anesthesiologist’s voice no longer sounded reassuring.

The operating room fell silent. This was no longer working silence — it was waiting, anxious silence.

They were not bad doctors. None of them was stupid. They were simply too young for a decision like this.

— We have two options, — someone finally said it out loud.

He named neither of them. The pause stretched. One second. Another. Somewhere beyond the walls of the operating room, life went on. Someone laughed in the corridor. Somewhere a cart rattled. And here — between arteries and veins, between action and fear, between confidence and truth — young doctors froze.

And the question remained unanswered: take a step deeper, or admit that without another hand they could not manage… and let control finally collapse… every breath felt like the last…