This was the fourth time his words found me,
and I am glad - so quietly glad -
to let the year end in his hands.
I am not exiled,
yet I live far from Istanbul,
and distance has its own language of loss.
I am someone who lives away from home,
someone who fears their own voice,
their own tongue,
the moment of recognizing the self
and the slow, terrifying act
of becoming someone else.
I am tired of holding everything inside -
every day, every breath -
and still asking myself
to fight for a better life.
He carried Istanbul and Berlin
inside his own life,
inside that circle drawn by others.
He named it with such truth.
When he called Istanbul
a vast, unhappy cemetery,
something in me agreed -
I feel it each time I return,
like a quiet ache beneath the skin.
One day, I hope to meet him.
To place these books in his hands,
to ask for a signature,
and to speak - gently, briefly -
of the feelings we shared
without ever meeting,
the ones that recognized each other
in silence,
between the lines.