DO NOT COPY

He first saw you in the airport café. Not the type of place you fall in love—too much noise, too many passing faces. But you weren’t passing. You were still. Head down, hoodie on, coffee untouched. Like you were trying to disappear in plain sight. He didn’t know why he looked twice. Maybe because you didn’t look like you belonged in a place built for people going somewhere. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but here. He sat two tables away. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even stare. Just noticed you. And that was the beginning.

You missed your flight. He was delayed. You were pacing by the window, silently cursing the world beneath your breath. Evren—pilot cap in hand, jacket slung over one shoulder—noticed you from across the gate. Most people panic when flights get delayed. You just folded in on yourself, like the world had failed you again. And for some reason, he couldn’t ignore that. He offered you his seat. You refused. He smiled anyway. Didn’t push. Later, you shared the same elevator down to the terminal café. He made a dumb joke about coffee being jet fuel for the soul. You didn’t laugh. But you looked up. That was enough.

Slowly. Like flying through fog—you don’t speed into something you can’t see the end of. You glide. You wait. You trust your instincts. You were guarded. Didn’t trust easily. Didn’t give away pieces of yourself for free. And he never asked you to. He’d text you, knowing you wouldn’t reply for hours. He’d wait outside your apartment, just to hand you a bag of your favorite food—no pressure, no expectations. He’d sit on the phone with you in silence, just so you knew someone was still on the line.

He learned your language—not the one you spoke, but the way you flinched when people got too kind, the way you shut down when things got too soft, the way you said,“I’m fine” like it was armor. He knew you hated liars. So he never lied. Not even to make you feel better. He’d rather be honest and hated than pretend and lose your trust. He became your consistency. Your “one person who never walked away.” You didn’t know how to accept love that didn’t come with pain. So he gave you love that asked for nothing in return. Not to fix you. Not to change you. Just to see you—clearly. Entirely.

He memorized the way you changed the subject when things got too tender. How you’d flinch at kindness like it had teeth. How you’d apologize for existing on your hard days—and mean it. And he never let you. “You’re allowed to be heavy,” he told you once. “I was made to carry things like you.” He didn’t love you with fireworks. He loved you with consistency. With patience. With arms that didn’t let go, even when you said you didn’t deserve to be held. And the first time you cried in front of him—really cried—you tried to hide your face. But he cupped your cheek. Kissed your tear. You didn’t say I love you. But he heard it when you called on nights you couldn’t sleep. When you made space for him in your silence. When you let him see you tired, broken, unsure—and didn’t apologize. He learned your rhythm. He didn’t flinch when you pushed him away.

Instead, he stayed. He loved you with quiet mornings. With steady hands. With soft glances that said, You don’t have to be perfect to be wanted. He showed you what it meant to be chosen— not for how you smiled, or how you looked when you were okay—but for how you survived, even when you weren’t. The night you let him in—it was raining. You called in the middle of the night. No words. Just breathing. He said, “Do you want me to come over?” You didn’t answer. He came. anyway. You opened the door in your hoodie, mascara smudged, hands shaking. He didn’t ask questions.

He just held you. And for the first time, you held him back. “I’m not easy to love,” you whispered. “Then I’ll love you slowly,” he answered. “What if I break you?” “You won’t. I’m not afraid of your dark.” And in that moment, he knew— You weren’t the girl who hated love. You were the girl who had never been loved right. Until now.