The Bosphorus tonight was a painter's dream, a canvas splashed with the amber glow of streetlights that bleed into the dark, swirling water. It was a postcard perfect Istanbul evening, and frankly, it was wasted on me. I was perched on the hood of my black Opel, the cool metal a small comfort beneath my fidgeting hands. The worn paint was familiar, a silent testament to countless late-night drives and quiet contemplations. Tonight, the contemplation was anything but quiet. It was a screaming match inside my head.

I flipped the gold chain around my neck, the cool metal a grounding presence against my rising panic. This chain, a gift from my grandmother years ago, was one of the few things I had from my past. From before. I could almost smell her lavender perfume clinging to the metal, a small, warm memory in the chill autumn air. She always knew how to make the ordinary feel like magic. I just hoped I can manage to be ordinary tonight.

Tonight felt monumental. Tonight, I was supposed to tell her. After years of silent pining, years of carefully orchestrated coolness, tonight I was supposed to spill my damn guts. Moda Sahili, midye dolma from our favorite street vendor, a line from that stupid love song I wrote... It all seemed so perfect in my head. Smooth. Romantic. Me.

But the closer the time got, the more I felt like that kid again, the one who hid in the back of the classroom sketching instead of paying attention, the one who couldn't find the words to express the hurricane of emotions raging inside. The kid who lost everything, and built walls so high no one could see in.

I could hear the rumble of the approaching tram, the faint scent of roasting chestnuts wafting from a nearby vendor. The air was thick with the sounds and smells of Istanbul, and for a brief moment, distraction flickered in my chest. It was a selfish desire to just be, to not be anything other than me, sitting on my car.

Then, I saw her.

She was a vibrant splash of color against the muted backdrop of the evening, a shock of fiery slightly messy hair framed by a big, red scarf. She was grinning, waving like she didn't hold the universe in her small hands, like she hadn't been slowly, inexorably, dismantling every wall I've ever built. My heart flipped. My palms sweat. And every single word I rehearsed vanished, swallowed by the rising tide of my own damn fear.

Duman, I chided myself. You're a performer, you kill it on stage every night, but you are struggling with this?

She's getting closer, her laughter, a familiar melody, carrying on the breeze. She didn't have a clue what's about to go down.

She stopped in front of me, her eyes sparkling with excitement, opened her mouth to say something and I, in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation, blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.

"So, like… um…" I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice in the sudden dryness. "Hypothetically… if someone, not me, but someone… like, a dude with earrings and a really great jawline—not that I’m talking about myself—was into someone… would that person freak out?"