You were living in an apartment about seven kilometers away from the city center, a 25-square-meter flat; one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. It was enough, especially for someone like you, who could adapt easily. If you had to live in a wormhole, the first thing you'd probably say would be, "Okay, when do I move in?" if I know you well enough, of course. The edges of the contrasting-colored sofa sets were worn, the springs creaked, but I think you didn't care because you'd fall asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. When something crossed your mind, you'd clench your fist and rest it on your chin, your elbow on your knee—just like the "thinking man" statue I saw on TV the other day. If you were even more excited, you'd jump up from the couch, which had taken on the shape of your body from lying down, and walk with all your might, stomping on the wooden floors that, for some reason, I wondered how they were still intact, as if they were already coming loose. Afterward, the middle-aged cleaning lady downstairs would hit the spots you'd stepped on with the handle of her mop, and after a few shouts, you’d stop walking, and she'd naturally stop hitting. You didn't have curtains on your windows, and the view from your apartment was just like the slum you were living in. Strangely, though the neighbor across from you had curtains, you never saw them closed. "She probably doesn't hang them so she doesn't make me feel bad," you'd smile and say. An old man, about sixty years old, lived there; he would drink his coffee in the mornings and read expired newspapers. Occasionally, you'd run into him, and you'd chat for a few minutes. "Cengiz, have I told you before...?" he'd start a sentence, repeating stories he’d surely told you before, and you'd always reply, "Kubilay uncle, my name isn't Cengiz, my name is..." and so on. After finishing his story, Kubilay uncle would quickly walk to the living room, and you learned that the real reason he did this at the end of every conversation was that he didn’t like "goodbyes" and how they made him feel.
I always forget your name; sometimes I laugh at myself. I could describe exactly how you smile, though. At first, your lips curl slightly, and reflexively, you bring your right arm close to your left elbow. If you’ve heard something funny enough to laugh, you’d lower your head and hide your mouth while laughing; it’s like you try to hide those moments when you think you look vulnerable. You’re allergic to cinnamon, and as soon as you smell it, you go into a coughing fit. Sometimes, you laugh at places where you're not supposed to, and other times, you struggle not to cry when listening to things others find funny. I don’t know if you remember, but when you first drew me, I told you that I looked like someone who had never had a family and had just been beamed into this world, like I didn’t belong here. I felt like if I closed my eyes for a second, you would disappear, or I’d see someone I’ve never met in your place. I still don’t know your name. I’ve remembered you since I was born; my first love, my first friend, my family, and my source of shame, which I don’t want to remember how it changed. When you started drawing me, every day, you would stop in front of me and talk to me for a while; strangely, you never heard my answers. I now think you did it on purpose—what kind of man could be deaf to my screams but be startled by the sound of footsteps from upstairs? You’d leave the house however you wanted, and sometimes you wouldn't come back for days. Occasionally, you’d come back with a different girl each time, as if you wanted to punish me. You’d sit across from me, and as the conversation went on, you’d move your hands first over your arms, then your hair, looking into my eyes. Oh, those naïve girls, how special they thought they were. "Get out of here!" I would yell, "Get out of here without stealing your voices!"
I don’t know how you turned things in your favor outside, but none of them came back more than twice. "Did you get dumped again?" I would ask with a smile mixed with pain, and you wouldn’t answer. Relentlessly, I gave you many names to address you with; I wonder why I don’t remember the right one? I remember you used a lot of golden and yellow in your drawings, with black, brown, and a bit of orange in the background; you mixed turquoise and pistachio green in my eyes, and painted my lips peach pink. Was I an old lover to you, an ideal, an unreachable dream, or just a simple friend to suppress your loneliness? If I was just a simple friend, then why were the people you brought always like my colors?
I’m starting to understand the reason now, and as every falsehood seeps from you, I reflect my shame onto your canvas. That’s why you don’t talk to me anymore—finally, you’ve started seeing my thoughts, because you never wanted a woman with opinions. You hate women who have their own dreams and talents, women who have lives separate from you. I used to wish I was created for a greater purpose: to be a creation so weak and silenced that a man could feel superior to everyone else. That was my source of shame, and I can’t live with it anymore.
When you wake up, you’ll see a picture in front of you, one without a soul—just like all the other pictures.
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