Tabii, işte metninin İngilizceye mümkün olduğunca akıcı ve etkileyici bir çevirisi:
---
A woman's reflection in the mirror is never solely her own.
The same thing happens every night.
I approach the mirror abandoned in the corner of my room to see my reflection. But first, I see a mother I never had; my lips are silently hers, my eyes tired like hers.
On my eyelids, the wrinkles of a moment long past, when she had said something and regretted it, linger.
Then, my father, whom I have never seen…
My eyebrows frown like his, and he passes the same sentence through his mind as always: "The same face again?"
The bottom corner of the mirror is cracked, the edge sharp. That is where I see myself most truly. When I look through that broken corner, my eyes blur, my face distorts, and I cannot wake from the nightmare of seeing myself fully.
The smooth parts…
The parts that belong to society: made-up, neat, smiling with a fake grin, perfect… and above all, silenced.
The broken edge is the part of me whose voice has been muted from screaming but still breathes.
Sister Ayşe always said the mirror should be clean, because dust blocks the future.
But this morning, I decided not to clean it. Maybe I'm slightly afraid of the future…
And maybe, if the broken corner grows, I'll resemble you more.
You know, people search for their faces in mirrors.
I, however, can only search for my voice.
But the mirror does not speak; it only shows. And today, I refused to be shown.
Today, I will look at myself through the broken edge, because today, my incomplete image feels more real than a false wholeness.
I breathe… but do I really?
Does the air I draw into my lungs keep me alive, or is it slowly poisoning me? I do not know.
Tomorrow morning, I have decided to smash the mirror.
If I see myself shattered, will I feel more real, or will I still turn a blind eye to my powdered, disguised self?
But if my voice is to be heard, I want it to come from the shards, from the broken pieces of glass whose unity has ended.
And if no one will hear me again, at least I… I want to hear myself.
---
July 2005
That day, Taylan had left his room door slightly ajar. Laughter from the corridor seeped inside, echoing off the walls. His father's voice mixed with the unfamiliar laughter of a woman.
In his hands was an old, worn-edged photograph. The woman in the photo was smiling—his mother. Taylan had never heard her laugh; he only recognized her from this faded frame. His fingers traced the photo gently, as if touching it would make her appear before him.
Another voice came through the doorway. His father shouted. His words, sharp as shattered glass, tore through the silence of the room. Then the woman's voice answered, mocking in tone. A glass shattered. Taylan flinched.
He sat on the edge of the bed. If his mother were alive, this house would not be like this, he thought. Perhaps the kitchen would smell of soup, perhaps the hard lines on his father's face would soften. Perhaps the word "son" would be spoken for the first time with love.
But his mother was gone. His father remained… and every night, a different woman's perfume.
Taylan hid the photo under his pillow, covering his ears as if to silence all the noises entering through the door. His tiny shoulders shook, but he did not cry. In this house, crying only made the yelling worse.
Years passed. Taylan no longer hid the photo; every crease, every faded line in the worn paper deepened his longing. Yet the silence of those days still lived within him.
The sounds he had blocked as a child now echoed in his mind. Even a laugh could signal danger. When someone he trusted came too close, he instinctively stepped back, because anyone who approached could leave—just like his mother.
His father was still alive, but the word "father" never carried warmth for Taylan. For him, it lingered somewhere between fear and anger.
As he grew, he learned to be cold and distant toward people. As he had withheld tears as a child, he showed none as an adult. His fragility was buried so deep that no one could see it.
Yet still… on some nights, just before sleep, he imagined the smile from that old photograph. He imagined that smile whispering "goodnight" in a voice he had never heard. And in that moment, for the first time since childhood, he felt a brief, fleeting sense of trust deep in his heart.
Then morning came. And Taylan became the same man within the same walls once again.
---
Present Day
I was trying to make sense of what was in front of me. I strained to find meaning because the small baby photo—where a tiny child who resembled me, who was me—was completely out of place, yet had consumed my mind.
No matter how much I tried to reason, the only thing that remained beside me was nothing.
So I had to free myself from my thoughts and return to reality.
I realized I was still in the sickroom. The stale air burned my lungs like ash. I knew that by staying there, I was only heightening Taylan's curiosity. I wanted him to bring me down like before, then disappear from view. We couldn't spend three days together here.
Finally, I gathered myself and opened the door. There he was. Taylan Sarp Parskan, tall, towering over me, trying to understand what I was doing here. His muscles tensed, and five words left his lips:
"What are you doing in my grandfather's room?"
Grandfather's room? I wondered if his grandfather even lived here. And if this was his grandfather's room, why wasn't he here now? My mind raced with a thousand questions.
I closed the door behind me and, maintaining a calm tone, said, "I was looking for the bathroom. I must have entered the wrong room."
Did he believe me? He looked suspicious, but I had to make him. I didn't want him to notice I had been rifling through the drawers.
He took a step closer, not losing the skeptical expression, and grabbed my arm.
"What are you up to?"
No way, I thought. Was this man really that perceptive, or was I just making mistakes everywhere?
I said nothing, staring blankly. His breath brushed my face, the depth of his gaze burying me alive. I could find no words.
Finally, I muttered, "I'm not doing anything." He released my arm but grabbed my waist, pressing me against the wall. With his flushed, intense eyes and warm breath on my face, he said, "You can't take a single step without saying what's right, Liya. I'll ask again: what were you doing in my grandfather's room?"
"Curiosity," I said, unable to think of a better excuse.
Taylan sighed in exasperation, placing a hand on his forehead. "Did you think I was an idiot? That I'd just swallow this?" he said. I rolled my eyes.
Why was my entering that room such a big deal? Was there something to hide, or was I imagining it?
Then I realized there were only four fingers' distance between our faces. His warm breath brushed mine, and my gaze drifted—to a place I shouldn't. His lips. How could they be so full and so vivid? He expected a reply, but instead, I gave him something else:
A kiss.
I kissed him.
He expected only a sentence, and I gave him my lips.
He looked at me, bewildered, pupils wide with shock. I slid my lower lip between his. I wanted him to reciprocate so badly; I didn't know why, but I was physically drawn to him. He did not kiss me back. In fact, he leaned away, pushed me by the shoulders, whispering, "What do you think you're doing?"
He was right. What had I done? I was mortified. I wished the ground would swallow me whole. But it didn't.
Ashamed, I moved toward the stairs. I couldn't face him. I had kissed him—pushed my lips between his—because I was foolish. I was just a girl craving attention. Just for a sandwich he made, for sleeping next to him yesterday, I felt drawn to him. I'd always thought I fell in love with every man in my life. In the end, I was left with regret. I craved love because I had been deprived of it; I craved it because I had mistaken even the smallest attention for so much.
As I walked toward the stairs, I felt tears welling up. My loneliness, my regret for what I had done, would one day sit sharp like a knife on my heart. I was certain of it.
But then something happened. Something unexpected.
A hand gripped my arm.
Taylan Sarp Parskan…
He pulled me close, placing his hands on my waist, pressing me against him. Within a second, his lips met mine.
His warm breath hit my face.
He kissed me feverishly, and I, stunned, could not respond. He pressed me against the wall, leaving me trapped between him and the cold surface. He sucked my lower lip into his mouth.
Damn, he was good at this.
Finally, I reciprocated, and our lips devoured each other. His tongue entered my mouth, uninvited, and I welcomed him as though he belonged there. Our tongues tangled, and a moan escaped his lips.
Had I really affected him this much?
Was I really that good at kissing?
As we kissed endlessly, he pressed his hand to my waist, caressing me. The sensation made me desire him more. When he leaned further into me, I felt the hardness of his body against mine. In that moment, I knew he desired me as much as I desired him. A smile curled on my lips. Seeing my expression, his lips curved, and he whispered a word I would never forget:
"You're different."
"You're different…"
I don't know, maybe we kissed for thirty uninterrupted minutes. I lost track of time. Finally, I bit his lips, drawing blood. He liked it.
When I finally pulled away for air, he smiled, bringing his head close to mine: "If I'd known you were this good, we'd have done this sooner," he said.
I laughed. How much sooner could it have been? We'd only known each other for two days.
I placed my hands on his face, pulling his head into my hands for one last kiss. Pressing his head toward mine felt so good.
It was our first kiss, but I didn't want it to be the last—it was beautiful. Truly beautiful.
When we finally parted, I threw my arms around his shoulders. "When are you taking me home?" I asked.
This must have surprised him because he grabbed my waist again, pressing my back against the wall.
He flirted shamelessly, words spilling from his mouth: "Can't resist me, can you? Do you think you'll control yourself if you stay here with me?"
And he was really good at it.
I wasn't afraid I couldn't resist him. Honestly, I didn't want to. I wondered how good he was at other things, given how amazing he was at kissing.
Even as I pulled away, that ever-present smile never left his face.
As I moved toward the stairs, he grabbed my arm again and placed his hand on my chin. "But before you go, at least let's eat," he said.
This man was so eager to cook for me! But I liked it—being noticed, being cared for, it felt good. And every word he said drew me closer, as it always did. I wanted to tell him: Taylan, don't treat me like this; I'm easy to sway. But he was my enemy; I had never felt this close to any man I had tricked before. He seemed enchanted.
As I freed myself and descended the stairs, I saw a photo of a little boy on a table. Cute, but so sad. My heart sank.
I didn't know why he looked so unhappy, but having been a sad child myself, I understood.
I was about to ask Taylan, who followed me, "Who's this child?" but he answered before I could.
"Did you like even my childhood self?"
"Is that you?" I asked, astonished. The child looked like a light-haired version of him, while Taylan was always the dark-haired one.
He walked past me and said, "I was light-haired as a child. As I grew up, I became like this."
And I understood: Taylan, too, had parts of himself he couldn't show, things no one could see. And he feared someone discovering them.
How did I know? Because I was the same.
As the sunlight faded and it approached 9 PM, I sat in the huge, wide wooden hall, waiting for Taylan to cook for me. The thought that he was cooking because he thought of me delighted the little girl inside me; she craved attention, and now she could barely contain her happiness.
The kitchen smelled of meat—probably steak. And I had never gone to him to ask, "What are you doing?" because my mind was overflowing.
First of all, where was his grandfather? What had Taylan experienced? And my baby photo… They all pulled me into a deep well. So many things I didn't want to think about, yet had to.
After dinner, he was supposed to take me home, while he was going somewhere else, just as we had agreed. But I felt something strange in this house, and I didn't want to leave without figuring it out; there could be something useful, something I could use to threaten him. But I didn't know where to start.
Kissing him had completely confused me, and now I was paying the price. My reason could no longer resist the pull, and I had thrown myself into his arms. And if it happened again, I would do it again.
His voice made me stir, deep and commanding:
"Liya, come on, before it gets cold."
I went to him without hesitation, and the delicious smells from the kitchen filled my nose.
He had prepared a wonderful table.
So Taylan Sarp Parskan wasn't just handsome—he was also a talented chef!
While eating, I played a song on my phone. I liked listening to music while eating. The song I chose was Tamino - Indigo Night. I loved it; it gave me a sense of peace. And with its lyrics, I turned my attention toward him.
He pulled his chair closer to mine. "I didn't know your taste in music was this exquisite," he said.
Surprised, I looked at him. "You listen to Tamino?" I asked.
He grabbed my chair and drew me closer. "I even went to his concert," he said.
What was he trying to do? Was he going to kiss me again?
I guessed he would.
His face moved closer to mine, his lips brushed mine—but he didn't kiss me; he just pressed his nose against mine. I was startled; my nose itched. He noticed and laughed.
I laughed too, and his eyes lingered on my lips.
He brought his hand to my chin and furrowed his brows. "Your smile," he said, puzzled.
When I didn't respond, he continued, "It's very unusual."
When I looked at him as if I didn't understand and pushed his hand away from my face, he said, "What are you saying?"
And stepping back, he added, "Never mind."
We finished our meal, and I was fully satisfied.
We sat in the two armchairs by the fireplace, sipping the wine he had poured for us.
Breaking the silence, with a slightly displeased tone, he said, "After we finish this, I'll take you home."
I didn't want him to. I wanted to stay another day and investigate; I was certain there was something in this house. I needed to tell him that.
After he said it, I looked into his eyes and shook my head slightly, refusing. I couldn't leave just yet.
He must not have understood what I meant. When he fixed his gaze on me, he asked, "What do you mean, Liya? I don't understand."
"If you want to go, go. I'm staying here another day; I love the atmosphere," I said.
What a lie… the horse's lie, I thought, the fool who believes it.
He seemed surprised that I wanted to stay. He scratched his head and looked at me again. "No, you can't stay alone. This is the top of a mountain," he said. And he was right; I would have been scared, I couldn't stay. I hated mountains—but of course, he didn't know that.
"What do we do then?" I asked.
He stood up and came to me, towering above since I was seated. As he started speaking, he placed his hand on my chin again. Why did he keep doing that?
Looking at me, he said, "Then we'll stay here together tonight. Tomorrow evening, we'll leave, and I'll take you home," and I nodded slightly, as if agreeing. He laughed at my reaction. Why was he laughing? I guess it was time to stop searching for meaning.
After our conversation, he left somewhere. I didn't know where. I took my bag from the entrance and headed to the bathroom. My legs ached, probably bruised again. I never remembered why I got bruises. Even though I kept going to the hospital, my tests always came back fine, yet I still forgot.
When I reached the bathroom, I brushed my teeth first, then washed my face and removed the light makeup I had applied. I didn't know what to wear, so I decided to change here. Wearing a red satin nightgown, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought that I still looked beautiful, even at this hour.
When I left the bathroom, I heard the sound of fists hitting something in one of the rooms. Worried, I went toward the sound and opened the door to see Taylan. He was hitting a punching bag fiercely.
Does this guy box? I thought.
As soon as he noticed me, he turned around.
"Why are you avoiding my eyes? Do I look that sexy?" he asked.
Damn it… he did look sexy. Very much so. His sweat made his brown skin glisten. His muscular arms and chest… I definitely wanted to touch him. Usually, when I said something, he laughed, thinking I agreed. To lighten the mood, I said,
"You're so funny."
He looked into my eyes and grinned. He walked past me without even looking at me. Just,
"I'm taking a shower; you can go to bed. Don't wait for me," he said.
Annoying guy. I wasn't going to wait anyway. Just as I turned my back and headed to my room, he added mockingly,
"Red, huh…"
Red.
Entering the room, I noticed the bed was for two. Were we supposed to sleep here together? Was that what he meant by "don't wait for me"? Screw that, I'm not sleeping with him! Foolish Liya… you already slept with him, I scolded myself, recalling that night on the terrace.
I walked toward the bed. I would sleep here, and he could sleep on the floor. There were plenty of rooms in this house—he could sleep somewhere else, for all I cared.
Lifting the covers to get into bed, I noticed a note placed upside down on the pillow. When I picked it up and read it, the sentence tore through my mind like a storm:
"Find me."
---
Sometimes, I feel like I forget my own name… Liya.
It gets caught in my throat, stuck between my teeth, tasting foreign. When I say it aloud, it changes, warps.
There is a woman inside me—or maybe two, maybe three—but none of them have a face. Just shadows, climbing over each other as if competing to claim my body. Which one is me? Which one must I kill?
The mirror… there is something there, but it's not me. Sometimes my eyes seem not my own, and at the tips of my lashes hangs someone else's darkness. If I close my eyelids, will it stay there, or seep into me? A cold hand seems to comb my hair, preparing me for a journey whose destination I don't know. Yet the girl in the mirror still watches me; her smile is thin, blood trickling between her teeth.
I am not sleeping. The scent of sleeplessness hangs in the air, metallic. Rust tastes on my tongue. As I stare at the ceiling, I count my breaths, but somewhere the numbers get mixed, after seventeen, I don't know what comes next. Perhaps nothing comes. Each number weighs more heavily on my chest, as if my lungs were filling with stone.
Outside, people talk and laugh, but their voices are muffled. Inside the room, there is no wind; the window is shut, curtains heavy. I watch the light seeping under the door. What if I open it? Maybe I go outside, maybe I stay inside. Maybe there is nothing beyond the door, only a deeper darkness.
My body does not belong to me. My hands, my fingers… sometimes they move on their own. My jaw locks, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Sometimes I am terrified of my own voice, sometimes of silence. I don't know which is worse. A constant hum resides inside me—a whisper of someone calling my name, but I can never hear it clearly.
And in the midst of all this, suddenly, a calm descends. As if someone drowning had discovered the silence beneath the water… I don't want to be rescued.