Originally written in 2010, this is a translated version of one of my early short stories. I revisited it fifteen years later, preserving its raw tone and dreamlike atmosphere.
It was raining.
The streets were dark and empty, as if people had abandoned the city.
I was walking—unbothered by the rain soaking me through.
I looked as if I were deep in thought, but in truth, I was thinking of nothing at all.
The night was gloomy.
From across the street, a figure emerged—shadowy, human-shaped, almost eerie.
To shield herself from the rain, she had pulled something over her head, covering her face.
She removed it.
And there it was—her face.
It was her.
The one from my dreams.
The girl I always reached for but never quite reached.
She looked at me.
The rain and darkness blurred her face, but she looked…
She looked, and she called out to me—just like in my dreams.
“Ali… Ali… Ali…”
Her voice grew louder, more piercing.
It felt like it was echoing from the depths of the city’s streets.
“Ali… Ali… Ali…”
Suddenly, I opened my eyes.
It was my mother—calling out, with that unbearable tone she always had when trying to wake me.
I woke up.
She said, “Get up, come have breakfast.”
“Mom… Mom… How many times have I told you not to wake me just to eat?”
Do we eat because we’re hungry?
Or are we just programmed, like robots, to wake up and eat?
As I tried to shake off the dream’s effect, I began to forget it—within seconds.
I turned to my right.
Reached out for my phone—maybe someone had called.
But it wasn’t there.
It was always on my bedside table.
I looked around.
And in looking, I delayed noticing myself.
I looked at my hands. They were tiny.
My clothes felt different.
I turned my face to the walls—what had happened to our house?
As I pulled away from the dream, I slowly tried to make sense of it.
And then I understood.
I was in the village.
I had woken up in our old mudbrick house.
I was small—a child again, just about to start fourth grade.
As I realized that what I thought was real was false, I began to forget most things.
I looked outside.
It felt like a silent film.
I saw that my biggest wish had come true.
I had always dreamed of waking up one day, still in fourth grade.
And it had happened.
“It was all a dream,” I told myself, joy bubbling quietly inside me.
But then—an emotion struck, one that instantly crushed my happiness.
Where had all those years gone?
Yes, I had escaped the bad memories, the painful moments—
but I had also lived through beautiful ones.
That thought balanced out my joy.
There were so many people who had entered my life.
What about middle school? High school? University?
What about the teachers? The friends?
The moments I cherished?
The English I had learned?
My ability to use a computer?
Fenerbahçe was there…
There were beautiful things I had seen.
New albums.
A band called Redd—where had it gone?
And the internet?
What about my Flash projects?
As I drifted between these contradictions, reality itself felt like a silent film…
And yet—despite everything—I sensed something wasn’t right.
Had it all really been a lie?
Why was everything I saw in black and white?
Why did people move as if in slow motion?
Then—I heard someone knocking at the door.
Knocking—growing louder, more insistent…
I recognized that feeling.
I had felt it before.
It was growing… and becoming unbearable.
Just as I moved toward the door—
I opened my eyes.
In my tiny room, under London’s predictably gray sky, I had left the window slightly open.
My computer was still on.
And yes—the knocking continued.
It was my older brother.
He was waking me for breakfast—again.
What is it with these breakfasts?
I said “Okay,” closed the door, and lay back in bed, thinking…
We complain so much about our lives.
We long for the past.
We imagine waking up one day and undoing everything we’ve lived—
wishing we could skip all the pain.
But in that moment, I realized—
those thoughts are wasted.
In life, people go through all kinds of experiences.
Some of them are bad.
But if you go back…
what happens to the good memories?
And so I thought—
“There’s no point in grieving over things that can’t be undone.”
Thank you.
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