Harfan Maula ✓

3.3 • So Did Their Fates

Burak was watching some Turkish drama when the doorbell rang. He moved to open the main door and as it opened, he saw her. Zerah.

“Hi, I came to return this.” She was holding the container.

“Oh, thanks.” He took it from her, “Please, come inside.”

“No, I just came to give that.” She was about to leave.

“Oh, please, it's not every day you get a chance to host a gorgeous lady. Please, come in.”He moved aside, inviting her inside.

Zerah wanted to leave, but she entered the apartment. His smile was something she couldn't resist. It gave her the warmth, the affection she yearned for all these years.

Burak's smile widened and he quickly went to the kitchen to make some Turkish tea for his guest.

“Tell me something about yourself, Zerah.” He spoke from the kitchen, leaning against the shelf.

Zerah was hesitating. And he saw that on her face so he begin himself, “Alright, let's start with my introduction. Merhaba, I am Burak Sarsalimaz. A psychiatrist by profession. As you must know by now, my cooking sucks. Yet I keep torturing my family, friends and neighbours with my food. About family, my father is a neurosurgeon and is happily living with his second wife and kids. My mother died of depression like ten years ago.”He rambled while putting ingredients into the boiling liquid.

“Died with depression?” That's what caught her attention. Depression isn't deadly, I mean, mentally yes, but not physically.

“Suicide. She had a mental condition. But she was a wonderful mother before all that began.” He wasn't sad at all. As if it was very normal for him to talk about his mother's suicide.

“Is that why you chose to study psychology?” The psychiatrist inside her asked.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Why are you so comfortable telling me about all of it?”

“I am just like that. You are not the first person to be surprised. I am like an open book. I talk about my traumas as if I am talking about the puppy I never had.”He chuckled at the end.

“I am a Pakistani. My father died when I was a year or so. My mother had to marry her cousin. My stepfather was not very fond of me. He wanted me far away from his family. Luckily I got a scholarship to a Turkish university and I came here. I studied criminal psychology and fell in love with a guy. But he left for some good reasons. I went back, my stepfather got me married to a stranger who turns out to be an abusive husband. A few weeks ago, he was murdered.”

And it was all silent.

She said it all, skipping Ayaz's part, of course.

“So you studied criminal psychology?” Burak picked up a light-hearted conversation.

She nodded.

“Are you gonna pursue your career in that field?” He asked because he doubted that a person with an abusive past would look forward to pursuing a field associated with crime and criminals.

“No. That would be too depressing for me. I may also end up dying with depression.” She smiled sadly, rephrasing the words he used for his mother's suicide.

“So what other career plans do you have?”

“A bakery.”

“Means lots and lots of cakes, pancakes, and pastries. That's heaven for me.”Burak exclaimed.

“It's yet to happen, Burak.”

“My name sounds so sweet from your mouth. Oh, you are a baker-to-be. Of course, it will sound sweet.”He joked.