Chapter Text
Fadime hates the morning silence, that stillness before anyone else has woken up. It feels so stupid. How can her body be this stupid? She exhausts herself, clinging to any task or small chore until late into the night, yet she keeps waking up at six AM, day after day, with nothing to do and no one to keep her company.
At any other time, she would have simply gotten up and gone to her brother, joining him in his morning routine. They would have met the sunrise in the pasture, standing side by side and sharing the calm of the hour, or stayed in the kitchen, sitting in comfortable silence while waiting for the others to wake. At any other time. But not now. Happy newlyweds, it seems, don’t do things like that, do they?
Fadime rests her elbows on the cold surface of the table and begins to twirl the cup between her fingers. The tea has long since gone cold, a thin film stretched over the top. She takes a sip out of habit, regrets it instantly, and pushes the cup aside with tired irritation.
A heavy sigh slips out on its own. She reaches for her phone, more to keep her hands busy than out of any genuine interest. No new messages, no missed calls. She pulls up the browser. The feed loads slowly, showing the weather, random articles, and news she has no intention of reading. She scrolls down, her focus drifting, until her gaze snags on a single line.
“How to Save a Marriage from Divorce: 7 Key Steps to Harmony.”
She snorts quietly, but there is no mirth in the slight upward curve of her lips.
Fate has a wretched sense of humor. But when has it ever been any different in her life?
She’s married to the nephew of her dad’s killer, while her own dad killed his father. Decades of blood feuds—where every step, every word, and every glance carries the echo of past grievances and old vows of vengeance—have woven into the present so tightly that it is impossible to tell where the past ends and her own life begins.
A stupid recommendation algorithm is far from the worst thing that has happened to her lately.
The realization hits that she’s been staring at the headline longer than she intended. Her teeth graze the inside of her cheek in an almost mechanical gesture, her finger hovering inches above the screen, as if afraid to touch.
It’s just ridiculous.
And yet, she taps it. She opens it in incognito mode simply because she feels so damn foolish. When did she become the kind of girl who reads love advice for the desperate? Really. As if they have anything real worth saving.
“Damn you, Lil’ Furtuna,” she mutters, scrolling down almost furiously, then immediately pressing the phone to the table as if trying to hide the glowing browser window from the empty kitchen.
Is the marriage worth saving?
This is the first question you need to ask yourself. Since this article is about saving a marriage and you are reading it, you probably still believe in the possibility of change and want to understand how to restore trust and harmony to your relationship...
Fadime rolls her eyes so hard it feels like she can almost see her own brain. Yet, against her better judgment, she reads on:
But sometimes a person decides to stay in a marriage out of old habits, the fear of being alone, because of children, or for the sake of the social status of being “married.” There can be many reasons. Do they relate to wanting to be with this person specifically? Do you feel that your partner makes your life better than it was before them?
Does the relationship enhance your personality? Healthy relationships give you wings; toxic ones cage you. Have you become more confident, calmer, braver? Or do you constantly have to adjust, hide your interests, or apologize for your feelings?
Do you see this person beside you in five, ten, or twenty years? Try not just to “think” about the future, but to imagine it in detail with this person. Be utterly honest with yourself when making your decision: would your life be happier and more peaceful apart from each other?
She rereads the last paragraphs several times. Again and again, until the letters start to blur into bright white patches. The conclusion she eventually reaches—the icy realization taking shape in the silence of the kitchen—seems to knock all the air out of her lungs.
For a moment, she feels absurdly close to a panic attack. Her heart hammers in her ears so loudly she barely notices the creak of the floorboards until the steps are right beside her. Oruç appears in the doorway, sleepy, in a rumpled shirt and with a tired expression. Suddenly, Fadime feels like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She inhales sharply, as if surfacing from a deep pool of icy water, and quickly locks her phone, tossing it onto the table as if it were burning.
If Oruç looks at her strangely, he doesn’t say anything.