Notes to Myself - Section 1: Introduction!

My high school desk mate, a girl with piercing eyes and an even sharper tongue, sat beside me—a storm cloud I couldn’t escape. I knew her too well: her soul was a knot of jealousy, festering quietly until it burst into desperate pleas. She coveted the valedictorian title, the crown I’d earned through sleepless nights and relentless effort. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she begged, weaving heart-wrenching tales of hardship that tugged at my conscience. Then I had a dream—so vivid, so unsettling, it left me staring at the ceiling until dawn. I made my choice: I’d give her the title, but with a catch.

She’d have to hand over the gift our teacher promised for the valedictorian—a keepsake she didn’t yet know the value of. Her eyes gleamed with ambition, oblivious to its worth, and she agreed without a second thought. Why this condition? Because she was a liar, her words a web spun to twist the truth. A treasure like that didn’t belong with someone who’d trade honor for glory.

That decision was a spark that set my life ablaze, propelling me beyond borders into a brand-new world.

She, however, paid a steeper price than she’d dreamed. Clinging to that empty victory, she squandered her university aspirations in her first year, only scraping into a local college four years later. The sob story about her father? A blatant lie, unraveled by her own recklessness. Her father, fed up with her compulsive deceit, had banned her from leaving their city. To the world, the title was hers, but I was the one who watched opportunities slip through my fingers.

Every summer, I called her, clinging to a flicker of hope that she’d change. But her voice grew bitter, her words dripping with venom. “I was the valedictorian, but you went to university! It’s all your fault!” she screamed one day, her accusation absurd yet heavy. My fault? Were her sacrifices, her lies, her scramble for a title to blame? Was she blameless while clawing at my seat, only for me to carve out a new one and be called guilty? The question hung unanswered, suspended in the air.

This first turning point in my life, shadowed by a toxic soul, carried me—if not in my dreams, then in reality—to the gates of Vienna.

A New World and an Odd Encounter

University was a whirlwind of new faces and unfamiliar rhythms. By the end of the first semester, my academic success had spread like wildfire among the Turkish students. They called it a triumph; I saw it as just another step forward. But something else caught my eye—something far stranger. The girls here were obsessed with marriage, especially to Turkish guys with Austrian passports. They’d swarm around them like moths to a flame. The guys, meanwhile, wielded their status like a weapon, basking in the attention. I tried to stay out of this game, but my inner observer—that damned curiosity—wouldn’t let me. :D

My encounter with Sinan unfolded across three distinct moments. The first came when Seyhan, the ultimate brown-noser, introduced us. Sinan extended his hand, but I didn’t take it. “Why?” he asked, his brows arching in surprise. “You’ll understand later,” I replied, my voice oddly certain. I knew this guy from somewhere, but where? I shouldn’t touch him—that much was clear. My instincts were my only guide. Perhaps it was a fragment of memory from the partial amnesia I’d suffered, a nudge to recognize Sinan again. I wasn’t sure, but my gut never lied.

The second, more defining moment involved Hatice. Time to meet Hatice…

Hatice was the kind who bought friends with coffee or flaunted her grandfather’s supposed spellbook to impress the girls. She always played the rich girl, but beneath that fake mask, she was miserable. Her friends came for her “gifts,” and she feared loneliness, masking it with ever more effort. She was also a racist—despising Black people, Kurds, anyone different. “You’re Kurdish, but you’re my friend,” she’d say, as if granting me a favor. As if she were some purebred Turk with the right to judge! Get a DNA test in Turkey, and you won’t find a single “pure” Turk. I didn’t care—or rather, I didn’t bother arguing. As an elder once said, “Don’t argue with the ignorant—I’ve never won.”

Hatice called herself my best friend. At first, she’d sidled up to me because Sümeyra told her, “She’s great in class, use her, be smart!” She was brazen enough to say this to my face. :D Then another motive emerged: getting close to a guy in our student association she had a crush on. Like two-faced Gülbin, she’d say, “I want to help him,” donning a mask of kindness to win his favor.

Hatice was always pining for someone. When I graduated and moved to Istanbul, she fell for someone I’d met there. While I tried to play matchmaker, her paranoia surfaced alongside her hopeless romanticism. Just because I’d met her crush by chance, despite knowing I was innocent, she spat venom over the phone: “Good thing they played tricks and cast spells on you—serves you right!” What? What was done to me? Before hanging up, I said my final words: “Don’t ever call me again, Hatice!” I doubt she’d have the gall. In a moment of weakness, she’d let slip the gossip spread by my jealous housemates, Melek and Ayşe.

I’d had enough of Hatice, who could barely pronounce the “S” in “software engineer.” Did she graduate? I don’t know—probably not. Maybe she got married or something. If she got a job, it’d be through some community connection. :D Communities flex their power by hiring the incompetent! Anyway.

Hatice was set to meet someone through an arranged match. We were in the computer lab for a class. The guy would show up, and she’d head to a café to meet him. Hatice left, and as I worked on my assignment, Sinan walked in with curly-haired Ayşegül. Ayşegül hugged a guy at the opposite table from behind, cooing, “Babe, is the assignment done?” Ayşegül had her boyfriends do her homework and wasn’t shy about flaunting it. Sinan stood behind me, watching the scene. You can feel someone standing behind you, right?

Kivircik Ayşegül’s boyfriend suddenly snapped, “What were you doing with him?” Kivircik Ayşegül looked shocked; she’d just learned they knew each other. Then he asked, “Is he more handsome, or am I?” and added, “Pick one.” Kivircik Ayşegül paused, glanced at Sinan, and hugged her boyfriend: “You, of course.” He smirked, “Then prove it. Come to my place.” If she wanted him to finish her assignment, she’d have to go to his apartment.

Kivircik Ayşegül whispered, “Don’t let him hear.” Her boyfriend scoffed, “He doesn’t understand anyway.” I thought they meant Sinan, assuming he was Austrian. Turns out, they were talking about me. What wouldn’t I understand? Whatever.

Right there, Sinan and this guy bickered over a woman, debating who she’d “go home with.” Kivircik Ayşegül chose the other guy—a grad student, a friend of Sinan’s brother—over Sinan. Sinan slumped into the seat at the table next to me, head down, looking defeated. He’d been compared and discarded. I felt bad for him—damn my empathy! :D Then Hatice returned.

Sinan was sitting between us. I turned to Hatice: “Hatice, you won’t believe what just happened!” and spilled the story. I still thought Sinan didn’t speak Turkish. “The guy’s really upset, look at him,” I said. Hatice grinned, “Why don’t you ask him out? That’ll cheer him up.” I shot back:

“I’ve never had a boyfriend, and now I’m supposed to ask out a foreigner? Even if he said yes, I wouldn’t even hold his hand! They expect all sorts of things before marriage—I can’t do that. What, meet him five times and then sleep with him? Don’t mess with me, Hatice!” I paused, then added, “But I’m calling him Yakışıklı from now on.”

He’d been humiliated, called less handsome, and I wanted to lift his spirits in my own way. :D Just then, Sinan, head still down, started chuckling. I thought he was crying!

That day ended there… To be continued in the next section.