Day by day, I slowly began creating my own routine.
I started cooking for myself because I still wasn't familiar with the food here. The smells, the spices, the flavors — they were all different from what I grew up with. So I found comfort in simple meals I could recognize. Cutting vegetables, stirring pots, tasting something that felt closer to home — it gave me a small sense of control in a place that still felt unpredictable.
At the same time, I was trying to open up more to my countrymates.
Usually, I have a big wall in front of me.
Not a visible one — but an emotional one.
If someone wants to get close to me, they have to climb it, break it, or patiently wait outside it. I don't let people in easily. I observe. I protect myself. I stay guarded.
But this time, something felt different.
Maybe it was the loneliness of being in a foreign country.
Maybe it was the quiet understanding in their eyes.
Or maybe… I was just tired of being alone inside my own walls.
So I decided to take that wall down myself.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I began sharing small things about myself — my memories, my habits, my fears. I laughed more. I stayed longer in conversations. I let them see the real me, not just the quiet version.
Because this time, I didn't just want acquaintances.
I wanted real friends.
And maybe, just maybe, growing up in a new country also meant growing out of old defenses.
Before our classes officially started, we had one whole month to settle in.
A month to open bank accounts.
A month to complete visa procedures.
A month to explore the city we would now call home.
So we decided to do everything together.
It felt safer that way.
Responsible tasks during the day — banks, paperwork, official buildings.
And in between, small adventures — visiting famous places around the city, taking photos, trying to understand our new surroundings.
One day, while traveling by metro, something happened that I will never forget.
I was talking to my mom on the phone.
Speaking in my own language.
Laughing. Explaining things. Updating her about my day.
And suddenly… I noticed it.
People were staring at me.
Not just one or two.
Several.
Their eyes fixed on me with curiosity.
For a second, I felt confused.
Was I speaking too loudly?
Did I do something wrong?
Then I realized.
I was speaking a different language.
In a train full of people who didn't understand it.
That's when it felt strange.
At the same time, my countrymate was also talking on her phone in our language.
But no one was staring at her.
No curious looks.
No double takes.
And then it hit me.
She looked obviously foreign.
But me?
I somehow looked like them.
From the outside, I blended in.
Until I opened my mouth.
And honestly… that was the funniest part.
I looked like I belonged —
until I spoke.
I couldn't stop laughing about it later.
For the first time, I realized how identity can be so confusing.
Sometimes you look like you fit in.
Sometimes you sound like you don't.
And sometimes… you're somewhere in between.
And maybe that's what makes the journey interesting.
Somehow, that entire journey felt beautiful.
Even the small struggles.
Even the confusion.
There was something magical about discovering new streets, unfamiliar buildings, and hidden corners of a city that was slowly becoming ours.
Every metro ride felt like an adventure.
Every signboard felt like a puzzle.
Every turn felt like a new memory being created.
It was interesting — exciting even — to witness a different world with my own eyes.
But the weather had its own plans.
Dark clouds slowly gathered above us.
The wind grew colder.
And before we could decide our next destination, the rain began to fall.
At first, it was light.
Then heavier.
The streets that looked so lively moments ago started to empty. People rushed for shelter, umbrellas bloomed everywhere like flowers in the rain.
We looked at each other and laughed.
"I think that's our sign," someone said.
So instead of exploring more, we decided to return to our university.
The metro ride back felt quieter.
Outside the window, raindrops slid down the glass, blurring the city lights into soft watercolor streaks.
Even though we didn't get to visit all the places we planned, it didn't feel disappointing.
Some journeys don't need perfect weather to be beautiful.
Sometimes, even rain becomes part of the memory.
And as we walked back toward our dorm under the gray sky, I realized—
This new life wasn't just about big achievements.
It was about small, rainy moments too.
After that long journey, I was completely exhausted.
The moment I reached my dorm room, I didn't even change my clothes properly. I went straight to bed. My body felt heavy, but my heart felt strangely hopeful.
Outside, the rain had grown stronger.
The wind howled against the windows. Thunder rolled across the sky, and lightning flashed, briefly lighting up the dark room.
For some reason, the storm felt different.
Not just rain.
Not just weather.
It felt like it was trying to tell me something.
The sound of the storm was both comforting and frightening at the same time. Wrapped in my blanket, listening to the rain hitting the glass, I slowly drifted into a deep sleep.
And then…
I had a dream.
A dark one.
In my dream, I saw someone opening my bag. The bag where I had carefully kept my savings — the money I had been protecting for so long. The money I planned to use to buy my new PC.
After that dream, I suddenly woke up.
Morning light slipped quietly through the curtains. The storm had passed. The sky looked clear. Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
For a few seconds, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm my breathing.
Then the dream came rushing back.
The stolen money.
The empty bag.
The faceless figure.
My heart began to pound hard against my chest.
"It was just a dream…" I whispered.
But the uneasiness didn't leave.
Something felt wrong.
Without wasting another second, I sat up and reached for my bag. My hands felt cold. My fingers trembled as I pulled it closer.
I opened it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I searched inside.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
The small pocket.
The inner zipper.
The hidden section.
Nothing.
My breathing grew heavier.
I pulled everything out onto the bed.
Books. Papers. Receipts.
But not the envelope.
Not the money.
The place where I had carefully kept my savings — the money I had protected for months, the money meant for my new PC — was empty.
Completely empty.
My mind went blank.
No thoughts.
No sound.
Just silence.
It felt like the world had paused around me.
I was standing there, staring into my open bag, as if it would suddenly explain itself.
But it didn't.
My body was there.
But my soul felt missing.
The dream wasn't just a dream anymore.
It was real.
And in that quiet morning light, something inside me broke.