Rain fell steadily against the glass windows of the university, forming thin streams that blurred the view of campus outside. It was typical Vancouver weather—cold, damp, and persistent enough to slow everyone down except those already used to it.
I stood in the hallway outside my Advanced Calculus lecture, leaning against the wall while students moved around me. Some rushed to avoid getting soaked, others shook rain off their jackets, filling the space with noise and motion.
Beside me, Yaman was talking.
Something about hockey.
"—if we fix the third-period rotation, we'd actually win clean," he said, gesturing like he was already on the ice.
I nodded once, not fully engaged.
As a varsity hockey player, I normally cared about conversations like this. Strategy, performance, discipline—those were things I took seriously.
But at that moment, my attention shifted.
The main doors opened.
And she walked in.
Shirin Azari.
She moved through the hallway with controlled, deliberate steps, her posture straight and composed. Her black hair fell neatly down her back, unaffected by the rain outside, which was unusual considering the weather.
People noticed her immediately.
That wasn't surprising.
At the University of British Columbia, Shirin had a reputation. She was known for her academic performance, particularly in neuroscience-related fields, and for maintaining a level of discipline that most students couldn't match. Some people referred to her as a "genius." Others gave her less serious nicknames.
She ignored all of it.
Her expression remained neutral, and she didn't respond to the attention around her.
What stood out more than anything was that she seemed uncomfortable with it—but unwilling to show it.
I had seen her before, of course.
We shared classes.
But I had never paid this much attention.
Until now.
Then she looked up.
Our eyes met briefly across the hallway.
The eye contact lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to interrupt my focus entirely.
I looked away first.
The reaction was automatic.
Unexpected.
And slightly irritating.
Yaman elbowed me.
"Abi," he said, grinning, "you're making your crush obvious."
"I don't have a crush," I replied immediately, grabbing him and pulling him into a headlock.
"Say that again," he laughed.
The guys behind us joined in.
"You're staring at her like she's a target," one of them said.
"More like a research subject," another added.
I let go of Yaman and exhaled.
"I hate all of you."
Despite the jokes, their comments weren't entirely inaccurate.
And that was the problem.
I had interacted with Shirin once before.
Sophomore year.
The situation had been unnecessary and chaotic—mostly because of Yaman.
He had attempted to flirt with her in the library.
It ended quickly.
Her best friend responded by hitting him with a dictionary.
The argument escalated, drawing attention from nearly everyone in the room.
During all of it, Shirin had been laughing.
Not politely.
Not subtly.
Genuinely laughing.
That moment stood out because it contradicted her usual demeanor. It was the only time I had seen her appear relaxed and unguarded.
Security eventually intervened, and several of us were taken to the dean's office.
I apologized on behalf of Yaman.
She apologized for her friend.
The situation ended there.
That had been the extent of our interaction.
Until now.
Advanced Calculus was one of the few classes where I consistently performed at a high level.
Not because I particularly enjoyed it, but because I understood it.
More importantly—
Because she was in that class.
That alone was enough to affect my focus.
Which was frustrating.
At twenty-one years old, I had clear priorities:
maintaining my academic performance in aerospace engineering
committing to varsity hockey
preparing for my future career
None of those priorities included being distracted by someone in a lecture hall.
And yet—
That's exactly what was happening.
The lecture proceeded as usual.
The professor explained derivatives and applications, writing equations across the board. Normally, I would follow without difficulty.
This time, my attention drifted repeatedly.
Eventually, the professor stopped and distributed graded test papers.
I already knew my result.
Still, I checked.
100%.
Expected.
"Highest score in the class goes to Boran Demir," the professor announced.
A few students clapped.
Recognition like this wasn't new.
I had built a reputation for academic performance, particularly in mathematics and physics.
But then—
I heard a softer clap.
I looked up.
Shirin.
She was clapping as well.
Briefly.
Without expression.
But intentionally.
The reaction was subtle.
Yet it stood out more than the rest.
After class, students began to leave.
I packed my bag, assuming that would be the end of it.
Then someone stopped in front of me.
I looked up.
Shirin.
Up close, her features were more defined—pale complexion, dark eyes, controlled expression.
She studied me for a moment before speaking.
"Congratulations."
The tone was calm and direct.
"Thanks," I replied.
"You're good," she added.
"I'd hope so."
There was a slight change in her expression—almost a smile.
Then she adjusted her bag.
"I'll see you in class."
And left.
The interaction lasted less than ten seconds.
But it stayed with me longer than it should have.
"Abi."
Yaman again.
"She came up to you."
"Yes."
"That's it?"
"What do you want me to say?"
He looked at me, clearly frustrated.
"Do you understand how rare that is?"
"She was being polite."
"She doesn't talk to people."
"She just did."
"That's not the point."
I exhaled.
"Then what is?"
He leaned in slightly.
"The point is—Shirin Azari doesn't approach anyone."
I didn't respond immediately.
Because he was right.
"And she approached you," he continued.
That observation stayed with me.
Not because it meant anything definitive—
But because it didn't fit her pattern of behavior.
I looked down at my test paper again.
100%.
A result I had achieved multiple times before.
But this time felt different.
Not because of the grade.
Because of what followed it.
I folded the paper.
"She was just being polite."
Yaman raised an eyebrow.
"Then why are you still thinking about it?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was—
I was thinking about it.
More than I should have been.
And that lack of control—
Was the real issue.
The rest of the day passed like any other.
Or at least, that's what I told myself.
Lectures. Notes. Conversations I barely registered. Hockey practice. Routine.
Everything moved the way it always did.
Structured. Predictable. Controlled.
Except—
It wasn't.
Because no matter how much I focused on anything else, my mind kept circling back to the same moment.
Her.
The way she stood in front of me.
The way she said congratulations like it didn't cost her anything.
The way she looked at me—
Like I was something worth noticing.
It didn't make sense.
And I didn't like things that didn't make sense.
By the time I got home, I had already decided to ignore it.
Compartmentalize. Move on. Focus on what actually mattered.
That was the plan.
The next day felt normal.
I woke up to the sound of rain against my window.
Of course.
Vancouver never missed a day.
I checked the time.
5:30 AM.
Four hours before my first class.
I stared at the ceiling for a second, then sat up.
No point going back to sleep.
I got out of bed and threw on something comfortable—a hoodie, sweats—before grabbing my gear. Skates, gloves, everything went into a duffel bag that had seen better days.
I slung it over my shoulder and headed downstairs.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kitchen lights flickered on, and I grabbed the first things I saw—a banana and a bottle of water.
Good enough.
I slipped on my shoes and stepped outside.
Cold air hit me immediately.
"God, it's cold."
Rain fell steadily, soaking the pavement, the sky still a dull grey.
Typical.
I walked to my car, unlocked it, and slid into the driver's seat.
My Nissan GT-R R34 Skyline.
I'd wanted it since I was a kid.
Fast and Furious does that to you.
Getting it still didn't feel real sometimes.
The engine started with a low hum, familiar and grounding.
I drove without really thinking.
The roads were empty this early, just the sound of rain hitting the windshield and the quiet rhythm of the engine.
My mind drifted.
Classes.
Hockey.
Future.
Everything at once and nothing clearly.
By the time I pulled into the rink parking lot, I didn't even remember the drive.
I just… arrived.
I cut the engine and sat there for a second, listening to the rain.
Then I grabbed my bag and stepped out.
The cold hit harder this time, rain still pouring.
I pulled my hood up, thankful I'd worn something thick.
And headed toward the rink.
I walked into the empty changing room and dropped my bag onto the bench.
The place smelled like cold air and worn-out equipment.
Familiar.
I changed quickly, pulling on my gear piece by piece, tightening the laces on my skates before standing up.
The rink was quiet.
No teammates.
No noise.
Just the sound of my blades hitting the ice as I stepped on.
Good.
That's what I needed.
I pushed off and started skating, letting my body fall into rhythm.
Fast.
Sharp turns.
Stops.
Again.
And again.
I practiced for a while—shots, passes, movement—anything to clear my head.
I just wanted to relax.
From finals.
From the pressure.
From everything.
And from her.
I exhaled sharply, skating harder.
"I can't believe this."
It sounded stupid when I said it out loud.
I had an elementary school crush.
At twenty-one.
On Shirin Azari.
I slowed down, gliding across the ice.
The rink was quiet again.
Just me.
And my thoughts.
Which was the problem.
Because no matter how much I tried to focus on anything else—
She stayed.
Clear.
Too clear.
Her eyes.
Round.
Dark.
Brown that almost looked black under certain lighting.
Like midnight.
I exhaled quietly, dragging my blade across the ice.
"Unbelievable."
I shook my head slightly, grinning a bit.
Then, under my breath—
Soft.
Unintentional.
"Güzel gözlerim."
I froze.
The words settled in the air.
Wrong.
I frowned slightly, running a hand through my hair.
"Gözleri…" I corrected quietly.
Her eyes. Not mine
Better.
Still not good.
I pushed off harder this time, skating across the rink like I could outrun the thought.
I couldn't.
By the time I got home, the house was already awake.
Warm.
Loud.
Alive.
The smell of breakfast hit me the moment I stepped inside.
"Anne?"
"In the kitchen!" my mom called back.
Of course she was.
I dropped my bag near the stairs and walked in.
My mom stood by the stove, flipping something in a pan, humming softly to herself. My dad sat at the table, already eating, his plate half-empty, his presence as large as ever.
Across from him—
Chaos.
"Ben büyüğüm, bana saygı duyacaksın!" Özgür argued, pointing at his sister.
(I'm older than you, you'll respect me!)
"Ikimiz de aynı gün doğduk!" Özlem shot back immediately. "Sen benden büyük değilsin!"
(We were both born on the same day.) (You're not older than me!)
"Yes, I am—by five minutes!"
"That doesn't count!"
I huffed a small laugh.
Nothing had changed.
"Sabah sabah kavga etmeyin," I muttered, grabbing a glass of water.
(Don't fight in the morning)
My dad glanced at me.
"You're up early."
"Practice."
He nodded like that, explained everything.
Because it did.
My mom turned, smiling the moment she saw me.
"Kahvalti hazır, oğlum."
(Breakfast is ready, son)
"I'll eat after," I said, already heading toward the stairs.
"Çok bekleme!"
(Don't wait too long)
"I won't."
I took the stairs two at a time and headed straight to the bathroom.
The hot water hit instantly, steam filling the room.
Finally.
I leaned my head back, letting the warmth settle into my muscles, washing away the cold from the rink. For a second, everything went quiet.
Then—
Her.
Again.
I closed my eyes. Unbelievable. Out of everything I could be thinking about—
Shirin Azari.
Her voice. The way she congratulated me. Her eyes. Always her eyes.
I smiled to myself, until a familiar stir began in my nether region. Great. I have a 7 AM boner, and it's all thanks to Shirin. It felt a shame to let it go to waste. I slowly reached for myself, stroking, but her face kept filling my thoughts. Her hair. Her eyes. That small dimple that appeared on her left cheek when she laughed at Yaman and Maria. I quickly reached my climax, letting out a soft moan, a whispered "Shirin."
I exhaled slowly, washing my body, then slowly bringing my hand across my face.
"This is stupid."
I turned the water slightly colder, snapping myself out of it. I had a schedule. A routine. Things to do. And none of them involved standing here thinking about someone who barely even acknowledged me.
Focus.
Routine.
Control.
That's what I needed.
Not this.
I shut the water off and grabbed a towel, drying off quickly.
Enough.
I stepped out of the bathroom—
And stopped.
My mom was sitting in my room.
On my chair.
Elbow on the desk, chin resting on her fist, legs crossed like she'd been waiting.
I blinked.
"…Anne?"
She tilted her head slightly.
"Kim bu Shirin?"
(who is this shirin?)
My entire body went still.
"…Ne?"
"I heard you."
"You heard—"
"I think the whole street heard you."
My face went red.
"No, you didn't."
She raised an eyebrow.
I felt my face turn hotter, and the towel around my waist slipped.
"Ya Rabbi, ne yapıyorsun oğlum?"
(Oh my god, what are you doing son?)
I grabbed the nearest shirt and pulled it on quickly, while reaching for the towel on the ground and wrapping it around my hip again .
"You weren't supposed to be in here."
"That's not the point."
"It is the point."
She stood up, walking closer, eyes narrowing slightly in that I know something you don't want me to know way.
"Kim bu kız?"
( who is this girl?)
"No one."
She gave me a look.
"Hiç kimse böyle söylenmez."
(Nobody says that.)
I ran a hand through my hair.
"It's not like that."
"Hmm."
She smiled slightly.
Which was worse.
Much worse.
"Okula geç kalacaksın," she said finally, patting my shoulder.
"Git."
(You'll be late for school.)(Go)
I nodded quickly.
"Yes. Exactly. I'm leaving."
"Kaçıyorsun," she added lightly.
I ignored that.
I grabbed my bag, practically pushing her out of the room.
"Tamam, anne, görüşürüz."
She laughed as she walked away.
I closed the door and leaned back against it.
"…I'm never hearing the end of this."
By the time I got to campus, the rain hadn't let up.
Of course it hadn't.
I parked, grabbed my bag, and stepped out, pulling my hood over my head as cold air hit my face again.
Focus.
Just a normal day.
Nothing changed.
I walked through campus with my usual pace—quick, direct, not paying attention to anything unnecessary.
At least that was the plan.
It lasted about thirty seconds.
Because suddenly—
I noticed everything.
Every black coat.
Every tall figure.
Every glimpse of dark hair in the distance.
Ridiculous.
I frowned slightly, adjusting my grip on my bag.
"Get it together."
"Abi!"
Of course.
Yaman appeared out of nowhere, falling into step beside me like he'd been summoned.
"What's up?" he said, already talking before I could answer. "Coach was losing it yesterday—did you see that play in the third period? I swear if we fix that rotation we're—"
He kept going.
And going.
For the first time in history—
I was grateful.
I let him talk, nodding occasionally, half-listening as he went on about hockey, plays, lineups, things that normally would've had my full attention.
Today it just… filled the silence.
"—and then if we switch—" he stopped mid-sentence.
I looked at him.
"What?"
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I am."
He slowed his pace a little, still watching me.
"Your face is off."
I scoffed.
"My face is always like this."
"No," he said immediately. "This is different. This is—" he paused, thinking. "—thinking too much face."
I looked ahead.
"I'm not thinking."
"Abi."
I exhaled quietly.
Of course he noticed.
Out of everyone—
Yaman noticed.
He nudged my shoulder.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Something happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Boran."
I stopped walking.
He stopped too.
We stood there for a second, rain hitting the ground around us.
I ran a hand through my hair.
"…My mom heard me this morning."
He blinked.
"Heard you what?"
I hesitated.
Then said it anyway.
"Say her name."
There was a pause.
Then—
Yaman's entire expression changed.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"…No."
"Don't."
"Abi—"
"Don't."
He broke.
A laugh burst out of him so loud a couple of people turned.
"No way."
I grabbed his hoodie, pulling him slightly.
"Keep your voice down."
"You said her name? Out loud? In your house?"
"Not intentionally."
"That's worse!"
"I know."
He wiped his face, still laughing.
"This is unbelievable."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"So what were you doing?"
I gave him a look.
He immediately backed up.
"Never mind. I don't want to know. Actually, I do—but I won't ask."
"Good."
He smirked.
"You're finished."
"I'm not finished."
"You're thinking about her before 7 AM."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything."
I ignored him and started walking again.
He followed.
"Does Teyze know who Shirin is?" he asked.
"No."
"Good."
"Why is that good?"
"Because if she did, you'd be dead."
I huffed a small laugh despite myself.
We reached the building entrance.
Calculus.
Of course.
"How ironic," I muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Yaman looked at me one last time.
"You're not fine."
"I know."
He smirked.
"This is going to be fun."
"I'm going to regret telling you."
"You already do."
I pushed the doors open.
Warm air hit immediately.
And for some reason—
My first thought wasn't about class.
Or derivatives.
Or anything else.
Just—
Her.