Curiosity ~ Lucidity ~ Humanity
The office was thinning out when Omer finished the last items on his list. His phone rang as he was slipping into his coat.
“Still there?” Emre asked.
“Just wrapping up,” Omer said.
There was a brief pause on the other end. “Derya and I are heading home now,” Emre said. “I told her I’d invite you. Thought it would be good to catch up properly.”
Omer leaned back against the edge of his desk. “Tonight might not be ideal,” he said evenly.
“It’s nothing formal,” Emre replied. “She knows you already. You’re not a guest.” A small laugh. “And it’s been a long day. You shouldn’t go back to an empty place.”
That landed differently. Omer glanced once toward the window, the office reflected faintly in the glass. He pushed his seat slightly forward with his foot, then pulled it back with his hand, waited for a few seconds, and said, “Alright,” he said after a moment. “I’ll come by for a bit.”
“Good,” Emre said, satisfied but not triumphant. “No pressure. Just dinner.”
They ended the call. Omer stood still for a few seconds, coat on, phone in hand. Then, he headed toward the elevator, already adjusting his expectations.
Emre’s apartment had the loose, unfinished order of someone who was rarely alone long enough to care. A jacket hung over the back of a chair instead of a hook, and shoes gathered near the door without bothering to line up. The coffee table held yesterday’s mug, a folded receipt, and a phone charger tangled in on itself. Nothing was dirty, but nothing was settled either. The place felt lived-in in short bursts—as if life passed through it rather than paused there.
“Come in,” Emre said, taking Omer’s coat. “Derya’s almost done.”
Derya appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She smiled as if he’d arrived exactly when expected. “We’re having my special roasted lamb and rice tonight,” she said. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am,” Omer said honestly.
They sat at a small table near the window, plates already arranged. The conversation started easily—work stories filtered through humour, neighbourhood updates that meant nothing to anyone who didn’t live there, light complaints about things that wouldn’t matter tomorrow.
“How was your weekend?” Derya asked after serving everyone.
“Quiet,” Omer replied again.
“Only quiet?” she pressed gently. Emre glanced at her but didn’t intervene.
Omer paused before answering. “I washed the car.”
Emre laughed quietly. “Of course you did.” He turned to Derya. “He treats it like family.”
“It deserves proper care,” Omer said without defensiveness.
For a moment, no one spoke. Cutlery touched porcelain, the soft scrape of forks and the muted tap of a knife against a plate filling the space between them. Steam rose from the food, then thinned.
Derya was the first to look up.
“So,” she said, lightly, as if it were just another thing that had come to mind. “How are you doing, Omer?”
The question sat there longer than it needed to.
Emre kept eating, waiting.
Omer didn’t rush his answer. He swallowed and set his fork down carefully.
“I’m fine,” he said. Not defensive. Not convincing either.
Derya nodded, accepting the words without pressing, though her gaze lingered for a brief second—as if she’d been asking about something adjacent to what he’d said, something that didn’t fit neatly into an answer.
Emre reached for the bottle and topped up Omer’s glass. “Eat,” he said. “You barely touched it.”
“It’s good, Derya,” Omer said, taking another bite.
After the plates were cleared, Emre brought tea to the living room. The cups were mismatched, steam rising as he set them down on the low table. They settled onto the couch—Emre and Derya close enough to share the same cushion without thinking. Omer took the single chair opposite them, balancing the tea carefully in his hands.
For a while, they talked about nothing that required attention. A series they’d half-watched. Someone Emre knew from work. Derya listened with her legs tucked beneath her, occasionally adding a comment, occasionally smiling without speaking.
Omer sipped his tea. It was hot enough to slow him down. At one point, the conversation drifted past him and didn’t come back. He leaned back, letting it. The room felt comfortable in a way that didn’t include him. He finished his tea before the others did.
“I should head out,” he said, setting the empty cup down.
Emre glanced over, surprised. “You sure?” he said. “We were just settling in. Stay a bit longer.”
Omer smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t ask to be answered. “I know. It’s been a long day.”
Derya leaned forward, resting her cup on the table. “You don’t have to rush,” she said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
He hesitated just long enough for the offer to be real. “I appreciate it,” Omer said. “Really. It was good tonight.”
They both stood with him this time, not out of habit but courtesy stretched an extra step. Emre clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Next time, no excuses.” Derya smiled, softer now. “It was nice having you here.”
Omer nodded. “Good night.”
Bio-Fragment: Ömer Özgören notices glitches in life, and objects tend to speak first. He finds it increasingly difficult to talk openly without conversations collapsing into certainty.