Who are You?

Chapter 4: The First Encounter

Defne Ateş

The first week of university… The air was so soft, so embracing, that that spring breeze seemed to mellow any urge to rush. The campus buzzed with life people lounging on the grass, approaching club tables, forging new friendships… It was as if everyone was writing the first page of a story.

I, however, felt a bit on the sidelines amidst the crowd, yet one step behind. I found it hard to blend into that flowing energy, with everyone already sharing stories with each other. I had neither a familiar face beside me, nor the courage to speak. Maybe I needed a few more days just to tell myself, “I’ll get used to it.”

I pulled my bag tighter on my shoulder and walked along the sunlit stone path toward the faculty courtyard. The front of the architecture building was quieter people more dispersed, scattered under shaded areas.

That’s when I noticed him.

At first, his back was turned. He was bent over a notebook on the grass, sketching carefully with a pencil. He seemed distant from the crowd, immersed in his own world. His solitary mark in the silence stood out. So naturally and comfortably, my steps carried me in his direction.

Without realizing it, I sat down nearby on the grass, thinking I might rest or simply observe. A few seconds later, he looked up, our eyes meeting.

His eyes… so calm, they defied any description I knew.

“Are you architecture, too?” he asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

I nodded. “Yes. I didn’t take prep school, I just started this semester.”

“Me too,” he said. He didn’t smile, but his voice was sincere. “It seems everyone’s already found their friend group. Are you one who likes your own company?”

“Yes,” I replied briefly, a slight curve to my lips.

“Are you drawing?” I asked, eyes on his notebook.

He lifted it slightly. Abstract yet strong lines definitely the work of an architecture student.

“Thinking,” he said. “Sometimes words aren’t enough.”

I had something to say, but my phone slipped from my bag at that moment. I bent to pick it up, and he reflexively reached out to help. Our fingers didn’t touch but something peculiar happened. It felt as if time slowed down, the breeze changed direction, and the sun moved closer…

Without saying his name, he stood up. He slung his bag over his shoulder, tucked the notebook under his arm.

“See you… lone bird.”

I wanted to ask, “What’s your name?” but it was too late.

A glance, a voice, a few lines and an irrepressible curiosity.

The first sentence of an unfamiliar beginning had already been written for me.

The atelier building was different from the other faculty buildings: older, more angular, with a sense of history seeping from every corner. Its high ceilings, huge windows, and echoing footsteps made everything feel more serious, more real.

That day, stepping into the atelier for my first design class, I felt a silly excitement in my chest. People were already busy some set up at drawing boards, others pulling out precision pens from their bags. I quietly surveyed the room and picked a calm table in the corner.

As I slowly sat down and placed my bag on the floor, a shadow approached.

“Is this seat free?”

When I turned, I saw him again the boy sketching on the campus lawn.

“Yes,” I said, caught off guard.

He sat down next to me and opened his notebook again. The same calm, the same focus. As if the bustling room didn’t exist, as if everything was just between pencil and paper.

He nodded slightly, as if recalling that day outside. “I’m Aras, by the way,” he said, spinning his pen. “That’s my name.”

My heart seemed to shift its rhythm. I heard his name for the first time. A simple introduction but it struck something inside me.

“Defne,” I said. “I’m Defne.”

We stared at each other for a moment neither long nor short.

“You’re quiet for a freshman,” he said. “Usually new students are more lively.”

I shrugged. “I like to observe. I look first, then speak.”

Aras nodded. “Good method. Most people speak first, then think, ‘I wish I hadn’t said that.’”

We smiled at that. It was the first genuine smile on his face clear and understated, but reaching his eyes.

Something stirred within me that moment something I couldn’t yet name.

Perhaps it had started with the sentence I wrote that night in my notebook:

“Some people feel familiar in silence.”

By the time class ended, the sky had already darkened. The days still felt long like summer, but clouds had overtaken the sky early that evening. The air felt heavy, gray, and uncertain.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and tucked my notebook under my arm. The campus was hushed—everyone had gone their separate ways.

Just as I started down the stairs, the first raindrop fell.

Then a second.

And suddenly, a downpour like the sky had split open. I dashed back under the atelier canopy, breathless, wrapping my arms around my notebook to protect it.

That’s when someone else hurried over and stood beside me.

It was Aras.

His hair was plastered from the rain, his breath uneven but he was smiling.

“I guess we underestimated the weather,” he said, shaking the water from his arms.

I nodded. “It hit fast.”

I glanced at my notebook. The edges of the pages were curling. I opened it slightly it was damp, the sketches wet.

“Oh no…” I whispered.

He stepped closer and looked at my notebook. “It’s not too bad. It might dry out.”

“Hope so,” I said. “It was our first assignment.”

We stood in silence for a while as the rain drummed on. Water dripped from our hair. Little puddles formed at our feet.

“Do you usually leave like this?” Aras suddenly asked.

I shrugged. “It’s hard to leave the atelier sometimes. I lose track of time there.”

He smiled. “Same here.”

Something clicked between us then a small but meaningful bond. It was like we spoke the same quiet language of design, solitude, and focused creation.

The rain eased. The sky remained gray but less stormy.

“Are you walking home?” he asked.

“Yes. Not too far.”

“Should we walk together?” he offered gently.

That evening, I walked side by side with him for the first time.

As our footsteps echoed along the wet pavement, warmth spread inside me. Raindrops still clung to my hair, but I didn't mind.

The name echoed in my mind again and again.

Aras.

That night, I truly began getting to know him. And somewhere deep inside, a silent voice whispered:

“This encounter will not be ordinary.”

********

Later, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I found myself replaying our first meeting. I remembered seeing Aras for the first time on the campus lawn, drawing in his notebook. The sun flickered on his face, causing him to squint slightly. I remember exactly how he held his pencil so careful, so focused.

He used his right hand.

Suddenly, the void inside me widened. I was willingly falling into that dark suspicion. “Maybe…” I whispered to myself, “maybe after the accident he started using his left hand… maybe it’s only temporary…”

But those “maybe”s no longer comforted me.

I swallowed hard.

Sitting up in bed, I reached for my phone. Trembling yet determined, I typed into the search bar again, without even knowing what I was searching for in the middle of the night:

“Aras Çelik… accident…”

Scrolling through the list of news headlines, one caught my eye. It was older, further down but every word felt like a punch:

“In the terrible accident, twin brother Emir Ç. lost his life; Aras Ç. was rescued with serious injuries.”

My eyes didn’t blink as I stared at the screen. I read the sentence over and over. Each word pressed like a needle into me.

Twin brother?

A silent no rose within me, but I uttered no sound. My fingers moved again this time searching for “Emir Çelik.”

But there were no photos.

Only short news titles, outdated dates, deleted content… nothing else. As if someone had erased all traces.

I gripped my phone tightly; my heart was pounding at my throat. One sentence kept echoing in my mind:

What if the person standing in front of me isn’t Aras…?