She looked at her phone. Three missed calls from her mother, likely about her brother’s debt. A dozen notifications from a group chat she no longer felt a part of. She realized she had spent her whole life answering everyone else's questions before she even knew what her own were.

She wasn’t tired from a long day of work or a lack of sleep. It was the "soul-fatigue" that comes from being the person who always holds everything together. For years, Sıla had been the bridge. She was the one who mediated family feuds, the one who stayed late to fix a colleague's mistake, and the one who listened to friends' heartbreaks until three in the morning, all while her own heart felt like a hollowed-out tree.

As she watched the waves, she didn't feel like jumping; she felt like shedding. She took off her heavy wool coat—a gift from an aunt she felt she owed—and draped it over a bench. She unpinned her hair, letting the wind finally take the strands that had been tucked away so neatly.

The rain in Istanbul didn’t wash things away; it just made them heavier. For Sıla, the weight had become unbearable. She sat in a small, dimly lit café in Kadıköy, her fingers tracing the rim of a cold tea glass. The phrase yoruldum —I am tired—wasn’t just a thought; it was a pulse under her skin.

She stood up, leaving the tea untouched and the phone face down on the wooden table. For the first time in thirty years, Sıla didn’t head toward the ferry to go home. She walked toward the coast, toward the vast, dark expanse of the Marmara Sea.

"I'm tired of being strong," she whispered to the steam rising from the tea.