Content warnings: Mentions of Depression and SH. Reader Discretion advised. Also please pardon my Turkish if you can read,write and speak the language, I used google translate. 🤧
The city outside her window was quieter than usual. The Bosphorus shimmered under the full moon, silver ripples dancing in the distance. She sat cross-legged on the floor with your laptop balanced on a stack of pillows, the faint blue glow spilling over her face. Jenny, her beautiful black puffball, sat perched by the window — tail curled neatly, eyes fixed on the screen like she understood every word coming from it.
The theme song of Kuruluş Orhan began to play. She smiled softly, mouthing the words you'd begun to memorise after binging the last three seasons. It had become her nightly ritual — finish her shooting for the day, wash off the makeup, make a cup of herbal tea, pray Isha, and curl up on the floor with Jenny to watch the series.
She clicked record on her camera, propping it on a stack of jewellery boxes near your couch.
"Hey guys," she said in a sleepy whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "So... Jenny and I are on first episode of Kuruluş Orhan now. I told myself I'd watch just one episode before bed, but clearly..." She gestured at the clock on the wall. "It's 2 AM. I have call time at six. But—"
Jenny meowed softly, perfectly on cue. She laughed.
"But this one refuses to sleep until she sees Orhan Bey ride into battle," she teased, turning the camera to show Jenny sitting completely still, staring at the screen. "We've decided she's officially a Turkish historical drama cat. Jenny Bey. Oh wait that should be Jenny Hanim... right? I don't know Turkish. Pardon me."
She chuckled quietly, voice breaking slightly with warmth. "And I think... I love this. It's so peaceful. It's not work, it's not cameras flashing, not people telling me what to do. Just me, my daughter, and the screen."
The episode played on in the background — Mert's voice echoed through the speakers, low and powerful, as Orhan delivered a speech to his soldiers. She paused, eyes lingering on the frame a little longer than she meant to. He had that rare presence — one that didn't scream for attention but drew it anyway.
Jenny meowed again, startling her from your daze. "Yes, yes, I know," she murmured, stroking her soft fur. "Orhan Bey is brave, Jenny. I get it."
She ended the recording, laughing softly to herself. The video was just a silly late-night moment — a glimpse into her quiet, simple world. She uploaded it half-asleep.
She didn't expect it to blow up. She didn't expect the comments, or the Turkish fans calling her Tatlı Kız Y/N — the sweet girl Y/N. She definitely didn't expect the fan edits of Jenny "watching Orhan" to flood her feed.
And somewhere across the city, after wrapping up a night shoot, Mert Yazıcıoğlu scrolled through his notifications and found a short clip titled —
He sat slouched in the back seat of the production van, his costume half undone — chainmail heavy on his shoulders, hair still slicked back from the scene they'd just wrapped. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning, and all he wanted was a shower and silence. The van hummed through the quiet streets of Beykoz, city lights fading into the mist.
He was scrolling mindlessly through his feed and that's when a thumbnail caught his eye — a girl with kind eyes, a sleepy smile, and a black puffball cat sitting beside her. The title read:
"Even Bollywood's Y/N and her cat can't resist Orhan Bey 😹❤️"
He blinked. Y/N. That Y/N.
He'd seen her before — on billboards, magazine covers, red carpets. One of India's most celebrated faces, the kind of fame that comes with a thousand cameras and almost no silence. But here she was, hair tied in a messy bun, oversized sweatshirt, floor pillows, and laughter that didn't sound rehearsed.
"Hey guys," she said in a sleepy whisper, her cheeks and tip of her nose had a hint of crimson hue "So... Jenny and I are on first episode of Kuruluş Orhan now. I told myself I'd watch just one episode before bed, but clearly..." the camera flicked at the clock on the wall. "It's 2 AM. I have call time at six. But—" Jenny meowed softly in the video, perfectly on cue. She laughed.
"But this one refuses to sleep until she sees Orhan Bey ride into battle," she giggled in the clip, and the clip flipped to show Jenny sitting completely still, staring at the screen. "We've decided she's officially a Turkish historical drama cat. Jenny Bey. Oh wait that should be Jenny Hanim... right? I don't know Turkish. Pardon me."
He couldn't help but laugh under his breath, running a hand over his jaw. Her warmth reached right through the screen — genuine, unpolished, the opposite of the world he lived in.
She chuckled quietly, voice breaking slightly with warmth. "And I think... I love this. It's so peaceful. It's not work, it's not cameras flashing, not people telling me what to do. Just me, my daughter, and the screen."
Jenny meowed again in the clip.
Jenny meowed again, startling her from your daze. "Yes, yes, I know," she murmured, stroking her soft fur. "Orhan Bey is brave, Jenny. I get it." The clip ended with Y/N rolling her eyes as if to say - "Typical Fangirl behaviour Jenny".
But he saw it — that tiny pause. That flicker of a look in her eyes before she smiled again. Like she was... feeling something she couldn't say out loud.
He replayed that part twice. Maybe three times.
"Abi," his driver called softly from the front. "Evde bırakayım mı?" (Should I drop you home?)
"Evet, abi. Teşekkürler."
He leaned back, smiling to himself. He didn't know why this random late-night video had hit differently, but it did. Maybe because she didn't look like a star there. She looked like someone who just wanted to breathe.
He checked the comments below the video — Turkish fans flooding in with hearts and teasing remarks:
"Jenny knows a good bey when she sees one 😂"
"Y/N and Jenny Hanım, welcome to the Orhan family!"
"@ MertYazicioglu, your new fan is adorable — both of them."
He smirked. He wasn't one to interact much online, but before he could stop himself, his fingers hovered over the comment box.
"Jenny has great taste 🐾 Tell her Orhan Bey says hi."
He stared at it for a second... then hit post.
It was innocent. Lighthearted. But somehow, it didn't feel small.
And somewhere across the city — her, with Jenny curled up on her lap, phone lighting up at 4:02 AM — blinked twice at the notification.
mertyazicioglu commented: "Jenny has great taste 🐾 Tell her Orhan Bey says hi."
Her heart quite literally stopped.
The first rays of Istanbul's shy autumn sun filtered through the thin white curtains, landing squarely on Jenny's face. The black fluff blinked awake, meowing softly as if to say, "Human, it's time."
But for once, Y/N didn't move. She lay there in her hotel bed, face half buried in the pillow, eyes open — staring at her phone.
Because there it was. Still there. She'd checked at least seven times since last night.
mertyazicioglu: Jenny has great taste 🐾 Tell her Orhan Bey says hi.
Her brain hadn't processed it yet. Not fully. Because how does one process Mert Yazıcıoğlu commenting on your video? The Mert Yazıcıoğlu — star of the very show she'd stayed up late watching, the man whose calm screen presence had Jenny transfixed and her quietly giggling like a teenager again.
Jenny, now awake and stretching on the comforter, let out a dramatic yawn.
Y/N turned to her. "Do you realise what you've done, young lady?" she whispered, poking her cat's paw gently. "You got Orhan Bey to comment on our video."
Jenny blinked at her, utterly unimpressed.
"Unbelievable," she sighed, running a hand through her messy morning hair. "You flirted your way into fame, didn't you?"
She giggled softly, but then — her smile faded into something quieter. Something that felt like sunlight after rain.
It wasn't the fame part that hit her. Not really. It was that someone — he — had watched her video. Watched her. The version of herself that wasn't on a movie set, wearing designer clothes or smiling on cue. The version who laughed too hard when Jenny did something silly, who loved her comfort clothes and Turkish tea, who didn't need a camera crew or lighting to feel seen.
She sighed dreamily, pulling her knees close, hugging them. Her chest felt light — that rare kind of happy that came from nowhere. "Oh, Allah," she whispered, laughing under her breath, "why does this feel like a scene from one of my old films?"
Jenny chirped looking out of the window as if to agree.
Her phone buzzed again — a flood of notifications. Articles, fan edits, comments.
"Did you see Mert's comment?"
"Ariana what you doing here? 😭🤣"
"They'd look so good together!"
"Jenny and Orhan Bey collab when???"
She covered her face with a pillow, groaning softly. "Oh, this is going to be everywhere, isn't it?"
Still... a tiny smile tugged at her lips.
Because she didn't hate it.
She didn't hate any of it.
Not when it made her feel something warm again.
Not when it made her feel like maybe — just maybe — someone out there had noticed the real her.
It had been exactly a month since the wrap of her film. One month since the chaos, the lights, the never-ending callsheets, and the director's voice barking through the set. Now, her mornings were quiet. No alarm clocks, no scripts on the bedside table. Just the sound of seagulls, the faint hum of the Bosphorus, and Jenny purring beside her as sunlight spilled into the rented apartment.
Therapy with Elif had been her anchor. The soft-spoken woman with kind eyes and an even kinder soul had taught her how to breathe again — really breathe, not for a camera. Every day, they'd talk about boundaries, peace, and the kind of life Y/N was finally allowed to choose for herself.
And Istanbul was helping too. Its chaos somehow calmed her. She spent her days wandering down cobbled streets, sipping Turkish coffee that always seemed too strong, smiling at old shopkeepers who adored Jenny. Her black Persian had become somewhat of a celebrity herself — perched on Y/N's shoulder, leash clipped delicately, her green eyes curious and regal all at once.
Today, Y/N decided to visit the Topkapı Palace — a place she'd always dreamt of seeing since university lectures about Ottoman architecture. The moment she stepped into the courtyard, a sense of stillness settled over her. History breathed through these walls. The arches, the tile work, the minarets — everything whispered stories of sultans, poets, and love lost to time.
Jenny peeked out from her sling bag, letting out a small meow.
Y/N smiled. "You like it, hmm? The great palace of the Sultans," she murmured, scratching behind her cat's ear. "Imagine... all the lives that passed through these halls."
She took out her phone, framing the marble courtyard with its fountains and delicate blue tiles — just for a little vlog moment. And that's when she heard it.
A low, amused voice behind her.
"Jenny Hanım seems to appreciate Ottoman architecture."
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
Mert Yazıcıoğlu stood a few steps away, wearing a beige coat and dark jeans, his hair a little messy, eyes shining with that unmistakable calm warmth that the camera never fully captured.
Her first thought was no way.
Her second was why am I suddenly nervous?
Jenny, unbothered by her human's internal chaos, blinked lazily at Mert — and meowed again, almost as if recognising him.
Mert chuckled softly, hands in his pockets. "See? I told you she has great taste."
Y/N felt her face heat up instantly. "Oh my God— you actually remember that comment."
He grinned. "Of course. It's not every day a cat becomes my most loyal fan."
She laughed — an awkward, genuine laugh that made her cheeks ache. "Well, she's got good judgment. She sits through all your shows. I just happen to... watch along."
Mert tilted his head, mock-serious. "Ah, so you're the side fan, then?"
"I— maybe." She tucked a strand of hair under her hijab, looking down to hide the smile tugging at her lips.
There was a pause — the comfortable kind. The kind where neither needed to fill the silence.
Jenny pawed at Mert's coat, and he crouched a little, offering his hand. "Merhaba, Jenny Hanım," he said softly. "Still stealing the spotlight, I see."
For the first time in years, she wasn't acting. She wasn't the Bollywood star or the face of some campaign. She was just her — a woman in a foreign city, standing in front of a man who had unknowingly been a small piece of comfort in her quietest nights.
And somehow, it felt like the beginning of something she didn't even know she'd been waiting for. Or was she just fangirling inside?
They walked side by side through the palace courtyard, sunlight glinting off the domes behind them. Jenny trotted proudly between them, leash in hand, tail swishing like she owned the place — and honestly, maybe she did.
Mert had insisted on carrying her tote bag, despite Y/N's half-hearted protests. "You're carrying Jenny," he said, tone light but firm.
A few turns later, they found a little çay evi tucked behind the street — the kind that only locals seemed to know about. Wooden chairs, checkered tablecloths, and the faint aroma of cinnamon and cardamom drifting through the crisp air.
"Burada mı oturalım?" (Shall we sit here?) he asked, pulling a chair out for her before she could answer. She glanced at him confused as to what he said but when she looked at the chair she understood.
She smiled softly, adjusting Jenny on her lap as she sat. "You really don't have to be this nice, you know. I already watch your interviews. You're not that polite there." She joked.
Mert chuckled, flagging down the waiter. "That's because they don't bring cats to interviews."
That made her laugh — properly laugh, the kind that startled even her. Jenny blinked up at her in judgment.
"İki çay," Mert told the waiter, then looked at Y/N. "Do you want something else? Something sweet?"
"Maybe a simit?" she said shyly, "and if they have those tiny pastries with pistachio—" she tried to explain making a small circle with her hand.
"—Antep fıstıklı kurabiye," he completed, already smiling. "You only get those in Antep."
She looked at him confused, thinking she might have been offensive. "I—" she swore that she a same or something similar on the menu when she first walked past there.
"I am just kidding. I'll ask if they've got that." He chuckled as he watched her shoulders deflate in relief. "You've been in Istanbul long enough, I see."
She nodded, a bit proud of herself. "One month and counting. I rented a small place in Cihangir. I like how it smells like the sea and coffee and— cats."
He laughed again. "You fit right in, then."
When the waiter returned, he set down the tea glasses — small, tulip-shaped, glowing red in the afternoon light — and, to Y/N's delight, a tiny ceramic bowl of cream in front of Jenny.
"Oh my God," she whispered, grinning. "A kitty cup."
Mert looked at Jenny, then at her. "Of course. She's the real celebrity here."
The tea steamed between them.
"So..." he started, voice softer now, "You were visiting the palace for fun or research?"
"Bit of both," she said, twirling her spoon absentmindedly. "I have a degree in Historic Architecture. I love how cities hold stories — every stone, every pattern. It's like reading poetry carved into walls."
He watched her, eyes glinting with quiet admiration. "You talk about it like it's alive."
"Because it is," she replied, looking up at him. "History breathes. Just like art. Just like people who... make others feel things through what they create."
It was only after she said it that she realised she was looking right at him.
And he was already smiling.
"Are you always this poetic," he asked, "or is it the tea?"
"Maybe it's the company," she said before she could stop herself.
Jenny meowed — perfect comedic timing — making both of them laugh again.
Mert leaned back, still grinning. "I'll take that as a compliment for both of us."
Y/N felt something she hadn't felt in a long time — lightness. The absence of weight.
And when he reached out and gently scratched Jenny under the chin, she thought...
Maybe Istanbul hadn't just healed her. Maybe it was introducing her to something new — something that made her heart feel like home again.
They lingered at the café long after their tea glasses had emptied, talking about everything — films, cities, the chaos of fame, and what it meant to still crave solitude through it all.
When the sky turned orange and Jenny began to grow restless, Y/N stood up, gently tucking the cat back into her bag.
"I should probably get going," she said softly. "Jenny's got dinner in about twenty minutes, and if I delay her even a bit—"
"She'll sue you," Mert finished, laughing.
He walked with her to the corner of the street, where the late-afternoon traffic hummed like background music. Neither of them said much — the kind of quiet that was almost comfortable.
As they reached the small alley that led to her rented apartment, Mert slowed down.
"I'm glad I ran into you today," he said finally, his voice warm, the kind that sat somewhere between casual and I mean that more than I should.
She smiled, adjusting her tote. "Me too. It's... nice to have company that isn't furry for once."
He chuckled — then hesitated, scratching the back of his neck.
"Hey, um... maybe I could get your number?"
Her brows rose slightly, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Oh?"
He cleared his throat, eyes darting to Jenny. "I mean—for Jenny, of course. Just to keep in touch with her. You know, make sure she's not terrorising any more film sets."
Y/N bit back a laugh, unlocking her phone and handing it to him.
"Right. Strictly professional... cat-parental communication."
He grinned as he typed in his contact, handing it back. "Exactly."
She looked down at the saved contact. "Mert 🐾"
He shrugged, feigning innocence. "I didn't want her to forget who I am."
"Trust me," she said, smiling as she slipped her phone into her coat pocket. "Neither of us will."
And before he could reply, she waved — and walked away.
Jenny peeked out of the bag, tail flicking, as if to wave too.
Mert watched until she disappeared into the narrow lane, then exhaled a small, amused sigh.
He hadn't meant to think about her as much as he did that week.
Her laugh. Her way of listening. The way she tilted her head when she talked about the carvings on the palace walls. How she had this rare gift — making silence feel full.
And then, one evening, while scrolling through YouTube, he saw it:
"Exploring Topkapı Palace — A Love Letter to Istanbul's Past 🕌 | Y/N & Jenny"
She had edited it beautifully — poetic voiceovers, soft instrumentals, her gentle narration weaving through each corridor and courtyard.
Jenny appeared often, sniffing tiles, pawing at the grass.
But there was no mention of him.
Not even a glimpse of that moment at the café.
And somehow, that made his heart ache more.
He watched the entire thing, all 45 minutes of it, from start to finish. Twice.
By the end, he wasn't even pretending to be casual about it.
She wasn't just the girl with the cat.
She was a storm disguised as calm — and he was a little too willing to get caught in it.
When the video ended, YouTube auto-played another one — her older vlog, where she spoke to the camera while making coffee, laughing when Jenny meowed off-screen.
He smiled, softly shaking his head.
Just to keep in touch with Jenny, huh?
It took him three days to finally text her.
He'd written, deleted, and rewritten at least ten different versions of the same message — each one sounding either too formal or too obvious.
Finally, he gave up and typed something simple:
Hey, how's Jenny? Tell her I miss her dramatic meows.
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
The reply came ten minutes later.
He smiled at the screen like an idiot.
What followed were days — then weeks — of quiet conversations. Late-night texts about random things: the best Turkish tea brands, Istanbul's weather, a weird meme Jenny apparently "approved of."
They didn't talk about her career, or his.
It was an unspoken rule — the silence between two people who were tired of being looked at instead of seen.
And in those small exchanges, something soft bloomed.
She didn't tell him about the chaos online — the tabloids dissecting her hiatus, the fans arguing over whether she was "throwing away her talent," or the journalists calling her "unstable."
She didn't tell him about the insomnia, or how Elif had quietly adjusted her prescription last week.
And she wanted to keep it that way.
He was the one place she didn't want her pain to spill into.
Over the next few months, he became a constant — messages every morning, shared playlists, videos of Jenny perched on his shoulder when she visited him.
Then came the London trip.
Mert leaned against the doorframe, Jenny perched contently in his arms, her tail flicking lazily.
"Thank you for trusting me with her," he said softly as Y/N reached to scratch Jenny's chin.
She smiled faintly, a tired but genuine curve of her lips.
"I do trust you with her," she replied simply.
It wasn't flirtation, nor casual affection.
It was quiet truth — and it hit him harder than he expected.
He watched her walk away, her hoodie pulled up, a small suitcase rolling behind her.
Something about her felt... heavier. Like her smile was lifting more weight than usual.
Their friendship grew stronger, but she grew quieter.
Her replies came slower. Her voice notes shorter.
She said she was flat hunting — that her lease was ending.
So when she'd mentioned going out for viewings one afternoon, he'd offered lightly,
"Leave Jenny with me. She'll be fine here, and I'll send you pictures so you know she's behaving."
She'd smiled through the phone.
"Okay. She likes you anyway."
That was the last text he got that day.
He was in his living room, Jenny sprawled across his lap as he read through a script, when his phone buzzed.
It wasn't her. It was her manager texting from her phone as he kept sending her pictures of Jenny and asking if she's doing alright.
"Hey, this is her manager Zara. Muskaan's been taken to the hospital. She had a panic attack and she tried to hurt herself. Doctors have said she will be fine. Please take care of Jenny for her. I'll have her contact you as soon as she is stable and awake."
The words blurred on his screen. His heart sank before his mind even caught up.
He stood up too fast, Jenny sliding off his lap with a startled meow.
And for the first time since he met her, Mert realised — he had no idea how deep her silence went.
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Please let me know how you like it. I feel like I have come back from dead 🤧
