Random Friday
NOTE: This is my first time writing a fic about a Turkish man, please forgive me if this doesn’t come out as few of you (i saw only 3 people 💀 and I appreciate you guys so much!) were expecting. I hope you enjoy!
📍Kadıköy Market, Istanbul
The air smells like sea salt and roasted chestnuts.
The kind that lingers on your hair and sleeves long after you’ve left the street.
It’s Y/N’s first half-day off since arriving in Istanbul for work — her first real breath of the city beyond meeting rooms and polished office glass.
Elif had insisted they visit Kadıköy Market together, promising it would be loud and alive and nothing like the tourist postcards.
Elif: I’m so sorry, traffic near Moda is crazy! Just ten minutes!
The message blinks on her screen.
Ten minutes. She can handle that.
The market stretches out before her like a painting that refuses to stay still — vendors calling out prices, hands exchanging lira, plastic bags rustling against fabric canopies that tint the sunlight orange.
She tugs the strap of her crossbody bag closer, a habit she’s picked up this week after reading too many travel blogs about “being careful in crowded places.”
She opens her phone again, trying to make sense of the message Elif had sent earlier with directions.
They’re in Turkish, of course. She copies them into Google Translate, squinting at the result.
Meet me near the fishmongers’ street, close to the alley of spices.
The translation blinks: Fish sellers in the smell road near spice women.
“Great,” she mutters, trying not to laugh.
She pockets her phone, weaving into the current of people. There’s color everywhere — heaps of oranges glowing like lanterns, herbs tied with string, scarves fluttering from hooks. The sound is constant, a layered hum that feels almost like a song.
Someone brushes past her. She tightens her grip on her bag. Another shoulder nudges her arm and she steps aside, murmuring a quiet sorry even though no one understands.
She stops near a stall of dried apricots, distracted by their soft, honeyed smell. It reminds her of something — home, maybe. Or safety.
Pulling her phone out again, she types:
I think I’m lost again 😭 there’s a stall with orange tarps??
Before she can hit send, someone passes close enough to make her stumble forward. Her heart lurches. She turns sharply — hand over her bag — but everything’s fine. Just a blur of coats, voices, motion.
And then, in that swirl of color and noise, she sees him.
Across the narrow lane — between a wall of olive jars and a man selling herbs — a stranger stands.
Dark hair, a small frown like he’s searching for something too. Sunlight filters through the tarps, catching the side of his face.
For one quiet heartbeat, the market fades.
She doesn’t know his name, doesn’t even know why she can’t look away.
But for that brief, impossible moment, it feels like the city pauses to breathe with her.
Just a random Friday.
But something in her knows she’ll remember it.
Across the lane, Mert shifts the small paper bag in his hand, the warmth of the pastries seeping faintly through the paper.
He hadn’t planned to come to Kadıköy today. He was supposed to meet his brother near Üsküdar, but plans changed — traffic, as always. So he walked. Wandering is easier when your thoughts are too loud.
The market hums around him — vendors calling out prices, tarps flapping softly overhead, sunlight fractured into color.
He doesn’t really look at anyone until he sees her.
A girl standing by the apricot stall, shoulders slightly tense, holding her phone like it’s a compass she doesn’t fully trust. She reads something, types quickly, then looks up — lost, but trying not to show it.
Mert’s gaze lingers. There’s something about her uncertainty that pulls him in — like she’s both out of place and entirely part of the scene.
She walks a few steps, scanning faces, until a vendor from the next stall catches her attention.
Scarves hang like watercolor, all soft folds and shimmer.
The man speaks in Turkish, quick and friendly, gesturing at the jewelry tray beside him.
She smiles, takes out her phone again, and opens Google Translate.
“How much?”
The robotic voice blurts out, tinny and unsure.
The vendor grins, amused. He quotes a number that’s too high — the kind he saves for tourists who don’t know better.
She hesitates, frowns slightly, typing again.
Mert exhales quietly and crosses the lane before he can talk himself out of it.
“Abi,” he says, his tone light but firm. “She’s my friend. My mum bought from you last Friday, remember?”
The vendor’s face flickers with recognition — or confusion — it’s hard to tell. Mert doesn’t give him time to question it.
“You gave her a good deal. Don’t make me tell her you’ve changed your prices.”
The man laughs, half in disbelief, half in surrender.
“Tamam, tamam.”
He knocks a few lira off, muttering about loyalty discounts, and starts wrapping the scarf.
The girl blinks up at Mert, wide-eyed as the entire conversation unfolded in fluent Turkish and she did not understand a word.
“Uh… hi,” she says softly, voice unsure.
He nods once, offering a small smile. “Hi.”
“Thank you,” she says finally, gesturing at the bag. “I—I think he gave me the tourist price.”
“He did,” Mert says simply. “Don’t worry. Now you have the local one.”
She laughs under her breath, a quiet, startled sound.
And he thinks — it’s strange how sometimes, you end up exactly where you weren’t planning to be, helping someone you’ll probably never see again.
Y/N watches him disappear into the stream of people, his shoulders swallowed by the movement of the market, the paper bag of pastries still in his hand.
She wants to say something — thank you again, or you didn’t have to do that, or maybe just who are you? — but the words tangle somewhere behind her tongue.
Instead, she looks down at the scarf now wrapped neatly in brown paper. The color peeks through the folds — deep blue with tiny golden threads.
She doesn’t even remember picking that one, but somehow, it feels like him.
Her phone buzzes.
Elif: I’m here! Near the tea stall — where are you??
She looks around, turning a full circle.
The noise rushes back in — calls of vendors, the smell of roasted nuts, laughter blending with the rustle of wind. It’s overwhelming again, but in a softer way now.
Like the world exhaled after holding its breath.
And somewhere in the crowd, Mert slows his steps.
He glances back once — just enough to see her searching for someone, holding the scarf against her chest like a secret.
He doesn’t know why he lied about his mother.
Maybe it was true, in some version of his life.
Maybe she had bought something here last Friday.
Or maybe he just wanted to give this stranger a moment of ease, something to take home that wasn’t uncertainty.
As he turns down the next street, the sound of the market fades into something quieter — almost like memory.
He opens the paper bag, takes out one of the pastries, still warm.
He breaks it in half, hands tucked into his coat pockets, and for a moment he imagines her laughter, her accent bending the word thank you the way sunlight bends on water.
By the time he reaches the end of the lane, he’s smiling to himself.
No names exchanged.
No promises made.
Just a glance, a lie, and a scarf.
Just another random Friday.
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