Selim looked back at the water. He felt like those currents—his past pulling him toward the safety of the shore, his future dragging him toward the unknown depths of the sea.

Selim stayed. He watched the last sliver of sun vanish behind the dome of the . He realized he wasn't waiting for a sign or a new job. He was waiting for the moment he felt okay with not knowing what came next.

As the ferry boats (the vapurlar ) crisscrossed the strait, their white wakes cutting through the dark blue water, Selim noticed an elderly woman sitting two tables over. She wasn’t looking at her phone. She wasn't talking. She was simply watching .

As the call to prayer began to echo from a dozen minarets, harmonizing over the water, Selim took a final sip of tea. He stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and began to walk. For the first time in years, he wasn't rushing. He was just moving with the tide.

Selim hadn’t come to "watch the Bosphorus" just for the view. In Istanbul, the water is a mirror. If you look at it long enough, it tells you who you are. "Another?" the waiter asked, gesturing to the empty glass. "Please," Selim murmured.

"Which one do I follow?" he asked, surprised by his own honesty.

Across the water, the silhouette of the stood like a lonely sentinel. To his left, the Bosphorus Bridge began to glow with violet lights, a string of pearls draped over the neck of the city.

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