Halfway through the bridge, she saw a flicker of movement near the back exit. A silhouette lingered—a leather jacket, a familiar tilt of the head. For a heartbeat, her voice faltered, catching on the rhythm. The figure stayed for exactly ten seconds, long enough to see her shining, long enough to hear her sing the words “Aklına gelirim ara sıra” (I come to your mind once in a while). Then, he was gone.

She took a breath, smoothed her sequins, and stepped into the glare. The crowd roared, but her eyes instinctively darted to Table 14—the spot where he used to sit, nursing a drink and watching her like she was the only star in a galaxy of neon. It was empty.

The strobe lights at the Istanbul club didn’t stand for a party tonight; they felt like a countdown. İrem stood backstage, the muffled bass of thumping through the floorboards. In the lyrics, she sang about the "occasional" moments of missing someone, but in the silence before the microphone turned on, it felt like an every-second kind of thing.