The meeting started without her.
They didn't say anything.No announcement.No excuses.
The chair was just… empty.
Jeren always arrived early.Brought tea.Corrected typos on the chalkboard without asking.
Tonight, the tea was cold.And the board was blank.
Emir noticed it immediately.But didn't speak.
Neither did the others.
The room functioned.People talked.Ideas were shared.
But everything felt… off by half a breath.
—
Afterwards, someone whispered:
— "She's gone."
— "Gone where?"
— "Family. Pressure. Maybe fear.She said, 'I just need to breathe somewhere that doesn't echo.'"
That line stayed with him.
Breathe somewhere that doesn't echo.
He walked home slowly.
Not thinking.
Just letting the night absorb him.
"You can't save all of them," Atatürk said.
— "I wasn't trying to save her."
"Then why does it feel like you failed?"
He didn't answer.
Because the silence did it for him.
—
At home, he stared at the chair across from his desk.
It wasn't hers.
But now it held the same energy:presence turned absence.
He pulled out his notebook.
Wrote a question:
"What is the weight of someone who leaves… quietly?"
Then crossed it out.
Then wrote:
"Maybe leaders aren't meant to be followed.Just… missed."
—
Later that night, he opened his inbox.
One unread message.
From Jeren.
It was short.
"You'll do better than I could've followed.But this movement can't need everyone.Some of us are just bridges.I was your bridge. Now walk."
No goodbye.
No apology.
Just a sentence that held the shape of closure.
"That," Atatürk whispered, "was leadership."
— "Leaving?"
"No.Knowing when."
—
He stared at the chair again.
It didn't feel abandoned.
It felt… earned.
—