It was uncertain even for Ada where exactly in Istanbul the place was. The real estate ad had described it as "central." If "central" meant "equally distant from everywhere," then yes, it was certainly central. But there was no sea, no park, not even a third-wave coffee shop… Only gray buildings, a little patch of sky, and plenty of honking.
Ada lived on the 4th floor of a seven-story building, whose elevator inevitably broke down at least once a week, though the maintenance fees never reflected that. Its name? Yakamoz Apartments. A name that had nothing to do with the real meaning of yakamoz, completed instead by two neon fish figures at the entrance pretending to offer romance.
She was twenty-eight. A copywriter at an ad agency, though her mother still thought she "wrote articles for a magazine." When asked what she did, she simply said, "uh… digital stuff." It was a job, yet somehow it didn't look like one. Working remotely meant no need for office attire, so her workdays often unfolded in fluffy, teddy-bear pajamas. Perhaps that's why the neighbors knew her as "the girl in pajamas."
Ada's days started with simple rituals:
At 9:00 a.m., brewing coffee while feeding her cat, Pakize, and petting her.
Opening the mailbox every time she came in, finding it empty, and still feeling a sting of disappointment: "I wasn't expecting anything, but I'm still sad."
Around 3:00 p.m., reading in the building's group chat that the elevator was broken again — "this is not a complaint, just information" — and accepting she'd be taking the stairs.
She wasn't very socially active. But not lonely either. She had a few friends, even in the building. Especially her upstairs neighbor Ela — their coffee handoffs through the kitchen windows were famous. Yes, there were some students and a few white-collar workers, but overall, everyone kept to themselves.
Until… someone moved in across the hall.
The group chat exploded with "welcome" messages. A few curious aunties leaned out their windows to spy. Ada only saw him once, carrying moving boxes through the entrance. A gray T-shirt, sweat at the back of his neck, dark eyes. But Ada, skilled in discreet glances, caught many details in those two seconds.
His name was Alp.
He had moved into the apartment opposite hers. And clearly, he wasn't the type who went to the gym just to hang towels.
Still, Ada's concerns that day were her coffee supply, Friday's presentation, and a book delivery. A cool neighbor didn't yet seem like the missing piece of her life.
Only a few days later, when the coffee was completely gone, Ada realized she had no choice but to go shopping. On her way out, the elevator was miraculously working. But on her return, a surprise awaited.
Carrying the heavy bags back, she saw the elevator light off. Broken again. "Oh, f*** my luck," she muttered. Four flights of stairs with bags that felt like bricks. At the top, her sweaty back clung to her Zara blouse. At least she'd reward herself with a dessert upstairs — profiteroles, probably.
But then, on her doormat, she noticed a small slip of paper. She set the bags down and picked it up. No name, no signature. Just one sentence, in neat black handwriting:
"The fact that you wore nothing under that shirt during the building meeting did not escape my attention."
Ada jerked her hand back as if burned. "Excuse me?!" she whispered. She glanced around the corridor. Empty. She glanced up at the cameras, but of course, they hadn't been working in weeks. The manager himself had admitted: "They're just decoration."
She stepped inside, still holding the note. Dropped the bags, tossed her purse on the floor, slipped off her shoes. Grabbed a soda from the fridge and sat on the couch. She read the note again.
"Nothing under the shirt? When?!"
Last weekend. The building meeting. Yes… she had worn the blue shirt. But had she really worn nothing under it?
She pressed the cold bottle against her forehead.
"Who wrote this?!"
The handwriting was neat, slightly slanted, as if written with care.
"Is there such a thing as a romantic pervert?" she thought. If there was, this person definitely fit.
Her cat Pakize jumped onto her lap, sniffed the note, then leapt down again, uninterested.
Ada smirked. "You don't get it either, do you, girl?"
She set the note on the table, changed into a T-shirt, and put water on for coffee. It was past eight, but her caffeine habits had no schedule.
She thought about who had been at the meeting. She mentally eliminated the women first. "No female perverts, right?" she muttered. İbrahim, the janitor? He'd been around three years, never an issue. The building manager? He never looked up from his receipts. Eren upstairs? Practically a friend. None made sense. The only stranger was her new neighbor across the hall. But he hadn't even attended the meeting.
"Great. Just what I needed — a stalker," she sighed, crumpling the note and tossing it in the trash.
Sitting at her computer, she tried to focus on the ad copy she had to deliver. But the words wouldn't come. Her mind stuck on that one note.
By midnight, she managed to finish enough to get by. Closing the laptop, she sighed again, drank a glass of water, and went to bed. The night was quiet, broken only by the occasional honk from the street.
THE NEXT MORNING
The air was crisp but the sun shone bright. Golden light spilled across the opposite building. For a moment, Ada felt calm.
She got dressed, tied her hair, ready to meet her friend Işıl for breakfast. Bag on her shoulder, key in hand, she opened the door.
And froze.
Another note lay on the doormat.
Her expression fell instantly; it was as if the slip of paper drained all her energy.
She glanced down the corridor. Silent. Empty.
She sighed.
"If this is a game… I don't like it," she muttered.