We speak Turkish at home, and I can speak the language. I have a

Host: The evening light fell soft and warm through the airport lounge, tinting the glass walls in fading gold. Planes rose and descended like slow-moving birds, their shadows gliding over polished floors. The air was full of motion — the rustle of suitcases, the echo of distant announcements, the quiet tension of goodbyes and returns.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the runway, a cup of coffee growing cold between his hands. Across from him sat Jeeny, her hair falling loosely around her face, her passport resting on the table beside a worn boarding pass.

They had been silent for some time, lost in their own worlds. Outside, a plane rumbled, lifting off — its metal wings slicing through the sky, toward somewhere far and personal.

Jeeny: “Emre Can once said, ‘We speak Turkish at home, and I can speak the language. I have a lot of family there — I try to fly to Turkey once a year when I have holidays.’”

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve read that. Seems… ordinary.”

Jeeny: “Ordinary?”

Jack: “Sure. Everyone visits family. Everyone’s got roots somewhere. What’s special about that?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about being special, Jack. It’s about remembering where you came from — even when the world’s changed you.”

Jack: “Remembering’s easy. Living between two worlds — that’s the hard part.”

Host: A plane roared past, the windows trembling with the sound. Jeeny’s eyes followed it, a faint smile tugging at her lips, though her expression held a quiet melancholy.

Jeeny: “You know what I hear in his words? A man trying to hold onto a language, a culture, a heartbeat that lives an ocean away. Even after fame, after success — he still goes home. That means something.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s guilt. People always romanticize roots when they’ve left them behind. Nostalgia sells better than honesty.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. It’s not nostalgia — it’s belonging. You can chase the world, but you still need a place where people pronounce your name right.”

Jack: “Belonging is overrated. The world’s too global now. We belong wherever we can survive.”

Jeeny: “That’s not belonging, Jack. That’s exile dressed up as pragmatism.”

Host: The airport lights flickered on, washing the hall in sterile white. A child laughed somewhere behind them, the sound pure and momentary. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes grew intense.

Jeeny: “He said they speak Turkish at home. Do you realize how intimate that is? Language isn’t just words — it’s memory. It’s the tone your mother used when she said your name. It’s the rhythm of your first lullaby.”

Jack: “And it’s also division. One language at home, another outside — that’s how you grow up never feeling complete. Never fully here or there.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s how you grow twice. How you learn to hold two worlds without letting either one drown the other.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his jaw tightening. His reflection shimmered faintly in the window, merging with the planes beyond.

Jack: “You talk like it’s a gift. I think it’s a wound. The people who migrate, who leave — they never really return. They become ghosts between borders.”

Jeeny: “But ghosts still remember. And sometimes remembering is enough.”

Jack: “Is it? What’s memory worth when it doesn’t fit into your life anymore? When you return home and feel foreign — and stay abroad and feel misplaced?”

Jeeny: “It’s worth identity. Without it, you’re just a product of convenience. He flies home once a year not because he has to, but because that’s where he becomes himself again.”

Jack: “Maybe he just misses the food.”

Jeeny: “You can joke, but you know it’s deeper than that. The taste of home carries everything — history, grief, love. You don’t go back for food. You go back for the person you were when the world was still small.”

Host: The sound of luggage wheels rolled past them — a slow, rhythmic echo fading into distance. Jack’s fingers tapped his cup, restless. Jeeny sat still, her hands folded neatly on the table.

Jack: “You know, I once tried to go back — to the town I grew up in. Everything had changed. The café was gone, the street renamed. Even the trees felt smaller. It didn’t feel like mine anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe places grow the same way people do — they evolve, and we have to learn to love their new faces.”

Jack: “And if they forget us?”

Jeeny: “Then we remember harder.”

Host: The light shifted again — the last of the sunset fading, replaced by a deep, uncertain blue. A flight to Istanbul blinked on the departure board. Jeeny noticed it, her eyes lingering.

Jeeny: “Turkey once a year. It’s not about distance — it’s ritual. It’s his way of saying, I haven’t lost myself in translation. That’s courage.”

Jack: “Courage? You call visiting family courage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In a world that rewards forgetting, remembering is a rebellion.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked toward her — and for a moment, his usual cynicism faltered. The word rebellion lingered, like smoke that refused to dissipate.

Jack: “You know, I envy that. To have a place where you can go back, where the language still welcomes you. For some of us, there’s no home left — just a timeline of leases.”

Jeeny: “Then you build one. Not with bricks, but with people. Every connection is a form of home.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s real. You can speak a thousand languages and still be lonely — unless one of them is spoken by love.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips as she reached for her glass. Jack stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Emre meant — not just language, but the effort to stay human in a world that’s always asking you to move faster, forget quicker.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The act of returning — even for a week — is an act of faith. You can be modern and still remember your grandmother’s voice.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what roots are — not dirt and distance, but sound. The words that keep us anchored.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Roots spoken, not planted.”

Host: The intercom announced a boarding call, distant but clear. Jeeny gathered her passport, slipping it into her bag, her movements gentle, almost ritualistic.

Jack watched her, something like understanding passing through his grey eyes.

Jack: “You ever get tired of defending meaning in everything, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Only when people stop listening.”

Host: The gate lights flashed. Passengers began to rise, gathering their things. The hum of departure filled the air. Jeeny stood, smoothing her coat, her expression calm but glowing with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “We all have somewhere we need to return to, Jack. Even if it’s just in language.”

Jack: “And if we’ve forgotten the words?”

Jeeny: “Then someone will teach you again.”

Host: She smiled, turned toward the gate, and disappeared into the crowd, her silhouette fading into the rhythm of travel — a figure both leaving and arriving.

Jack stayed seated, watching the runway lights blink in patient patterns. He raised his cup, empty now, and whispered softly — as though to no one at all —

Jack: “Home isn’t a place. It’s a sentence you keep trying to finish.”

Host: And outside, another plane lifted into the dark sky, its lights trailing like a thread — stitching one world to another, across language, memory, and time.