If I were a cloud, maybe everything would be different. Floating in the sky, constantly changing shapes, would offer me a unique perspective on the world. But being a cloud would also mean being distant—unable to touch anything or stay anywhere.
One day, I became a cloud over Istanbul. The city below looked like a tiny map, spread out under a vast blue sky. People, streets, houses… all of it felt distant, cold. A ferry glided across the Bosphorus, its passengers perhaps admiring the shimmering waters. But I, as a cloud, could only watch, unable to feel the cool breeze or the warmth of the sun.
A woman sat on a bench by the shore, her eyes lost in the distance. I heard her faint voice, carried by the wind: “If I were a cloud, maybe I could see you…” Her words disappeared as quickly as they came.
In that moment, I understood. Being a cloud meant loneliness. It meant always being out of reach—unable to touch, to hold, to stay. All I could do was watch, endlessly drifting, lost in the sky.