Next morning, she woke up early, and ran to the newspaper shop. It was too early. The vendor was still taking out the newspapers from the packets. “Let I help you,” she offered. The man looked at her, unbelievingly. She took out the newspaper that she needed, from the packet. Put the money on the counter, and ran back. The man looked at her with a smile. He had understood. “She must be in love,” he said to himself, looking back to Feriha, who was fast running back to her room, with the newspaper in her hand.
With the newspaper in her, she banged into her room, out of breath. She was too eager to look at the photos. The sports page was littered with her photos. Mustafa had
published the best of her photos. “Oh my God, am I really so beautiful’, she said to herself. All of a sudden she became aware of her beauty. She left the newspaper over the chair, and starting looking in the mirror.
She was so busy in assessing herself in the mirror, that she did not notice that her roommate had woken up, who took the newspaper in her hand. “Oh my God, have you seen this,” her roommate shouted. “What happened, why are you shouting,” she turned back to her. “I think this is the man who was taking your photograph yesterday,” her roommate said in hysterical voice.
Feriha looked at the first page of the newspaper that her roommate was showing to her. She was so enthusiastic in looking at her own photographs that she did not even look at the main heading of the newspaper. She read the main page heading. OUR PHOTO JOURNALIST MUSTAFA DIED IN AN ACCIDENT. Feriha fell unconscious.