In the quiet glow of the set, amid the shadows of the sets and the hushed voices of the crew, Kerem Bürsin pensively says:
"Why are we so fixated on numbers? On the age allotted to the hero and his lover? Why does age become the measure of truth when it comes to feelings?"
There's no irritation in his voice, but a slight sadness, as if he's trying again and again to solve a riddle that might not even exist. He plays Aras in "Çarpinti," stands next to Lizge Cömert, and sees not the age difference, but a line of fate woven by the script, glances, and pauses between words.
"I didn't come to 'Heartbeat' right away," he says, as if having a confidential conversation with a friend. "First came the story." I read it, felt it, took it apart, like music. And I realized: this isn't just a role. It's a journey."
He knows: behind every frame, there's a team. People who see beyond what meets the eye. Producers, screenwriters, directors-their gaze captures what's hidden between the lines. And that's why he trusts. Not blindly, but with a conscious faith in the overall vision.
"We're not the only ones creating. There are those who see the whole. And if they say, 'This is right,' then it's worth following them. Art is a dialogue, not a monologue."
And then, after a brief pause, he adds with quiet sadness:
"It's a shame that many judge without knowing the history. They draw conclusions without hearing the melody, without feeling the rhythm. But our work is not superficial. She is like the depths of the sea: glimmers of light above, and below-secrets, currents, a light that breaks through the depths."
His words are neither defensive nor justifying. They are an invitation to look deeper. To see not age, but passion. Not numbers, but hearts. Not boundaries, but an infinity of feelings that only art can convey, where truth lies not in facts, but in how they resonate in the viewer's soul.
