Netflix Find: Old Money- The Unspoken Chemistry that Stayed With Me.

I recently watched a Turkish Drama series, Old Money, on Netflix, and I can’t stop thinking about it. On the surface, the story explores the clash between the generational wealth (old money) and the newly emerged rich (new money). At its heart, though, lies a love story between two people from opposite sides of the divide.

Why am I writing about this series? Because it got under my skin. The electric chemistry between the leads, the fine detailing in every scene, the freshness of the storyline, and the emotional undertone of the story completely won me over. I’ve already rewatched it countless times, and each time, I find myself falling for the story all over again.

Engin Akyürek as Osman Bulut. Osman lost his family in an earthquake when he was just nine. Only four of them survived—and they became this fragile, stitched-together family. They grew up, built a business empire, and Osman became this force—confident, unstoppable, successful. But inside? He’s still searching for himself.

He doesn’t remember much about his life before the earthquake, except for one fleeting memory.

He recalls being on a ship with his mother, sailing past a riverside mansion. His mother, radiant and happy, points to the mansion and says, “Look how happy they are.” He waves, and a little girl on the mansion’s grounds waves back until they are out of sight. He looks at his mother, but the sun shines behind her, and he can’t see her face, can’t remember her face (until the end of the movie).

Now grown up, he feels the sadness of remembering nothing—not even his mother’s face—except for that little girl. He remembers her clearly, down to the ladybug clips in her hair. As adults, circumstances bring Osman and Nihal Baydemir (Aslı Enver) together as rivals, but eventually they fall for each other.

He mentions their meeting as children and the ladybug clip, which she still has, and shows him. That tiny piece of memory, a fragment of his lost childhood, becomes a bridge between his past and present—a connection that holds profound significance.

Imagine what it must feel like to have no recollection of your childhood, your parents, your friends: the emptiness, the loneliness. And then, to find that girl and those little clips, one small piece of memory to cling to, the only memory that reminds him of his happy days as a child, the only memory that reminds him of the blurred face of his mother.

The other thing about the movie that moved me is a particular scene that showcases the slow-burning romance between Osman and Nihal, intensified by music, silence, and ambience.

They spend an evening dining with family and later share a private moment over drinks. Their conversation becomes deeply personal, and Nihal decides to leave.

The chemistry between Osan and Nihal is sizzling. There’s a kind of silence that speaks louder than words when Osman and Nihal stand facing each other. The room seems to shrink, the world narrows to the space between them—just a breath apart.

Whenever they come close to each other, the air feels alive, pulsing with something unsaid.

It’s the kind of nearness where time bends. Where you can almost taste the possibility of a kiss, yet it lingers, suspended, trembling in the air between them. The distance – so small, barely there – suddenly feels enormous.

That’s the thing about such moments—they’re not defined by touch, but by the ache of almost touching. By the gravity that pulls two people together and the restraint that keeps them apart. The push and pull. The quiet surrender. The silent war between desire and control.

Osman watches her leave. Nihal doesn’t look back, but her steps are slower than usual—as if a part of her is still standing there, in that space where they almost kissed.

That’s when the background music plays—“Turn Around (Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler).” The song actually made that moment immortal in my heart. The singer’s voice trembles like their nerves, and the lyrics convey a sense of hesitation, heartbreak, longing, fear, loneliness, and the emotional darkness perfectly reflecting the sentiments of Osman and Nihal.

Under the moonlit sky, they walk down the grand staircase. Suddenly, Osman stops her, kneels, and ties her sandal lace. She is surprised, touched, and utterly charmed. The smile she gives him—bewildered yet admiring—captures the quiet thrill of a new love.

Later, Osman opens the car door for her, and she steps in, leaving with a smile and a soft blush that says more than words ever could.

The scene made me realise how every small detail in storytelling matters. The ambience, the gestures, the pauses, the silences, and the music worked for me perfectly. The vastness of the song transported me to a bygone era, and yet it struck directly at the heart. What a brilliant choice of song and what a performance by the leads.

Everything went so well for me, but one thing left me puzzled: the lack of communication.  Osman and Nihal often fell short of speaking openly. Even though they had access to cellphones, they hardly used them in times of urgency. This led to miscommunication, prolonged tension, and being manipulated by people around them. I found myself screaming inside, “Text him! Call him!” But no—they didn’t. I understand texting might have been a modern convenience, but even phone calls seem feasible for such moments of emotional turmoil.

What stopped them from clarifying with each other? Was it ego? Lack of confidence? Fear of rejection? Or simply a lack of trust in the relationship? Despite their chemistry and deep connection, this gap in communication left them vulnerable.

That’s what made it real for me. The love, the connection, the chemistry… but also the flaws. The hesitations. The humanness of it all.

And now? I’m sitting here impatient, longing for more, and waiting for Season 2. Waiting to see if they finally say the things they should have said a hundred times before.

PS: This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

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