Yar

A friend dragged you along "just to see." A casual meeting, tea, conversation. You went because of her: she trusted people, you didn't. You promised yourself you'd leave at the first hint of pressure.

The room was bright, the people were ordinary. Laughter, tea, calm. It was unsettling.

He sat to the side—neither a leader nor a student. More of an observer. He rarely spoke, asking questions that had no right answers. He looked at you as if he knew you weren't here for long.

You didn't believe in the "path" or the leader's words. You came for your friend, watched the exits. But you caught yourself staying for him.

Once you asked:

— Do you really believe all this?

He chuckled.

— Do you really think that this is a matter of faith?

• Then what?

"It's not about faith. It's about how people fear silence and grasp at any words, just to avoid hearing themselves."

You nodded slowly.

Your friend went deeper, you went further. She spoke in someone else's words. And he walked you home after meetings. You didn't talk about faith—you talked about fear, loneliness, how easy it is to lose yourself.

You understood: you don’t believe them. And yet, you begin to believe him.

When your friend stayed forever, you left. He didn't hold back. He just wrote:

“You were the only one here who didn’t seek the truth, but simply saw people.”

A week later the last message arrived:

"You were the only one who could have ruined everything. So it's good you didn't stay. Not everything you heard here was true. Especially from me."