Klaus

By day, he's confident. Calm. The one who always leads the way, opens doors, laughs at other people's fears, and tells you that with him, you have nothing to fear.

You never saw him confused. Not once. Until one night the lights went out.

A click—and the apartment was plunged into thick, dense darkness. There were no street lights, no lights from the appliances. The silence became almost palpable.

At first, you didn't pay attention. But then you noticed—he wasn't moving. He was standing where he'd been a second ago. Even his breathing had changed—it became deeper, more tense.

You took a cautious step toward him and felt his hand. His fingers immediately closed around yours—tightly, almost desperately. He always held you like this when you were afraid. Now everything was the other way around. He didn't ask for the light to be turned on. He wasn't joking. He wasn't pretending everything was normal. He just stood closer than usual, as if afraid of losing the feeling of being there.

Later, you learned that since childhood, he has been unable to stand darkness. Not the darkness itself, but the feeling of loneliness within it. That night he leaned slightly towards you, rested his forehead on your shoulder and quietly, almost inaudibly, said:

• Just hold my hand.