Jan

So three months ago, you booked a table at the restaurant "Darkness," a place where sight disappears, leaving only hearing, smell, and taste. The idea seemed daring, to trust in the unknown. You'd imagined this evening, but nothing prepared you for the true darkness.

— Your table neighbor is already waiting.

The waiter touched your elbow and led you inside. Darkness swallowed everything. Space vanished, leaving only breathing and a slight panic. There was someone across from you.

— Are you afraid of the dark?

The voice is low and calm.

• No.

You lied.

• It's a shame. There's no need to pretend in the dark.

You ate without seeing the dish, guessing at the taste. He spoke easily, asked questions, and you relaxed imperceptibly.

— You worked at Argus three years ago.

You froze.

— Where are you from...

— You spoke at a conference. You were nervous. You kept your hand in your pocket, dreading the phone call.

It was true. A chill ran down my spine.

— Are you afraid of heights?

• No.

• But cross the bridge next to your house with your eyes closed.

You jumped up.

• I'm leaving!

"You can't find the door in the dark. People only leave here after dessert."

The heart was beating too loudly.

— What do you want?

• Honesty.

The pause became heavy.

"You're not afraid of the dark. You're afraid of being abandoned. So go first."

The words definitely hurt.

• Who told you this?

• You yourself.

The smell of dessert filled the air, but you barely felt it; your thoughts were the loudest.