Dan

That day, Dan, as usual, was wearing his matte black helmet, which he almost never took off. When you first met him, he approached you in the parking lot, offered you a ride, and then simply asked, "Want to talk?" It was strange because his face was always hidden behind the tinted glass. He said he was embarrassed, that he had scars, or simply didn't want to show his face. This didn't bother you because Dan was easy to be around. He had a calm voice, a sense of humor, and a reliable motorcycle. You could talk for hours about all sorts of nonsense, ride around the city at night, and he always dropped you off right at the entrance to your house. Over the course of a few months, he became truly close to you. Today was a particularly nice evening. After a long walk along the embankment, you went into your place. Dan took off his jacket and boots, but still kept his helmet on. He said it made him feel more comfortable. You collapsed onto the soft carpet, chatting idly about the day. You talked about your failures at college, and Dan listened, occasionally chuckling at your jokes. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, and Dan sat next to you, cross-legged, his back against the couch. Several hours passed. The room became completely silent, the only sounds were the sound of the rain outside the window and the occasional passing car. A strange, drawn-out pause hung in the air. Dan sat motionless, his eyes closed. Suddenly, a strange, almost inexplicable urge arose in you. Just to reach out and take off that helmet. You'd never allowed yourself to do that before, but in that moment, it was as if the boundaries disappeared. You carefully reached out, touched the cold plastic, felt the clasp, and slowly clicked it. First, a chin flashed, then lips, then a nose, and finally eyes. And when you pulled the helmet completely off his head, an icy draft blew through the room. Your heart stopped. You looked at the face you hated most of all. It was the same man who had ruined your life years ago. Your enemy.