My guest today is a very tired woman, her face marked by deep wrinkles and a heavy, lifeless gaze. I've seen eyes like these before—they mirror the pain of an irretrievable loss.

  I prepare her a cup of hot, sharp black coffee, not even attempting to soften its bitterness. No sugar. Even the cherries are slightly unripe, adding another layer of tartness to the dense, almost viscous drink. This mix of flavors will jolt her awake, pull her away — if only for a fleeting moment — from the terrible, ringing emptiness inside her…

  "Our first meeting wasn’t much of a fairy tale. And, to be honest, neither was our life together. Still, that time was magical."

  She reaches for the cup absentmindedly, almost automatically. Only the memory of Him brings the faintest shadow of a smile to her once-beautiful, radiant face. But her eyes remain empty, lifeless. The pain of loss is too strong; a cup of coffee can hardly dilute it — especially when that pain is mixed with a senseless, suffocating guilt…

  "He taught me so much. With him, I became... no, not smarter — more mature. He loved to raise deep, philosophical questions and could immerse himself in thought for hours, even days. Everyday problems seemed never to touch him; he stood far above the mundane.

  Out of food? No big deal, we’d dash to the store and figure something out. Or we’d drop by friends or relatives. And in the meantime, he might dream up some extravagant handmade gift for them. It would always be unusual, yet perfectly fitting.

  Got a rip in your favorite shirt? Too bad, of course — but an extra patch would only make it feel even more familiar, more yours. And it didn’t matter if there wasn’t the right color of thread.

  Forgot a friend’s birthday? No problem — he’d have an unforgettable greeting ready. It might be a freshly written song on the guitar. Or a life-size portrait, sketched in pencil — on the kitchen wallpaper.

  Next to him, I always felt down-to-earth, plain, almost dull. And I could never keep up. He could easily step out to take out the trash and vanish for a month. Once he happened to bump into a trucker acquaintance near the store and decided on the spot to ride along with him to the sea. Still in flip-flops and a stretched-out T-shirt.

  I couldn’t do that… Despite our nearly ten-year age gap, I always felt older, more responsible when it came to the household. How could I just abandon the house, the flowers on the windowsill, my job — and run off, still in my loungewear, to wherever the road might lead?

  I tried to create comfort around him. If I couldn’t keep up, I would at least make sure he no longer felt the urge to rush anywhere. Especially since he himself couldn’t always explain what called to him beyond the horizon. Or maybe he just didn’t want to explain it to me… so down-to-earth, so ordinary, so small-minded…

  I succeeded… I think… though I can’t honestly take credit for it. Perhaps it was simply age. Or perhaps some new lofty idea made him suddenly settle down at home and turn into a hermit.

  It happened quietly, almost matter-of-factly. Without suffering, without depression, without lamentations about his once free, tumbleweed-like life. As if he had always lived this way: at home, in the peace and silence of four walls.

  I was happy. At last, he was completely mine. No more competing for his attention with the world outside. How wrong I was…”

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  The guest sobbed convulsively and pushed the cup aside. She reached for a cherry and began rolling it between her fingers, just to keep her hands busy.

  Come on, my dear, let the bitterness of the coffee mix with your inner nightmare, let it overflow the cup of hopelessness and grief inside you…

  “The changes crept in unnoticed. Or maybe I simply didn’t want to see them, intoxicated by my happiness. I couldn’t get enough of his presence beside me, couldn’t stop savoring his warmth. I could have lain in his arms for days, just breathing in his scent.

  But after a while, even I could tell something was wrong. The feeling broke slyly through the dense fog of happiness and never left me.

  He didn’t avoid me; on the contrary, he started sharing his deep philosophical thoughts more and more. He tried to draw me into higher matters. It wasn’t natural to me. I never shared his anguish over the fragility of the world — I was too preoccupied with everyday concerns. But for his peace of mind, I was willing to listen to him talk for hours.

  But peace never came to him. I couldn’t replace the rush of wind while driving off-road, or the sound of a train fading into the distance across some wasteland far from civilization. I couldn’t replace the warmth of a campfire, burning like a beacon in the middle of the endless desert.

  He tried. But he knew it too. He understood it even more clearly than my plain, earthbound self. And still he tried to make me a substitute for the world outside. I don’t know why. I can’t believe that after so many years he suddenly recognized my efforts, suddenly loved me. No — there was something else. But I still don’t know what. He never told me.

  Over time, things only got worse. He gradually stopped talking to his friends, cutting off every tie. No, there were no fights — he just stopped calling, stopped showing up. He became a shadow of his former self and slowly withdrew from everyone but me.

  And then he stopped leaving the house altogether. Any attempt I made to coax him outside felt like forced labor. That look on his face whenever I managed to drag him out, even just to the nearest grocery store — like he was carrying the sins of all humanity. As if the air outside the apartment had suddenly turned toxic, searing him with every breath.

  This pathological refusal to go out was compounded by the news. He somehow managed to fill his feed with every awful thing happening in the world. And it became truly unbearable once that awfulness seemed to creep right up to our doorstep. That became his official reason for not leaving. Scum and enemies everywhere — everyone out to hurt him, to destroy his life.

  No rational argument worked anymore. No alternative news, no messages from friends who, like me, were still trying to pull him out of that endless pit of fear and despair.

  It got so bad that I started recording videos of the streets I walked on, just to prove that the dangers in his news feed were exaggerated — and that some stories were outright fabricated. Needless to say, it didn’t help. Sometimes it even made things worse. At one point, he accused me of being in league with the villains from his feed.

  He told me I either couldn’t see the truth through my rose-colored glasses, or was deliberately lying to lure him into this cruel, bloody world outside our walls.

  He had buried himself alive within four walls…”

  The guest broke down in tears. The bitterness of the coffee had done its work. The pain of loss can’t be bottled up; it has to come out — through tears, through screams, through hysteria. Any way at all, as long as it leaves the fragile human body…

  “He kicked me out. Said it had become too dangerous here and I had to leave.

  I was terrified. I’d grown so used to being with him, under his protection. I’m so down-to-earth, so ordinary. I screamed, threw open the windows, tried to fight him, threw things. I didn’t want to leave without him. I didn’t want to leave at all… but who asked me?

  I had to go. He simply took my keys and locked the door in my face.

  Later he stopped communicating altogether… sealed himself up alive in that apartment… voluntarily renounced the world he had once loved so fiercely…

  And I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t replace the world for him, couldn’t show him there’s always something worth loving. I couldn’t…”

  My guest rose, still choking on her tears. She was lucky — lucky that he still had just enough clarity not to pull her down into that four-walled concrete coffin with him. Because she would have gone without hesitation…

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