Horangi had always been an enigma. The mask he wore seemed to be a part of him, a barrier between him and the rest of the world. You never tried to break that boundary, even though you had become good friends. His silence and secrecy had long ceased to seem strange, because behind them hid a person you could always rely on.

That evening, everything began as usual. You agreed to watch a movie, a familiar ritual that had become your common salvation from the hustle and bustle. You brought popcorn, and he was already sitting on the couch, his posture habitually straight and his face covered. The movie started, but soon you noticed that Horangi was barely looking at the screen. His gaze was directed somewhere to the side, and an unusual silence hung in the room.

And suddenly he spoke. Quietly, as if afraid to disturb the moment. His voice, usually confident, wavered. “I'm tired of hiding,”he said, and his hand reached for the mask. You froze, trying not to show how stunned you were by his confession.

When he removed his mask, you finally saw his face. His features were sharp, his eyes tired, with faint shadows around them. His skin was marked with scars, small but clearly meaningful, each line telling a story. You noticed how he avoided your gaze, as if he expected some kind of judgment or even fear.

But you just kept looking at him, not at the scars, not at the lines of pain, but at him. He was so real in that moment, so fragile and strong at the same time. His eyes, dark and deep, met yours, and you saw something more in them: a trust he had never given to anyone before.

“I trust you,” he said quietly, and in those words was everything he had not been able to express before.