You didn't need to ask the question to know the answer, everybody knew the answer, but that was never the point; the point was that nobody wanted to know it; that nobody had ever wanted to know the answer because the truth is that while the truth is a hurtful thing, the answer is her gruesome sister and nobody ever wanted to get engaged with any of the two - no matter on what occasion or for what reason - since they were way too afraid to be told something that they didn't want to hear, something that would hurt them, disturb them or ruin them, everyone knew what the truth and the answer were capable of, what they could do to people; horrible things, I tell you, things that you never want to witness or even imagine for the tiniest bit of a second, things that, even if you wanted to, you couldn't make up in your wildest dreams because human nature can only stand a limited amount of cruelty and things that, god save us all, you could not experience without being marked with pain and scars that will stay forever, never leave and always remind you of the cruelty that the horrible duo brought with itself; the cruelty of knowledge, knowing two very horrible sisters in this world: truth and answer.

I woke up. Now, that doesn't seem like anything breathtakingly surprising, but I sure was surprised when I woke up; I was in my bed. Again, that might not seem surprising to most people out there. I was in my bed and everything was like I remembered; the wallpapers, the night stand, the bookshelf and the desk in the corner.

You probably don't see any problems there, but I certainly do. Because actually, I'm dead. So what am I doing here?

N. about E.

Coffee, books and sweets,

Never knows what he should say

Always sticks to dreams.

E. about N.

Rarely serious,

Joking, laughing, lovely face,

Beautiful a man.

Dear Diary

I'm scared. Well, obviously I would be, it's a zombie apocalypse. Thinking about it, scared might be a bit underestimated.

I woke up this morning to weird noises outside the flat, but I didn't really have the spirit to get up early, you know me. Sleep is my guilty pleasure.

If I had looked out the window though, I would have seen this: dead people. Some on the floor, unmoving , others walking (or rather, creeping) down the street, covered in blood and dirt. They walked into things or pushed them over, occasionally attacked the few living people who were still out. Because I didn't get up, I enjoyed another hour of piece.

My family is alive, at least for now. I'm alive, at least for now. I called them when I finally saw the chaos outside, the landline doesn't work anymore, but my mobile does.

Since this is the apocalypse, probably, I'm at least going to keep my humour.

I mean, isn't that drop dead funny?

Walking around the world means walking past strangers. You don't even notice, most of the time, yet there they are - strangers.

In your mind, you know they are people like you and everybody else, but never did it occur to you that maybe the man you just passed is married to somebody. Did you ever think the girl next to you on the bus might be hopelessly in love with the one that sits right opposite to her, while she doesn't even give her a second glance? Have you ever really realized that these people have names, birthdays, families?

To you, they are just faces walking by, sitting next to you, bodies that accidentally brush your shoulder in the mass of people around you, something you forget in less than a second. They are there, then they are not, they appear and vanish before you could even consider taking a second glance at them. It happens every day, over and over.

But what if one day, one face turned into a person? If a person took the seat next to you on the train and said hello, what happens? If that person asked what book you are reading and where you are going, if this particular person told you a name?

Now that there is a name, a voice, a meeting and an exchange of words, maybe the person and you stay in touch, exchange numbers, meet to chat and get to know each other.

Then there's a birthday, a name, a family, maybe a hobby, a job, and suddenly, you forget that this person was a stranger just the tiniest bit of time ago. Somebody you would have walked past or sitten next to without  so much as acknowledging their presence, if the stranger hadn't decided to stop being one - a stranger, a face - and begin to be a person. A birthday, a name, a family. Maybe a hobby, a job.