There are things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself

Host: The room was dim — one flickering lamp fought the darkness, casting fractured light across walls lined with books that looked untouched for years. The rain pressed against the window, slow and deliberate, tracing lines down the glass like confessions written by the sky itself.

The faint hum of a record player filled the silence — a low, haunting jazz tune drifting like cigarette smoke in the air.

At a heavy oak table sat Jack, his hands steepled beneath his chin, his eyes shadowed, his voice quiet but taut with something unspoken. Across from him, Jeeny sat curled in an armchair, the lamplight catching the edge of her cheekbone. Between them, a small glass of whiskey waited untouched.

The room smelled of paper, smoke, and memory.

Jeeny: softly “Fyodor Dostoevsky once wrote, ‘There are things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.’”
She looked up at Jack, her tone careful. “Do you think he meant guilt?”

Jack: after a pause “He meant truth. The kind that’s too raw to name — the kind that would burn if spoken aloud.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered faintly through the window, painting his reflection beside hers — two faces caught between confession and concealment.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like every person carries a secret wound.”

Jack: half-smiling “Don’t we? You live long enough, you start collecting regrets the way trees collect rings. Each one invisible, but none of them gone.”

Jeeny: “But he says ‘decent man.’ Like it’s not the wicked who hide the worst truths — it’s the moral ones.”

Jack: “Exactly. The wicked don’t bother hiding. Only the moral try to bury what doesn’t fit their own definition of goodness.”

Jeeny: thoughtfully “So conscience becomes the graveyard of honesty.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The more virtuous you want to be, the more lies you end up living with.”

Host: The record skipped once, the needle catching, before returning to its slow lament.

Jeeny: “You think we’re afraid of our sins or of what they reveal about who we really are?”

Jack: “Both. People can handle mistakes — they can’t handle seeing their true reflection.”

Jeeny: quietly “And what’s that reflection?”

Jack: looking up at her “A self that’s neither saint nor sinner — just human. Flawed, selfish, yearning. That’s what Dostoevsky was obsessed with — the moral tightrope. The decent man who knows he’s capable of indecency.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder crawled across the night sky, distant but heavy, like the earth remembering something unpleasant.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We hide the things that make us human — and then wonder why we feel so alone.”

Jack: bitterly “Because honesty’s the only intimacy we’re not built for.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in confession?”

Jack: “Confession’s easy. Understanding’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of truth, if no one wants to hear it?”

Jack: leaning back, eyes distant “Maybe truth isn’t meant to be heard. Maybe it’s meant to be carried — a reminder that decency isn’t the absence of darkness, but the courage to live with it.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and the shadows on the walls shifted like silent spectators.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve got your own vault of untold things.”

Jack: smirking faintly “Everyone does. Some just hide it better.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: after a long silence “I don’t hide it. I just don’t open it.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because some truths aren’t meant to be solved — only survived.”

Host: Her eyes softened, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass between them. “Maybe that’s why Dostoevsky called them ‘afraid to tell.’ It’s not about shame — it’s about survival. The mind protects itself from what the soul can’t bear.”

Jack: “Yeah. People think repression is weakness. It’s not. It’s a defense mechanism — the only one that lets you keep functioning.”

Jeeny: after a moment “But doesn’t that mean we’re all living partial lives? Half awake?”

Jack: “Maybe. But full awareness is a kind of madness. Too much truth can break you.”

Host: The rain hit harder now, the rhythm building — a percussion of unease. Jeeny rose, walked to the window, and looked out at the slick streets below. Her reflection hovered beside the storm.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: softly “What?”

Jeeny: “We don’t fear the darkness in us. We fear the tenderness that lives inside it. The longing, the love, the fragility we try to drown in pride. That’s the part we can’t face.”

Jack: studying her “You think love’s the real secret?”

Jeeny: “Always. The kind you lost. The kind you couldn’t say. The kind you ruined trying to protect yourself.”

Host: The room went still again. The record ended, the needle scratching quietly at the center.

Jack: in a whisper “Then every decent man is a graveyard of his own love stories.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “And every decent woman is the ghost who still forgives him.”

Host: Her words hung there, trembling between them like the last note of a forgotten song. The rain eased. The silence grew deeper — not empty, but full of things unspoken.

Jack reached for the whiskey, poured two glasses, and raised his slightly toward her.

Jack: “To the things we’ll never say.”

Jeeny: clinking her glass softly against his “And to the courage it takes to keep living with them.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two souls in half-light, their reflections fractured by the windowpane. The world outside still glistened with rain — a thousand mirrors, none of them forgiving.

And as the scene slowly dissolved into the hum of night, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s words would echo softly, timeless and terrible:

“There are things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.”

Because decency is not purity —
it is endurance.

And truth, once known,
is not something you confess —
it is something you carry.

We are all houses with locked rooms,
haunted not by evil,
but by the memories we cannot forgive ourselves for.

To be human
is to live with those ghosts —
to drink with them quietly,
and learn, somehow,
to keep breathing in their company.