A few minutes later, more news by mobile phone: a second shooting. Then more news: a third shooting. A fourth shooting. Hostages taken. All in the La République neighborhood where we were. And a bombing at the Stade de France stadium, far from where we were. We had finished our main course and had not yet had dessert, but some people in our group were thinking about going home. I recommended we shelter in place and not try to go home. We did, and almost everyone in the restaurant made the same choice.

A côté d’eux, un mec en t-shirt Joy Division et au pantalon déchiré et plein de sang, hagard. “J’étais au concert, j’ai pu courir ici.” Confirmation directe qu’il s’est passé un truc grave au Bataclan. Mais quoi?

22:35 — We start switching off every light and sound, everybody is down the floor. The owner open his cellar and everyone is going down one by one. Some people start panicking, others are drunk, we don’t understand everything right now.

Crouched in the corner, I held hands with Lara and a beautiful stranger. She was Muslim, and apologized, reiterating with sadness that this was not her true religion.

J’ai gardé les yeux fermés mais j’ai tout entendu, la pauvre fille qui pleurait et le pauvre mec qui gémissait de douleur au loin. Je me souviens de la personne à l’agonie incapable de respirer de l’autre côté de la barrière. Et surtout, quand l’un d’eux a approché en montant sur la scène, je crois qu’il a tiré sur un mec juste derrière moi, dont le hurlement me hante encore.

A wave of panic slowly rolling across the city. We would walk 200 metres and there would be calm, and then a minute later people would scramble from their chairs. The same thing in another 200 metres. When we got back to our apartment we turned on the news. Watching in disbelief.

129 hommes et femmes, beaucoup dans leur fraîche jeunesse, Français, Américains ou Chiliens, sont tombés sous leurs balles ou face à l’explosion de leurs grenades et de leurs explosifs.

Around 2:30 in the morning they told us that it was a good time to leave. The siege was over. They told us to leave quietly, only a few at a time. Turn right then left and keep walking — quickly. The night was filled with sirens and ambulances lined the block.

Still drunk, I’m walking fast near the walls, taking small streets of Paris to come home safely.

A trois heures du matin enfin, un sommeil agité m’emporte, mais pas de soulagement : même dans mes cauchemars, les attentats ont eu lieu.

The following day, I felt like a zombie. Like many, we were jittery, and not quite feeling ourselves.

La matinée a été incroyablement calme pour un samedi, comme anesthésiée. Même les oiseaux faisaient silence. La France, assommée par les événements survenus la nuit dernière, reste au chaud, sert ses enfants, embrasse ses proches.

Pero algo cambio en la gente… se siente la tristeza, huele a confusión, se percibe el dolor.

“It must look like a war zone there!” people kept telling me, as I looked out at the leaves.

Of course, inside it’s different. That’s where the war zone is. When the people on the boulevard Voltaire were told to stay inside because there were shooters on the streets, we also closed our shutters, waiting. The utter unreasonableness of the targets this time made us realize we didn’t know what was going to happen next.

Only a deep and overwhelming fear could push these lively people into the safety of their homes, to dwell on what had happened the night prior.

The what-ifs are haunting me. What if I had made the reservation later? What if I had picked a restaurant four doors down? What if we had been walking to our restaurant when they opened fire at the bar, steps from where we had been only an hour earlier?

I needed to take a breath outside. It’s a really weird feeling because you’re still shocked with everything and you see some people here really happy, mostly tourist, like nothing happened here but this doesn’t feel good for you… I’m stuck with these images, we were lucky, but it could be me.

A few streets away, a store’s iron curtain is down, and a small crowd’s gathered in front of it. Coming closer, I see that photos have been taped to the metal, and people are putting flowers and candles on the sidewalk. A man is crying quietly, a woman gently patting his back.

The base of the giant Marianne monument was invisible, covered by tens of thousands of flowers, candles, hand-written notes and pictures of loved ones, all placed against the 120 year-old granite, defaced the last five days by patriotic graffiti artists.

Just above the uncountable flotsam and jetsam of homage and the spray-painted phrase “Tu ne tueras pas” (“You won’t kill us”), there was a scrawled message above a simple smiling face on a folded sheet: MÊME PAS PEUR : NOT AFRAID. Photographers from Getty Images crouched in front of it, twisting their bodies in an attempt to get the perfect angle.

It’s Monday evening now. The sky has finally allowed itself to shed tears over Paris. The dark night and delicate rain are showing their solemn allegiance. Broken hearts, crushed dreams, devastated families and a heartbroken city, all for not.