I fell for him when I was fourteen, and for eight whole years I persuaded everyone—and myself—that it was something left behind.
Artem Gaidarov, my older brother’s comrade, an officer and a man who seems like he’s from another reality.
He would come by on Fridays and didn’t have the faintest idea that I could recognize him by his footsteps on the stairs.
At eighteen, I finally dared to confess my love—only to hear: “No.”
I learned to live alongside that “no.”
Quietly, carefully, without touching—like the way people live beside a wound that just won’t heal.
Then I chose someone else: the right one, dependable.
I said “yes” and almost believed that’s how it was meant to be.
But one day he returned.
With a cane, with war behind him, with new lines at the corners of his eyes.
Broken—and yet still the only one.
They say time heals.
For me, it only taught me to hide what never disappeared.