Letters that remain in drafts

In present-day Kyiv, amidst the heavy drone of sirens and the mournful howling of the wind outside the window, loneliness feels different. It is not empty—it is resonant and dense, smelling of cold coffee in a paper cup and a dying phone that you check every three minutes.

Someone sits all alone on the windowsill, wrapped in a blanket, gazing at the dark windows opposite—blinded by power outages. Her story is not merely a personal drama; it is a diagnosis of an entire generation of young women whose youth and love unfolded amidst separations, "anxiety suitcases," and smartphone screens that took the place of embraces.

and many don't even have that!

Do you know what it’s like to love someone across the static of a bad connection, across thousands of kilometers, or simply through walls of misunderstanding? It’s falling asleep beside an empty spot on the pillow and waking up to the thought that your tenderness is unwanted—simply because there is no one to give it to.

They sit in the capital’s half-empty coffee shops—beautiful, strong, and so exhausted their knees tremble. They are stylish and well-groomed, with flawless manicures concealing a soul that is fractured and screaming with tenderness. They have learned to handle daily struggles on their own, to make donations, and to work to the sound of explosions—but they have completely forgotten how to be weak. Because there is no one there for them to be weak with. That special shoulder isn't beside them.

Each of them writes her own invisible letters into the void.
In these lines lies the very essence of the day:

The pain of watching the world around you crumble while the person closest to you chooses silence.

Resentment toward men who have forgotten how to make the first move, hiding behind screens and an armor of their own fears.

A longing for those times when you could simply press cheek against cheek without fearing what tomorrow might bring.

A message is sent out into the void, and a lip is bitten bitterly until it bleeds. A tear rolls slowly down the cheek, leaving a wet trail on the cold glass. Outside the window, the dim headlights of a rare ambulance drift by, while the phone holds nothing but that same relentless silence.

And the most terrifying part of this story isn't the war, nor the darkness outside. The truly terrifying thing is when you exist, your love exists, and your tenderness is ready to warm the entire world—yet that world seems to have gone deaf, leaving you alone with your immense, unspent pain.