Книга
The Night That Changed Everything
It was 4:20 AM on February 24, 2022. The night was shattered by the sounds of explosions and distant sirens. My heart pounded in my chest as I woke up, my body trembling with fear. The war had reached my home.
I began hastily packing a small bag, my hands shaking. Gently, I woke Ihor, my boyfriend, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Ihor, we need to leave. Now.”
He rubbed his eyes, confused and scared.
“Where will we go? What should we do?”
I had no answers—only fear and hope, mixed together. Ihor tried to help me cross the border with our small dog and cat, but the border guards didn’t allow him to leave Ukraine. He had to go back home with the cat, while I left alone—with only our dog.
I had to leave everything behind and head to Germany by myself, holding my little dog close. Ihor stayed behind in Ukraine, just him and our cat. The first two weeks in Germany were the hardest of my life. I cried every day, not knowing where to go, what to do, or how to live without Ihor beside me. I was terrified for him—for everyone left behind in the chaos of war.
Our evening calls were filled with stories of destruction—how Ihor and the cat hid in the windowless bathroom, how people were dying, and how the war had swallowed our lives. I listened to his voice, clinging to the belief that he would come to me soon.
One day, I called him, and instead of a hello, I heard the sound of missiles whistling and air raid sirens. In that moment, I realized—I couldn’t live like this anymore. I needed to go back to him.
But Ihor told me, “Don’t rush. I’ll come to you soon.”
Those words gave me the hope I desperately needed.
But over time, I began to realize—he wasn’t coming. I spent my days walking the dog in the park, staring at unfamiliar streets, thinking about Ihor and our cat. Every evening my eyes filled with tears, my heart aching with pain and doubt.
Weeks passed. Then months. Ihor grew more distant. He rarely answered calls—sometimes not at all. I sensed something was wrong, but I refused to believe it.
Six months later, Ihor called and said he was coming to Germany. He explained he was delivering medical supplies for the Ukrainian army and civilians. I waited for him with both hope and fear.
Finally, he arrived. We hugged for a long time, and I couldn’t hold back my tears of joy and relief. It was the happiest day of my life. After a week together, Ihor had to return to Ukraine. I didn’t want to let him go, but he held me close and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”
I waited, dreaming every day of our reunion. Then he called and said he was coming again—this time with the cat. My heart filled with joy. We’d finally be together—all of us.
When he arrived, it felt like home again. They didn’t even check the cat’s documents at the Polish border. We walked, laughed, talked—I felt happy.
But slowly, I noticed something had changed. Ihor began to hide his phone. I tried to talk to him, asked if everything was okay. He said yes, and I tried to believe him. Another month passed. He went back to Ukraine again, this time staying longer. He grew more distant, not answering my calls. I started to feel that there was someone else.
I tried to push the thought away, but doubt lingered.
When Ihor came back to Germany, I made dinner. We opened a bottle of wine. But the air felt tense.
He said, “We need to talk.”
“I love and respect you,” he began, “but we should just be friends.”
My heart shattered into a million pieces. I couldn’t understand what was happening.
“Why?” I asked. “Do you have someone else?”
“No,” he replied. “I just think it’s better if we stay friends.”
I felt like it was February 24th all over again—the same paralyzing pain.
He went back to Ukraine and stayed there. A week later, friends told me they’d seen him with another woman in our town. Everything I feared became real. I finally understood why he wanted to end it.
My world collapsed. A month after our breakup, my father passed away—a second blow to my heart. Two months later, my grandfather died. My life came to a halt. Every day, I asked the universe why I was being tested this way.
Sitting alone, I realized—our nine years together flew by like a glass of wine—sweet, fast, and painful.
I felt like I didn’t want to live anymore. Everything seemed hopeless. I tried to talk to Ihor again, suggested we try again—long distance. But he had already moved on.
His calls no longer brought me joy—I cried at night. Wine couldn’t numb the depression.
One day, I decided to return to Ukraine.
In March 2024, I came back, full of sorrow but determined to start over. Ihor was already living with the new woman in the same town where we had once built our dreams. It felt like a knife in the heart, but I knew—it was the end of our story.
Our nine years together were the happiest moments of my life. We laughed, dreamed, loved the mountains and the sea, shared hopes for the future. Now, those memories are both my greatest treasure and my deepest wound.
Depression washed over me like a dark wave. But I found the strength to hold onto hope. Life takes people away to make space for others. And I’m ready to move forward.
One day, fate introduced me to an American—a man who helped me believe in myself again. Ahead of me lies New York, a new life full of hope and possibility.
Life is not just about suffering. It’s about lessons that make us stronger. So I say to you: never give up, don’t be afraid to start again, because a new dawn always waits beyond the darkness.
I will share my life in New York in the second book.
