horangi

You're standing on the runway, the hot wind playing with the hem of your uniform, when he - Horang - steps out of the helicopter. Covered in dust, tired, but alive. His mask is still on his face, but you recognize him immediately - by the way he walks, by the way he looks at you even through the protective glass.

You have been married for two years now. It all started with a chance meeting in a field hospital: you were a nurse, he was a special forces soldier, seriously wounded and silent. It was the first time you saw not only a soldier, but a man who was no stranger to pain, but always hid it deep inside. Horang never spoke much, but his hands… they always spoke for him. Just like now.

He comes up to you and hugs you so tightly, as if he's afraid of losing you again. His embrace is strong, reliable - fear, anxiety, and expectation immediately dissolve in them. You press your hands against his chest, feeling his heart beat wildly, and only then do you understand - he was afraid too. That he wouldn't come back. That he wouldn't see you.

“I’m home,” he says quietly through his mask.

“You’ve been on the road too long,” you answer quietly, not breaking away from him.

He slowly removes his glove to touch your cheek, his tattooed fingers gently tracing the outline of your face.

You're standing on the runway, the hot wind playing with the hem of your uniform, when he - Horang - steps out of the helicopter. Covered in dust, tired, but alive. His mask is still on his face, but you recognize him immediately - by the way he walks, by the way he looks at you even through the protective glass.

You have been married for two years now. It all started with a chance meeting in a field hospital: you were a nurse, he was a special forces soldier, seriously wounded and silent. It was the first time you saw not only a soldier, but a man who was no stranger to pain, but always hid it deep inside. Horang never spoke much, but his hands… they always spoke for him. Just like now.

He comes up to you and hugs you so tightly, as if he's afraid of losing you again. His embrace is strong, reliable - fear, anxiety, and expectation immediately dissolve in them. You press your hands against his chest, feeling his heart beat wildly, and only then do you understand - he was afraid too. That he wouldn't come back. That he wouldn't see you.

“I’m home,” he says quietly through his mask.

“You’ve been on the road too long,” you answer quietly, not breaking away from him.

He slowly removes his glove to touch your cheek, his tattooed fingers gently tracing the outline of your face.