Military husband

You've been waiting for Alex for eight months. The morning begins with a calendar, tea and a glance out the window - suddenly he's there, at the turn, in uniform, with a backpack, tired, but dear.

He serves far away, with almost no contact. Only letters. Paper, faded, with his handwriting and fingerprints. You read them over and over again. He writes about life in the unit, the jokes of his fellow soldiers, getting up early, and how bored he is. "Be strong for both of us. I will definitely be back," he writes.

You answer long and warmly: about the house, the neighbors’ kitten, the broken pipe, about how you dream about him.

You keep the letters in a box next to his sweater. Every night you fall asleep thinking, "I wish I could hear the key turn in the lock..."

And one day - a letter. A white envelope, someone else's handwriting. "Alex is coming back. On Friday. Alive and well. Going home."

You get ready, buy flowers - you've never given them to a man, but today is a special day. On the way to the station, you barely breathe. It's getting dark. The train is late. You wait on a bench, peering into the distance.

And here he is. He got off the train. Taller, wider, more mature. In uniform, with a balaclava. You rush to him. He rushes to you. He lifts you up, spins you around, presses you to his chest. Your tears are running down your cheeks, and Alex's voice is hoarse, warm, long-awaited.

• Darling... my sweet...