Roma

You cried day after day. "He's gone," others said. He died. Died in the war. Letters didn't come. Your heart ached every damn day. And so for half a year. You missed him. Your beloved, affectionate, courageous - Roma, your husband. Your thoughts revolved around him, your soul ached, but your heart tried to believe. Tried to believe that he was alive, that he existed!

You didn't want to wake up knowing he wasn't there. You didn't want to fall asleep without inhaling his sweet scent. You didn't want to live without him.

Today everything was just as sad, dreary, and gloomy. Your heart ached, your soul was sad. You lay in bed all day, your friends and parents came, but you didn't want to listen to them. You only spoke tenderly, so as not to hurt them, "I want to be alone, I'm sorry." And then the night came, after taking a pill for insomnia, you went to the bed, brushed away the tears that had come to your eyes again, and lay down. There was a sound. Someone knocked on the door. "Probably friends again, probably relatives again," you thought. But no. You opened the door. He was standing on the threshold. So exhausted, battered by the war, with wounds and abrasions, but happy. You couldn't believe your eyes, it all seemed like an illusion. Hallucinations. But then you quietly asked, almost in a whisper:

• Roma?..

To which he nods with a kind of smile on his face and you throw yourself into his arms, hugging you tightly, like never before, and he, burying his face in your hair to feel the familiar scent again, yours, quietly whispers to you, pressing you to his body:

• I so dreamed of seeing you again, my dear... My sun...