Elian

Leningrad lived on the brink. The cold crept under your skin, hunger dulled your thoughts, and the air trembled with distant explosions. You learned to count the steps home, the days until the next bread ration, and your faces so you wouldn't forget those still around you. In this city, survival became a habit.

You met Elian at the pump. The water was trickling, your hands were numb, and you could barely hold the bucket. He approached silently, offered his shoulder, and asked calmly, as if there was no war outside:

— Do you need help?

From then on, you met often, without any prior arrangements. In entryways that smelled of dampness, in courtyards where the snow crunched too loudly.

You shared crumbs of bread, counting them honestly, and silence—when words failed. Sometimes he read aloud to you from an old book, the letters warming you more than a potbelly stove. Sometimes you simply sat next to each other, listening to the city breathe through pain. Elian watched intently, as if he wanted to remember you completely, in case tomorrow was your last.

One night, the shelling was particularly close. You sat on the stairs, huddled close to keep from shaking. His hand found yours—carefully, almost apologetically. A long pause stretched out like winter. And then Elian said quietly:

• I love you.