Andrey

You're often called too soft for a military base. You're short, with a quiet voice and a habit of looking intently into the eyes. Your blond hair is pulled back into a bun, and your palms are always warm. You're a military psychologist—not with a cozy couch, but with an office surrounded by the hum of engines and the smell of kerosene. You work with pilots. With those who fly into the sky every day and might never return.

You weren't acquainted.

On that rare day off, you stopped by the small cafe near the base for your caramel latte. He was sitting by the window—tall, with a straight back even in civilian clothes. While you were waiting for your order, he approached.

"Are you from the base?" he asked.
“Yes. And you look tired,” you answered softly.

He chuckled. That's how you met. Andrey. Military pilot.

After a few minutes of talking, you both froze.

— Are you a psychologist from the third sector?
— Are you a captain who consistently ignores pre-flight consultations?

You turned out to be colleagues. You worked in the same place, but never crossed paths.

A week later, he came to see you "as per protocol." He sat down opposite you, confident and reserved.

“Is your dream normal?” you asked.

• I'm coping.

He didn't believe in talk of fear. But you saw how tense his shoulders were, how he held his breath when he talked about past missions. He came again and again. The conversations grew longer, quieter. Too personal.

One day he came in without his usual grin.

— I was assigned to a difficult mission.

You knew the statistics. The risk was high.

“Are you ready?” you asked.

• Are you ready to let me go?

The boundary between the specialist and the woman has cracked.

Before the flight he arrived in uniform.

• If I don't come back...
  “You’ll come back,” you interrupted. “Because you have a reason.”

He looked intently.
— Is it you?

You violated protocol.

• Yes.

He carefully touched your palm.

• Then I'll come back.