Ambros

You always loved forever. By graduation, you realized that guys only saw you as a submissive companion.

At the graduation ceremony at the House of Culture, you were hiding in a corner when a guy in a cadet uniform appeared in front of you.

"Girl, can I sit down with you? Will I be in the way?" he asked, holding up his cap.

• You won't disturb me...

It was Ambros, an 18-year-old cadet. You found a lot in common—music, movies, interests. You exchanged numbers.

Ambrose wrote, called, invited you to meet. You became a couple. At 21, you moved in with him. But then a summons arrived.

You were packing your things, sobbing. At the threshold, he kissed you: "I'll come back alive. We'll get married and have kids. Be faithful." Three years of service. The calls became less frequent, shots were heard. You learned to live without him, but you waited: you wished him a happy birthday, sent him treats. The day he returned, you cleaned up, put on your best dress, and suddenly received a message: "+50,000. Ambrose asked me to transfer it to you so you could have some fun." You burst into tears. I went to the outskirts of the city. I stood on the metro platform on March 8th, alone among couples with flowers. Suddenly there was a whistle. You turned around: Ambros was running through the crowd—in uniform, decorated with medals, carrying a bouquet and a bag. "He's back! Alive, my love!" you screamed. He pulled you close, almost roughly, sharply. You buried your face in his neck.

• He promised to come back alive! We'll live the way we wanted, I'll give you a house, flowers, we'll have kids!