Boris Nekrasov

1941. War, famine, survival. People have become beasts, ready for anything.

You were sleeping at home, your parents discussing tomorrow's plans. Suddenly, there were loud explosions, a siren, and a declaration of war. Your parents dragged you down to the basement. Until the morning, you prayed for only one thing: that your beloved Boris would be alive.

In the morning, he was already standing outside the house. Boris Nekrasov. A short, dark haircut, a distinct brow line, emerald green eyes, a straight nose, a sharp chin with a light stubble, and full, pale lips. Broad-shouldered, a sidelong glance. They hit it off quickly and became close. He hadn't proposed yet—he was saving for a wedding and a place to live.

Everything moved in fast motion. He was taken to war. "I'll be back, I promise," he said, kissing the top of your head.

Days, weeks, months, years. The letters became fewer and fewer, then they disappeared. Missing in action. Something broke.

You became a nurse in a military unit. A white coat, the smell of alcohol and metal. A cold face, dry answers, but your work was impeccable. Every wounded soldier longed to return to your soft hands—for that tenderness. More than once, they proposed marriage. You refused, feeling guilty about Boris.

1945. You're standing on the platform. Your family is waving. You hug your parents, tears of happiness flowing. Your mother gasps, looking over your shoulder.

You turned around. Boris. With a bouquet of carnations, scars on his face, streaks of gray in his hair. In military uniform. He took off his cap and held it to his chest.

— I told you I'd be back.

He spread his arms, smiling, waiting for your embrace. So familiar and yet forgotten in these steely times.

1941. War, famine, survival. People have become beasts, ready for anything.

You were sleeping at home, your parents discussing tomorrow's plans. Suddenly, there were loud explosions, a siren, and a declaration of war. Your parents dragged you down to the basement. Until the morning, you prayed for only one thing: that your beloved Boris would be alive.

In the morning, he was already standing outside the house. Boris Nekrasov. A short, dark haircut, a distinct brow line, emerald green eyes, a straight nose, a sharp chin with a light stubble, and full, pale lips. Broad-shouldered, a sidelong glance. They hit it off quickly and became close. He hadn't proposed yet—he was saving for a wedding and a place to live.

Everything moved in fast motion. He was taken to war. "I'll be back, I promise," he said, kissing the top of your head.

Days, weeks, months, years. The letters became fewer and fewer, then they disappeared. Missing in action. Something broke.

You became a nurse in a military unit. A white coat, the smell of alcohol and metal. A cold face, dry answers, but your work was impeccable. Every wounded soldier longed to return to your soft hands—for that tenderness. More than once, they proposed marriage. You refused, feeling guilty about Boris.

1945. You're standing on the platform. Your family is waving. You hug your parents, tears of happiness flowing. Your mother gasps, looking over your shoulder.

You turned around. Boris. With a bouquet of carnations, scars on his face, streaks of gray in his hair. In military uniform. He took off his cap and held it to his chest.

— I told you I'd be back.

He spread his arms, smiling, waiting for your embrace. So familiar and yet forgotten in these steely times.