Raphael

Every girl dreams of romance in a novel. You were seventeen—a fragile city girl with a book. In the village, at your grandmother's, your fairy tale came to life. He noticed you immediately: eighteen years old, hair the color of vanilla. An acquaintance by the lake blossomed into a first tender feeling. But the summer ended with the army. On the platform, you vowed to wait, and he whispered, "I love you madly, please wait."

In the city, you lived by letters. Five months of replies, and then—silence. You wrote every week into the void, blindly believing that the mail was failing. Your trust was boundless. After passing your exams, you rushed to the village. On the day of his arrival, you helped his family set the holiday table, radiant in a light sarafan. When the old bus rumbled along, you stood at the very threshold, waiting to meet your one and only love.

The door swung open. He entered, looking mature, his gaze hard. A tall brunette with an empty smile appeared behind him. He gently touched her hand, but seemed not to notice you. As if the vows and those tender letters had never happened. While his family looked at him in bewilderment, he calmly said: — Meet my girlfriend. She was a nurse in our unit, that's where we met.