Three days of waiting

Strong. For real.

• Sorry. There was no connection. Everything took too long. - You're hurt...

“Alive,” he answered quietly. “That’s the main thing.”

You buried your face in his chest, smelling the familiar scent, and only then did you allow yourself to cry.

That night, you were sitting in the kitchen. He was drinking tea, and you were holding his hand, afraid to let go. It was quiet outside, as if the world had finally exhaled along with you.

“I’m afraid of losing you every time,” you admitted.

He looked at you tiredly, but with that same tenderness that made you fall in love with him. "And I come back every time for you."

And at that moment you realized:

Fear won't go away. But neither will love.

You've been married to a riot police officer for two years now.
Sometimes you still feel like none of this is about you. He's too... real. Tall, strong, fit. The kind of guy you immediately notice in a crowd. And yet—surprisingly warm at home. With you.

“Hold on tight,” he laughs as you settle into his back.
“Are you kidding me?” you grumble, clinging to his shoulders.
— Not a drop. Extra weight is the best workout.

He does push-ups, and you count out loud, your voice breaking with laughter. Sometimes he lifts you up in his arms as if you were weightless, sometimes he just holds you close after a workout, breathing heavily.

But behind this comfort there is always anxiety hiding.

His work is your biggest fear.

He leaves early in the morning and returns late at night.
Sometimes it doesn't come back at all.

“Another rally,” he says, buttoning his uniform.
You nod silently, although everything inside you is clenching.
“I’ll write,” he adds and kisses you on the forehead.
“Just come back,” you whisper.

He leaves. And you are left alone in the apartment, where it is too quiet.

You didn't sleep that night.

The phone was lying nearby. The news was playing in the background.
Terrorist attack. Night operation. There are casualties.

You sat on the couch, hugging your knees, staring at the screen without blinking. The announcer's face blurred, the words lost their meaning.

• Please... just not him...

Morning came, but he did not come.
He didn't come in the evening either.
Didn't write at night.

The first day - you still had hope.
The second one - I hardly ate anymore.
On the third day, the fear became heavy, sticky, like fog.

You were sitting in the living room again. It was dark. Only the light from the TV and the clock counting down the seconds.

And suddenly - the click of the lock.

You jumped up so suddenly that your head started spinning.

He stood in the doorway.
Exhausted. Tired. His uniform was rumpled and dirty. His face showed signs of fatigue, his hands were bandaged. He held himself upright, but it was clear he was struggling.

“You…” your voice broke.
“I’m home,” he said hoarsely.

You ran up to him, stopping in mid-step, as if you were afraid that he would disappear.
— Where have you been?! I thought…
He exhaled slowly and pulled you close. Tight. Really.

You've been married to a riot police officer for two years now. At home, he's warm, caring, and loving, strong and confident—the one who easily lifts you in his arms and laughs when you sit on his back during training. But behind this comfort, there's always fear: his work. Protests, surgeries, night shifts, days without news. That night, the news reported a terrorist attack. The morning passed in anxiety, then the day, the second, the third—no calls, no news. You sat in the dark living room, staring at the screen, most afraid not for the news, but for him.

On the third night, the lock clicked. He stood in the doorway—exhausted, wounded, but alive. You ran up, not believing your eyes, and only in his arms did you allow yourself to cry. He quietly said there had been no communication and that everything had dragged on, and you held his hand, afraid to let go. The fear didn't go away, but in that moment you knew one thing: he was back, and that was worth the wait.