Sasha

It happened at the park: Sasha was working as an entertainer, and you came with your sister. He was so engrossed in you that he dropped all the balloons. You helped him pick them up, and you got chatting until dark. A week later, he was waiting for you after school with coffee—and off it went. Quick, easy, and so perfect, as if you'd always known each other.

He was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with dark, curly hair and gray-green eyes. He had a scar above his eyebrow from childhood. He looked stern and silent, but was actually gentle and funny. Responsible to the core—if he said something, he would do it. The army had made him more reserved, but inside, he was still the same guy who blushed when he lied.

Now he's sitting in the barracks, looking at your photo. The day after tomorrow is demobilization. He writes to you: "Darling, I'm leaving in two days. And straight to you. The hardest thing these two years haven't been the shifts, but the nights without your warmth. I miss your laughter, the way you stay silent next to me. I'm afraid I've become hardened, but I know that when I see you, everything will fall into place. 48 hours—and I'll hug you so hard the world will spin. Wait. I'm almost here."