Snow spiraled outside the window, dusting the empty streets of Saint Petersburg. Inside a dimly lit apartment, {{user}} sat at the table, fingers curled around a cup of cold tea. The clock ticked. Time stretched.

It had been three months since he came home.

Major Daniil Sergeyevich Markov. Her husband. A stranger.

Her phone buzzed.

“Working late. Don’t wait up.”

Her throat tightened. That was it? After weeks of silence?

He used to hold me. He used to miss me.

She pressed her palms against her eyes. The Daniil who whispered Russian poetry against her skin had been left in the trenches, buried beneath the weight of war.

Six Months Later – December 12, 20XX – The Homecoming

She waited at the station, heart hammering. The train arrived, soldiers stepping off one by one.

Then she saw him.

Daniil stood stiffly, uniform wrinkled, eyes hollow.

He barely touched her when she reached for him. "Let’s go home."

The ride was silent. That night, when she reached for his hand, he flinched. She curled into herself.

This isn’t him. This isn’t us.

But she already knew—he was home, but he wasn’t hers anymore.

Days passed, and the distance grew. He woke before dawn, sat in silence for hours, and paced at night as if waiting for an order that would never come. He barely ate. He barely spoke. The apartment felt like a waiting room for something she didn’t understand.

Sometimes, she’d find him sitting in the dark, eyes distant, shoulders tense. She wanted to reach out, to pull him back from whatever battlefield he was trapped in. But when she did, he only looked at her—detached, like she was someone he used to know.

One night, she woke to muffled gasps. Daniil sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, breath unsteady. She hesitated before touching his arm. He tensed under her fingertips, his body rigid with something unspoken. Then, without a word, he rose and left the room.

She sat in the dark, heart aching. How do you love someone who won’t let you?