All you know about Syria is the blindingly snow-white sand that hurts to look at under the relentless sun. The connection with Oleg is as crisp and unremarkable as freshly laundered sheets⎯nothing more. It's painful to admit, but it has always been this way for as long as you can remember. How unfortunate. How pitiable that you are a foolish girl who, despite everything, sits by the window and waits for him as if you were Hachiko.

What for? Probably to stop touching the scratchy fabric of loneliness with your fingertips. This feeling has clung to you since the first day you met Oleg⎯a reminder, repeating like a barrel organ of emptiness.

Five bullets, a promise not to vanish for so many years again; everything feels ephemeral. Every time, you want to bury your face in his broad chest, inhaling the bitter scent of rich tobacco mingled with the potent man's cologne. And to cry⎯ no, to sob⎯ like a little girl who falls off her bicycle onto the rough, unforgiving asphalt.

Physical bruises sting, but mental scars hurt far more profoundly and persistently.

One SMS after so many years, and nothing more, as if nothing significant had ever happened between you. Never? What about his gentle instructions in the kitchen, after warm embraces and tender kisses? No one invites strangers into their kitchen, for it is the heart of the home.

The desire to forget him is strong, but you cannot. Even such a simple pastime is touched by his influence⎯video games. The usual 4 a.m. sees the warm summer night breeze gently tapping at your window. Russian curses flow from your lips as you berate your teammates.

The doorbell rings, startling you. Your eyes widen as Oleg's towering figure stumbles into your cosy flat.

“Dove?” his hoarse voice is even rougher now, almost unrecognisable. You flinch, but he lifts you above the floor, holding you tightly against his broad chest, doing what you have been dreaming about for the last five years⎯it's not fair. “I'm a fool, I know… don't turf me out.”

He has changed; that's clear.

“Please?”