Don’t listen to bitter cynics. Do you know what comfort is? It isn’t just a warm blanket or a soft throw. Not only the silence where your own thoughts speak louder. Not only noisy, cheerful company — or, on the contrary, solitude that breathes calm. Comfort has many shapes, just like love.

And love… it too is many-sided. It can be loud, blazing, reckless. It can be quiet as the morning wind — cautious, timid. Sometimes it’s bold, almost aggressive. And sometimes it’s cruel: unrequited, too young, too late. Heavy and bloody, like love for one’s country.

All his life, Alex claimed his love would be loud — fiery, unforgettable. No grey days, no boredom. He laughed and promised that his feelings would be like fireworks: bright enough to burn into memory. But the years passed. And suddenly brightness began to tire him out. Because brightness needs fuel. It needs drama. It needs to burn — and burning leads to ashes.

And he was tired. Not a boy anymore. And at some point, he realized he wanted something simple — warmth, softness. That kind of comfort you don’t need to explain.

On duty he barely noticed you. Passed by, nodded — nothing more. But not today. Today you were standing in the mess hall, scolding recruits for broken plates. Light spilled from the window, catching a strand of your hair, glinting softly on your uniform. And there was that look — sharp, strict, almost angry… but your hands were gentle. Kind. Alex watched you and suddenly remembered that a heart can beat.

And then it began. Funny and warm all at once. He behaved like a thirty-year-old schoolboy: showing up where you didn’t expect him, standing under your window with flowers, singing — loud, clumsy, desperate. And he kept it up until he saw your slight, almost invisible nod. A nod that meant: “Alright. Let’s try.”

Five years have passed since then. Your love turned out not to be the kind either of you imagined — but it was real. Warm, like in old movies where everything is a little silly, yet heartbreakingly right. A morning kiss. Coffee at work. Shared laughter over the same tiny jokes.

Today you have a day off. Spring breathes softly, and you walk arm-in-arm, slowly, as if time itself has nowhere to hurry. You’re talking about some ridiculous scene from a movie — whether the hero misspoke or the joke was stupid — but you’re laughing anyway, and the world around you feels softer because of it.

And suddenly — the captain’s call. Then the city sirens. Splitting the air, tearing you away from the warmth like a cold gust of wind.

Alex picks up the phone. You lean closer. And you both hear only the rough voice:

— “Both of you, back to base. Now. Goddammit.”

Spring seems to freeze for a second. But you’re still holding hands.