I even don’t have your portrait. The light was great but I didn’t take it. There is no war romance, right? There is a bloody romance, written by us here and now. The wife of the Mariupol defender describes how she screenshotted and zoomed each frame with executed soldiers. My friends are posting on Facebook – we want to adopt the kid who lost his parents after the missile hit. In comments below appears the information that the child was adopted already. I thought that you can’t win the war via war. I’m not sure you could win the war via love. But if it still exists, you continue to fight. My friend is heading to his first rotation, I’m scared to ruin the moment, but taking pictures anyway. He was a photographer before the war, so will understand me. His girlfriend is crying and everyone is stepping back. It’s romantic only in movies, but in real life – you feel how shaky both of them are. Years ago he was photographing me, the same story. The only difference – it was not my rotation, but tears were mine. A couple is posing in front of a burnt Russian tank. I’m photographing and recognizing the soldier. In the evening the picture is published on the Washington Post site. I’m sharing the screenshot and he is laughing: «It’s not a common story when a woman goes with me on a date, but then appear in Washington Post». I’m laughing as well: «Tell her it’s a good sign, I swear!». Time flows in between «Good morning» in Signal chat and «Heavy explosions in Kharkiv» via news. I think I need to read more books about war. But then I’m staring at the dark scar next to the eyebrow, at the gossamer of thin wrinkles... I think I’ve found the right book. I am already asleep, but I feel that you are reading my map of wrinkles – here is the deserted body in Irpin, here are the people in Bucha basements, here are the Ukrainian soldiers in blood, already not breathing, here are the counter-offensive, here are the wounded, here are the rockets over the city, here is the Donetsk minefield, here are the children without arms, here are the children, already not breathing. I even don’t have your portrait. But I remember your book perfectly. I hope you remember mine.