(literary journalism article)

The morning starts with coffee. Vyshhorod wakes up slowly: cars start in the courtyards, a neighbor walks her dog, someone takes out the trash. Ordinary morning sounds. If it weren’t for the nighttime drone attack, one might think there was no war at all.

I live in a panel apartment building. The walls here are thin, while the news about the war is heavy, filled with details no one wants to know.

I head to Kyiv for classes at Grinchenko University. I’m a little sleepy. The night was loud—explosions, air defense, debris burning in the sky. The air raid alert is still ongoing in the region, but that doesn’t cancel lectures. In Kyiv, there is no alert.

After classes, I managed to stop by a private clinic near the university. I wait at the reception. The hall is quiet, just me and a woman at the front desk—Olena.

Suddenly, the siren wails.

Instinctively, I take out my phone and check the Telegram. Every Ukrainian now follows multiple channels that report threats. A MiG has taken off.

I sigh. Olena doesn’t even lift her head. I decide not to go to the shelter—I don’t want to waste time.

A loud sound echoes through the window. Probably missile launches. The walls tremble; the vibration lifts me slightly off my seat.

— Interception, — Olena says calmly.

I ask why they don’t close during air raids. She only sighs.

— If we shut down every time, when will we work? When will we live?

On the way home, I passed by a construction site. Two years ago, a missile hit this building. People died that day.

Now, they are rebuilding it. Slowly. So slowly, as if it’s not a home but an unwanted reminder—one the city doesn’t rush to erase but also doesn’t want to leave as an open wound.

Bit by bit, life is returning, even to places where it was once meant to be destroyed.

At home, I turn on the lights. A year ago, after a strike, there might not have been any power at all.

Outside the window, the city does not hide; it does not stay silent. Someone is driving with the radio on; laughter echoes from somewhere far away.

The siren howls again. Another air raid. For some, it’s just background noise to daily life. For others, it’s the last one they will ever hear. But the world does not stop.

I sip my tea and think about Olena from the clinic.

Truly, if we are afraid every time—when will we live?