I am afraid of being without him.

Today, I am not afraid.

I am not afraid to confess my love if I love, nor am I afraid to say, "I do not love," if I don’t. What I fear is being left without love altogether.

My fears are different. I am not afraid of doing something; I am afraid of not having enough time to do it. I am not afraid of falling from a height, but rather that no hand will be there to catch mine. I am afraid of standing close to him, of touching him. Yet, at the same time, I am not afraid of loving him; I am afraid of being without him.

He loves his homeland and his cigarettes more than anything. And the thought that his homeland could take him away from me is terrifying. Military uniform suits him, but war does not. He is not afraid of war, but he is afraid of being without a homeland.

When he left for the front, he didn't let me say goodbye; I was terrified that I would never see him again. But then, he isn't concerned with my fears at all. He fears nothing, and he imagines everyone is the same.

But he has taught me not to be afraid. He taught me to count days by the seconds — days end, but seconds do not. At first, I was afraid the days would run out, but now I am not even afraid of the seconds ending. I am almost certain that when the seconds fade and only one remains, he will return.

After all, he promised. And after that, there will be no need to count days or seconds anymore. By his side, I won’t fear losing anything. With him, even losing is pleasant, because when you lose even the smallest thing, you might find something new — if only he is by your side.

I am not afraid of waiting for him; I am not afraid of longing for him. I am afraid of losing him, and of being left without him.

Not just today, but always — I am not afraid of giving him my love.