I’m already 78 years old, and I have no close family left. I live alone in my apartment. I used to work for 25 years as an accountant-cashier at the Eighth Hospital on Shevchenko Square — not as a doctor or nurse, but specifically in accounting. Now I’m retired, and have lived alone for a long time.

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As soon as an air raid alarm starts, I go here — behind the wardrobe. They told me it’s safest to be in the corner, behind the wardrobe, away from the window. So I sit there until the alarm is over. Then I go to bed — my bed is also away from the window, it calms me down. I always leave the door unlocked at night and sleep fully dressed — in case I have to run. At the start of the war, I went down to the bomb shelter, but now I don’t anymore — I live on the fifteenth floor, and who knows if I’d make it in time. So I hide here — behind two or three walls, behind the wardrobe, with the wall behind me. That’s how I hide from all the bombs. I don’t sleep well at night at all. During the day I want to sleep — I lie down to rest. I take a lot of medicine — for my nerves, for blood pressure, for headaches. It’s my age, but it’s also the stress.

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Recently I planted some dill — it’ll grow soon, but it’s still too cold, it’s just starting to sprout. Green onions are growing, parsley too. I haven’t planted anything else yet — it’s too early.

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A rocket recently fell nearby — damaged something. I look around: so many cars, so many men sitting at home, while those who fight don’t see home for three years. Valera — he’s been fighting for four years now. It’s a nightmare. They could at least give him a month to rest — he was home for three days after his injury, then they took him back. A rocket hit where he and his comrade were — burned his hands, a piece hit his leg but didn’t break the bone, but his hands were badly burned.

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Every day we have air raid alerts — sometimes at night, sometimes in the evening, sometimes at five in the morning — every single day. I get very anxious because I’m alone. It’s frightening. God forbid something happens — I’m locked in here, no one would come in, no one would know if I was alive.

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My nephew is missing in action, and my friend’s son is also missing — nobody knows if they’re alive, in captivity maybe, or dead. There’s no news. And Putin isn’t going to end this war — it suits him. He doesn’t lose his own people and doesn’t care about others. Let everyone die — ours and theirs — he doesn’t care.

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When the alarm is just for Kyiv Region, I stay farther from the window. But if it’s for Kyiv itself, I hide behind the wardrobe and wait until they say “all clear.” These alarms happen every day — at night, in the evening, at five in the morning. I’m so tired of it, my nerves can’t stand it anymore. I’m alone and scared — what if something happens? Nobody would know.

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I live in Ukraine, of course I should speak Ukrainian, but I finished school in Russian, and most of my friends speak Russian. If someone talks to me in Ukrainian, I answer in Ukrainian, but mostly I speak Russian.

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Almost no close family left — my parents are gone, my husband died, I’m alone. Valera is like a son to me — he baptized my daughter’s son, my grandson. He’s like family. When he’s struggling, I always help. Last time I gave him 2,400 hryvnias for the war — they needed to fix a car to evacuate the wounded. Before that, I sent him 1,500. My pension is small, but I’d give it all — I don’t mind for him. I want him to come home alive, and for all our Ukrainians to come home alive.

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Valera has been fighting since the beginning. He’s wounded — the rocket hit, his hands were badly burned. He’s 57 now, but he’s been serving from the start and still hasn’t been let home — they keep promising.

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My neighbor’s son volunteered to fight — young, just graduated — and was killed right away. Not even thirty. Among my friends, thank God, not many have died. But there are those missing — my nephew, my friend’s son — no news, whether alive or not.

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My grandmother told me about the famine, the hard times — how they shared bread, ate anything they could. But I’m almost 80 now, I forget a lot. I never saw my grandfather. My father fought in the war, he had many medals and orders. He was a tankman, came back alive, but had shrapnel in his legs — they never removed it. He limped all his life and lived to 80. He died in the hospital. He had a brother who was repressed, but I know little about that.

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How will this end? We believe Ukraine will win and everything will be fine. Nobody believes Putin will come here. Ukraine will stand and survive.