KYIV—It’s about 1 a.m. Thursday when the first explosion rips through the night. I’m pinned to my bed, unable to move. I’ve just come back from a week in eastern Ukraine. Lack of sleep, constant shelling, and stress have finally worn me down. Or maybe it’s also the borscht I ate with soldiers just a few miles from the Russian lines.
“I should have bought some aspirin at the pharmacy … or something like that.”
My throat is swollen, and waves of heat from my fever make it hard to breathe. I don’t have the strength to get up.
A second explosion hits, much closer this time. The little Stalinka where I live—an old brick building from Stalin’s time—shudders as if it’s about to collapse.
Books tumble from my shelves with each vibration. The shockwave is so strong that all the cars in the neighborhood erupt into a chaotic, dissonant chorus of alarms, wailing into the night. I open my phone. One of the dozens of Ukrainian Telegram channels tracking Russian attacks in real time announces that a missile struck a residential building about 20 minutes from me.
Alerts come in nonstop: “Ballistic missiles over Kyiv. Stay sheltered; threat incoming from the east; drones overhead in Nivky”—my neighborhood. I can hear them buzzing above me, like ghostly motorcycles floating through the mist.
A flash of light floods my room as I hear a third explosion. For a moment, it feels like broad daylight. The building shakes so hard I’m sure it’s about to come down. I hear my neighbor screaming in terror and her husband cursing, spitting every insult he knows. Outside, dogs whine and scramble through the dim moonlight.
I feel blood and adrenaline pounding in my temples. Panic seizes my gut. I throw myself out of bed and crawl toward the bathroom. “Not sure my bathtub—usually my loyal ally during attacks—will save me from a ballistic missile,” I think. I need to get to a real shelter.
More explosions. I grab my jacket, a tourniquet, slip on my Birkenstocks, and—still crawling—snag the set of keys I had left lying on the kitchen table. I need to reach the subway entrance. If I run, I can make it in under a minute. But I need to wait. The first wave isn’t over yet. “It would be stupid to die from falling debris,” I think.
Running for shelter.
Telegram channels keep blaring updates. Another wave is coming in a few minutes. I have just enough time to sprint across the neighborhood.
I immediately regret my choice of Birkenstocks—they feel like they might fly off my feet with every step. Adrenaline keeps me running, but my flu-stricken lungs feel like they’re about to explode.
Suddenly, the night falls still. Only the whir of a drone overhead and the sharp crack of a machine gun trying to shoot it down disturb the silence. My own ragged breathing adds to the noise.
Through the fog, I see the subway entrance appear. The air reeks of gunpowder. A man runs next to me, cradling a cat in his arms; neither he nor the cat looks fully awake. Another woman rushes in behind us, a yoga mat tucked under her arm.
Hundreds of Ukrainians are already crammed inside. Families spread out on the cold floor, laying down sports mats, trying to get some rest.
Others sit in circles on camping chairs, sipping tea. There are so many people, I don’t even know where to sit. Not that it matters: The ground is freezing anyway. So I start pacing up and down between the subway tracks, from one exit to the other.
A wounded veteran, limping heavily and leaning on a cane, searches for a place to sit. It’s now 2 a.m. A woman in her 50s shifts over, giving him a little space. He lays out a small mat beside her, takes off his khaki cap, and runs his fingers along his long Cossack-style mustache.
Hiding in the metro.
Nearby, a young mother rocks her infant. Another woman plays with her little boy—he can’t be more than 4 years old. “Come here, Dima,” she smiles. “We’ll go home soon.”
A blast thunders outside. Dima’s eyes go wide with fear, and tears silently spill down his chubby cheeks. His mother scoops him up. He doesn’t sob; he just clings to her, motionless, listening to every sound.
We all stay perfectly still, perfectly silent, as if the missiles were dragons circling the city, able to detect the slightest noise or movement and strike.
A woman whispers, “Another wave of rockets is coming.” Her friend just nods. Nearby, a little girl nestled in her mother’s arms laughs at a cartoon playing on a phone. Her mother silently sobs.
Minutes pass. More explosions make the columns of the station tremble. I ride this metro almost daily, but I never noticed before how the tiles along the walls shimmer—turquoise, green, blue.
“One last missile is flying over Kyiv. Stay sheltered,” a Telegram channel says. I take a moment to check the news.
“Trump is growing impatient with Zelensky,” says White House spokeswoman Karoline Leavitt. Another headline screams: “‘I think we have a deal on both sides,’ Trump declares.” Another report claims Trump may lift sanctions on Russia and meet with Putin as soon as next month.
I run a hand over my face, tap my phone, and sigh. What can we even do?
On the floor, a group of teenagers plays cards. One wears a Yankees cap, another a jacket that says Brooklyn in huge letters. American music plays quietly from one of their phones—an artist I don’t recognize. It’s been years since I kept up with new music.
I think back to a conversation I had with a friend a few nights ago, at some hipster bar downtown.
His parents, toward the end of the USSR’s existence, risked everything just to buy blue jeans and Coca-Cola. Not for love of sugar or tight denim—but because America, for them, meant freedom. Or at least the hope of it.
Now, watching Trump’s attacks on the rule of law, his embrace of Russia, my friend doesn’t know what to think anymore.
“One thing’s sure,” he had said. “It’ll take years to rebuild American soft power in Ukraine.”
“And in the world,” I had added.
“The sky is clear,” a Telegram channel posts. Everyone looks up. Slowly, people begin packing their things. We would learn later that the missile strikes had killed 12 people and wounded about 90 others.
A father in military uniform carries a sleeping girl in his arms, kissing her forehead. Maybe he’s on leave. Maybe he’s heading back to the front. I don’t know. A shaft of sunlight lights up the subway entrance.
I feel better. It seems adrenaline burned away my fever. Birds are already singing outside. Cherry blossoms dust the asphalt in pale white petals. Kyivans are lining up for the bus, heading to work.
I walk for a few seconds.
To the right, a small park mirrors the sunrise in a puddle. A young woman from the shelter stops there. She wedges her yoga mat between her knees and adjusts her phone, framing the sun’s reflection in the still water. She smiles. It’s going to be a beautiful day.
