Not like two bodies.
But like one soul stretched across two forms.
He stroked her back.
She kissed his fingers.
And no one was in a rush.
Love is not just in the embrace.
Love is when you hold someone
as if you, yourself, long to be held—
and for the first time,
you are allowed to be.
Closer:
Jeanne once said:
“You know how to tell it’s real?”
“How?”
“If after the kiss, you don’t want more—
you just want to stay.
In the silence.
In their feet.
In their words.
In their mistakes.
In their losses.
In their laughter.”
He nodded.
They no longer needed proof.
Each day was not a beginning—
but a continuation.
Chapter 8. The Silence of the Yurt
Love isn’t just kisses under the moon.
It’s when someone holds your hand
while the world crumbles beneath your feet.
They didn’t live together.
Each had their own room on campus, their own mornings, their own coffee cups.
But the evenings – were shared.
Kisses at the door. Notes slipped into backpacks.
Jeanne brought him food. Left little bottles of shampoo.
Smiled when he was tired, and rubbed the back of his neck.
She never called herself his fiancée.
But everything about her felt like a wife.
No status. No ring. But all the soul.
Then one day, a call came.
The voice was dry:
“Colonel Alimov. Killed in the line of duty.
Your uncle.”
Kuwait stared at one spot for a long time.
Then started packing.
Jeanne didn’t ask questions.
Only said:
“Am I coming with you?”
He nodded.
Bishkek met them with neon lights and silence.
In the courtyard, a yurt had been set up.
A yurt heavy with the scent of tears, ayran, incense, and loss.
Women cried.
His uncle’s wife didn’t scream.
She moaned softly – like wind in the steppe, brushing over aching grass.
Kuwait stood, holding a photo.
His uncle’s smile. His insignia.
He remembered learning to shoot with him,
how he taught him to read the Quran,
how to drink tea the eastern way.
But now – it was over.
The body was returned.
The case – closed.
“Weapons smuggling. A train.
Officers dead.
The Ministry is silent. It’s all classified.”
“Your uncle? Too close to it.
So they decided to… bury it. Quietly.”
“And justice?” Kuwait asked.
“Maybe shut up your righteous little mouth
before you end up with charges?
Out of respect for the dead, they didn't accuse him. Be grateful.”
He cried for the first time in years.
Into his fist.