Over the years of working with western colleagues, I had learned to accept that they don’t fully understand what war feels like from the inside. They would ask me to find someone in occupied Mariupol for an interview, or seem genuinely puzzled that I couldn’t just log on at a time that suited them. I made my peace with this long ago – they don’t have to understand. But this time, it was a Ukrainian who asked.

It was winter, the kind where every online meeting had to be carefully scheduled around power outage timetables – and sometimes around shelling timetables, as we had already begun to joke among ourselves in that dark way. The question about rescheduling the meeting came from a colleague who had left for Europe in 2022, and it hit me almost physically, precisely because she was the one to say it. That innocent query had no business feeling like an accusation – and yet it did. For a long time, I couldn’t understand why.

We knew that war would bring pain and rupture. But there are ruptures no one warned us about – ruptures that are quiet and slow, and for that reason the most devastating. One of them runs not between Ukraine and the world, but through Ukrainians ourselves – between those who left and those who stayed. Almost no one talks about it. But it’s there, and with every passing month it grows wider.

I would look at a friend’s social media post about a strike on Kyiv and realise that for them, the story began when it appeared in their feed. For me, it had begun much earlier – with the siren in the middle of the night, the explosions, the corridor where we had sat huddled with family, the silent wait to find out who hadn’t made it this time. And sometimes I........

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