⏱ ~4 min reading
Nazar was moving. His dad found a job in Lviv, and the whole family was packing up. All summer, Mykyta and Nazar played together — by the river, on the playground, in Nazar's yard under an old walnut tree. And at the end of August, Nazar came to Mykyta's with suitcases at the entrance.
"Well. I left.".
— I left.
The boys stood in silence. Nikita was turning a pebble in his hands. Nazar was looking at his feet. Poplars rustled overhead—as if they didn't know what to say either.
"Listen," Nikita finally began. "We won't see each other again, will we?"
— Why? We'll see each other. During the holidays. Or when you come to Lviv.
— It's not often.
Nazar was silent. Then he took a small notebook from his pocket — worn, with bent corners.
— Listen. I have an idea. Write me letters. Real ones. Paper ones. I'll write you letters too.
"How old are they? With stamps?"
"Yes. Dad showed me how to do it. Mom says it's expensive and slow. But isn't it interesting?"
Nikita nodded. He suddenly felt a little better.
— I will write.
— Every two weeks?
— Every two weeks.
They shook hands like real men. Nazar got into the car. The car drove away. Nikita stood by the entrance until the last car signal disappeared, and then returned home.
Mykyta wrote his first letter a week later. He was sitting at the kitchen table, with a checkered piece of paper in front of him, a pen with blue ink, and — most importantly — a real postage stamp that his mother had found in a drawer.
«"Hello, Nazar. School has started here. I have a new teacher, Ivan Stepanovich. He wears a funny, narrow tie. I played football during recess, but it's still not the same without you. In our yard, nuts will soon fall under your walnut tree - I'll collect them and tell you how many. How do you like Lviv? I saw it in a book - there are many beautiful houses with roofs. Write. Mykyta.".
The letter was gone. Nikita followed it with his eyes, dropping it into the blue mailbox on the corner of the street. It seemed to him as if he had thrown a small ship into the great sea.
The letter from Nazar arrived three weeks later. The envelope was thin, with three different stamps—Nazar must have specially chosen the most beautiful ones. Inside was a letter written in neat handwriting, and—surprise—a small, dried yellow leaf.
«"Hello, Mykyta. In Lviv, autumn begins differently - more colder mornings and higher skies. This is a leaf from my new yard, there is an old maple tree here. Our school has a yard with a fountain, but it is not working right now. There is a boy named Oles in my class, he looks a bit like you - he also loves football. I made friends, but you are still the first. Write. Nazar.".
Nikita sat down and immediately started writing the next letter.
The letters came and went. Every other week. Mykyta told how a butterfly landed on our teacher and he didn't notice. Nazar - how he first ate cheesecakes with raspberry jam in a Lviv cafe. Mykyta dried his letters and sent them. Nazar - praised the little drawings.
Within a year, Mykyta had a whole shoebox full of letters. He kept it under his bed. Sometimes he would take it out, reread it, and it felt as if Nazar was right there with him.
When Nazar came to visit in the summer — for a whole week — he and Mykyta sat under an old walnut tree in the yard. There had been two years of separation between them.
"So what," said Nazar. "Are we still friends?"
“Did they stop?” Nikita was surprised.
They laughed. The air smelled of linden blossom. Somewhere in the yard, children were playing. And Nikita suddenly thought: distance is a funny thing. It only seems big. But in reality, all he had to do was take a piece of paper and a pen, and it became smaller and smaller.
💡 Distance is not a reason to forget.