As it is sung in the song: "We choose, we are chosen, as it often does not coincide."

One last look at her window:

“Good night, Yulechka. Goodnight, my Love. I love you, I can admit it to myself." I look at her photo on my phone, and my heart aches with longing.

“But what if she is now alone in a cold bed, tormented, unable to sleep, hugging a pillow. That you don’t come to her, you won’t warm.

"Not today". I get into the car, put a bouquet next to it, I will have to put it in water at home so that it does not wither. Yes-ah-ah-ah,...