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When I was a kid, my grandma would tell me fairy tales and I’d believe her. Because she was my grandma. Because I wanted to believe.

In her tales love would always win. She told stories of monsters and dwarfs falling in love, of cats falling for mice, of elves loving kings, wolves falling for eagles.

Then I grew up. And the tales disappeared. I don’t remember when exactly she stopped telling me those tales, but when she stopped – the magic stopped too. The magic vanished as if it was never there. Only it was….

It’s always the hardest to let go of the truths you were told by the ones you trust the most. Those who teach you not to lie – can’t lie right? My gram didn’t lie. Love had to win. Love and friendship.

…

When we all met I was 18. S… was 23, B… was 21. It was the summer of feeling and trusting and falling and eventually breaking. We were like three threads of different colors – entwining into each other to create a perfect weave. Our weave was made of love and friendship. We had no space for hatred and prejudice, no time to judge each other. We were supposed to love and connect….

B… was our philosopher. He would talk of politics and capitalism, he would cite Nietzsche and analyze things the way no one would imagine. He would suspect the simplest things, that you usually don’t even think about. B… was different.

S… was our sunshine. She would smile to everyone and joke around. She would dance until the morning when everyone else was gone. S… was crazy.

I was the madness. I would feel deep and then fall and then I’d laugh and then cry and lose control. I’d lose my mind and get wrapped in thoughts and end up transferring into a dreamland all alone.

Only summer 2016 I was not alone. I had S… and B… to join on my journey to those forbidden lands.

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You know, those days, in France, it is hard to explain what it was all like. S… and B… were from the “other side”. We were going against the system and we perfectly knew that. Probably that’s what drew us tighter towards each other, like an abnormal force of gravitation, pulling us, pushing, bringing closer. For those few days we were the center of the earth and the rest of the world would rotate around us. We were feeling so powerful, so unique, jumping over the piles of borders and prejudices.

We were not against a group of people – we were against the history, against the norms, against the rules that were imposed to us on golden plates as general truths, we shouldn’t even dare to question. Those rules had to be obeyed. Those were not something we should have let down.

We, though, did.

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It all happened unexpectedly. Not like I ever planned. Or S… did. Or B…

It was summer and France, we were young and crazy.

The first day we met, we talked of gender equality and B… said he stood for female rights. I said I was an activist. S… smiled. She was from a more traditional family.

We listened to Pink Floyd that night and B… showed his tattoo of the dispersion on his arm. We sang “Wish you were here” all together. And then we sang the “Another Brick on the Wall”. And as we sang, it felt like the wall fell down, brick by brick, one after the other. Slowly and gradually the wall was destroyed, defeated, lying under our feet.

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There were others too. From all over the world. And we had other friends and we loved them. But our friendship was different. There was more to it, than just an international friendship. We were special in a way only we would understand. We were breaking the stereotypes, we felt brave and important, as if we had a deeper mission, than everybody else. We felt special…

We were all so different. S… loved chocolate, B… loved kebab, I loved fruits. S… loved pop music, B… loved indie, I was into alternative and hard rock. S… loved drama series, B… loved horror movies, I loved psychological thrillers.

But above all those labels, above all the clichés, above the fact that we had different religions and tastes, that we belong to nationalities historically forbidden to each other – we were all human and young…

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Summer 2016 S… was heartbroken. Her boyfriend had broken up with her just before we met. Via Skype. After migrating to the USA.

Me and B… had something even worse coming for us. We didn’t plan it that way. When the friendship began, we thought it was going to be like that. The three of us – sitting next to each other during our sessions. The three of us – loyally together in the cafeteria, eating the horrible food of our French dorm with pleasure. The three of us – side by side, after the classes, exploring the city. The three of us, talking all kinds of things at nights, before we’d be able to fall asleep…

Things changed a bit, later on. During that party, B… asked me for a dance. We danced and danced and danced…. And I forgot the world…

Then we went for a walk, just the two of us. And we talked…. And then we sat on the bridge and I put my head on his shoulder and we started counting the stars. Almost 1994 of them…

That night B… said something that was going to change everything. It was the first time the word “love” sounded so scary to me. So unlike those in my gram’s tales. It sounded so impossible. So troublesome. And yet so sweet. That night “love” sounded like a war of life and death. Like a fatal thing, that was going to change the history….

We were going to change the history….

…

There we were. Me, S… and B…

Wrapped in more ties that we could handle, chained in more emotions than possible to cope with. We were obsessed with whatever we were doing and afraid at the same time.

We were not stupid. We knew our magic in France wouldn’t last forever. I never confessed to them, but every single morning I would take my return plane tickets out and would look at them hypnotized. As if I could make them disappear. As if I could change the date into eternity. I’d done that so many times I knew the tickets by heart….

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The day before the departure S… gave me her pendant and I gave her mine. B… gave me his scarf and his heart, I gave him my heart with my bracelet. We gave each other promises we were bound to keep. Promises of eternal memory, of staying in touch, of staying together no matter the borders. We promised to keep fighting for us…. “Nothing will separate us” – we said and we believed.

I was crying from the morning, without a second of pause. When there was just me and B…, he let the tears roll down his eyes as well.

-I have a dream – he said. – I dream of coming to Yerevan, I dream of seeing Yerevan. I dream of walking with you in the streets there, hand in hand, without having to fear. I dream of you in Baku – he said. – I have so much to show you. The streets where I grew up. The amazing building and sculptures. The cafes and parks….

I broke into millions of pieces that moment. It was all so simple, put in perfect lines. He just wanted us to see each other. He just wanted a continuation for our love.

How come did love become so criminal? Why did my gram never tell me, that love could be dangerous, scary and wrong all at once…

….

There is a bold line between us now. There are shootings. Our brothers are killing each other….

S… was threatened to dead, after we posted a picture of us on the internet. We haven’t spoken for a while now. I still remember her kindness, the light in her eyes. I remember the way she was able to find a place in her heart for everyone. She got married about half a year ago and I sent her a congratulation. I never met that guy and we never spoke about him and I never knew how she met him and how she felt about him. All I remember is how heartbroken she was summer  2016…

We still keep in touch with B… We still exchange messages every once in a while, despite everything. Despite the border. But it’s not the same. I can’t visit him. He can’t come see me. We’re not free on social media even, as we constantly delete our conversations. He’s no longer the guy with the greyest eyes possible, that could talk about anything and everything and stay the most interesting. B… is a memory. A distant particle of an honest and magical story, that was once mine.

This is what war is about. No one escapes from it alive. No one survives. Even those who are away from the frontline.

But we still have hope. We hope that one day we’ll meet. Not in Tbilisi as a safe zone. We still hope one day we’ll cook dolma in my kitchen, without questioning author rights. We still hope we’ll sing “Sari Axchik” and “Sari Gelin” and it won’t matter who was the first.

We still hope, one day the border line among us will stop drinking the blood of our brothers and will blossom. We still hope one day we’ll again count the stars and there’ll be more above us – as a sign that the sky has moved on too.

We still hope, that my grandma’s tales were the truth.

We still hope, that one day, above all the lines, that are thickening between us now, our hands  will stretch and reach out for each other.