When Bullets Paused for Friendship

The snow was falling lightly on the border between two nations locked in a bitter war. The year was 2023, and tensions between the fictional countries of Lirvia and Ostenia had escalated into full-blown conflict. Each side accused the other of invading territories and undermining peace, and neither was willing to yield.

In the eastern trench, Lirvian soldier Tomas Velic sat with his back to the cold wall of dirt and stone. He was twenty-three, a farmer’s son who had grown up tending wheat and repairing broken machinery in the village of Ilyanov. War wasn’t in his blood, but it had taken root in his life anyway. He kept a notebook in his breast pocket where he scribbled poetry—memories of home, hopes for the future, and, lately, confessions of fear.

Across the ravine, not more than 150 meters away, Ostenian soldier Amir Rahmani crouched in his own muddy trench. Amir was twenty-one, from the bustling city of Kaskara, where he had studied engineering before being conscripted. He hated the sound of gunfire and missed his younger sister’s laugh. Each night, he stared at the sky, wondering if she did too.

War didn’t ask permission to destroy dreams—it simply did.

One day, after a brutal skirmish had left many dead and the fields between the trenches scarred by fire and smoke, there was an eerie silence. No shots. No movement. Just wind and the slow dance of snowflakes.

Tomas noticed a scrap of fabric fluttering on the barbed wire between the trenches. Curious, and against orders, he inched forward one cold dawn. Closer. Closer still. There it was—a small white cloth, tied to a stick. He hesitated. Could it be a trap?

Then, from the Ostenian side, a voice called out softly in broken Lirvian. “No gun. Just talk.”

Tomas blinked in surprise. War had taught him suspicion, but something in that voice was different—unsure, not threatening. Carefully, he raised both hands and stepped onto the open ground, his rifle left behind.

From the opposite trench, Amir emerged. He too was unarmed, his palms exposed to the cold. They met near the wire, a place soaked with blood just days ago.

The two young men stood in silence.

“I’m Tomas,” the Lirvian said.

“Amir,” came the response.

What followed was awkward, pieced together with hand gestures and a mixture of halting words in each other’s language. They spoke of homes, families, and how they ended up here. Tomas drew a little sketch of his farm. Amir showed a picture of his sister on his phone.

They met again the next day. And the next.

At first, they exchanged small things—Tomas gave Amir a pencil when his broke. Amir handed Tomas a protein bar when rations ran low. One day, Amir handed over a tattered book of poems, translated into Lirvian. Tomas read them aloud the following morning, standing under the gray sky, his voice the only sound in that lifeless world.

Eventually, they built a routine—brief meetings at dawn, brief enough not to be caught, meaningful enough to matter. Both knew what would happen if they were discovered. But neither could ignore the strange warmth that grew in those cold meetings.

One night, as shelling roared further up the line, Tomas and Amir stood facing each other again, the moon casting long shadows.

“Why are we fighting?” Amir asked. His voice cracked.

Tomas looked down. “I don’t know anymore.”

They stood in silence, the question hanging in the air heavier than gunpowder.

But the war didn't care about friendship.

A new commanding officer arrived in the Lirvian camp. He was strict, sharp-eyed, and didn't tolerate deviations. Patrols intensified. Trench rules were enforced with brutal discipline.

Tomas missed the next morning’s meeting. And the next. Amir waited each day, heart sinking deeper with every empty moment.

On the fourth day, Tomas slipped a note into a small tin and rolled it across the field under the wire. Inside, he had written:

> “We don’t get to choose the sides we’re born on. But maybe, one day, we’ll get to choose the side we fight for. Until then, stay alive, friend.”

Amir read it in the dark, tears mixing with dirt on his cheeks.

Two weeks later, a ceasefire was declared. The talks had been going on in secret for months. By winter’s end, both armies were ordered to retreat.

Years passed.

In 2028, at a conference on peace and reconciliation between Lirvia and Ostenia, Tomas Velic, now a school teacher, stood nervously at a podium, speaking about the human cost of war.

In the crowd, a young engineer stood up during the Q&A. “Do you still write poetry, Tomas?”

Tomas froze. Then he smiled, eyes scanning the room until they met a familiar gaze.

Amir smiled back.

The war had ended. But their story had only just begun.