I returned to my home in Ukraine. We're living the fantasy of a normal life — until the air sirens go off.

• Writer Sofia Sukach fled her home in Kyiv during the first few days of Russia's invasion of Ukraine.
• She recently returned to grab her things — clothing, diaries, and photos — and see the new reality in the city.

I'd been waiting for this moment just as long as I'd been afraid of it. Coming home is supposed to feel warm and comforting, and for me, it's always been like that. But not this time.

In the first days of Russia's invasion of Ukraine, I fled Kyiv to my parents' place in Warsaw. I later got an opportunity to become a visiting student at the University of Zurich, and even though it might seem like a big and great adventure, it wasn't. In those months of wandering around the world, I dreamt about only one thing: coming back to a peaceful Kyiv, a place where along with most of my clothing, diaries, and photographs, I left my soul.

I have to study in Zürich for one more semester, so when the summer break started, I decided to go back home and grab everything listed above. I planned a two-week trip, where I'd visit my friends and family members who stayed in Ukraine, have long conversations with them about anything other than the war, and perhaps find the soul I left there months ago.

Fleeing from war and returning home

The double-decker bus from Warsaw to Kyiv was full of people. From my front seat above the driver, I could see everything on the road ahead, but I found it much more interesting to observe the people behind me instead.

A young mother was calming down her bored and tired kids, who were asking again and again how much time was left until they could see their dad. A slightly older woman was trying hard to hide her tears while talking on the phone with her son, who was on the frontlines. One woman was sharing a story about how long it took her husband to build their house and how quickly it got ruined during the war. Two men were discussing why they both decided to quit their jobs abroad and come back to Ukraine to join the army.

"So this is the reality," I thought. "We're all coming back to our country, a country that's still at war."

As soon as we crossed the Ukrainian border, silence reigned in the bus. It was an early morning, and each of us was busy looking out the window, afraid to see the traces of war. And there were plenty of them.

We drove past bombed-out schools in the Zhytomyr region, saw how military vehicles full of young men were heading to the east or south of Ukraine, and heard an air alarm for the first time in a while. I held back tears through those sights, but when I saw a child's drawing at a bus stop that said, "Please save my home," I broke.

My beloved Kyiv — the city that I'd dreamed of since childhood and eventually made my second home — was now one hour away. I only knew this from looking at Google Maps, since all the road signs had been altered with messages for the Russian occupiers. Then, I started to get really nervous.

The suburbs in Kyiv used to be one of my favorite places to drive by, seeing all the colorful houses, green parks, and happy residents who lived there. But after the nightmare of Russian invasion, all I came home to were crosses and burnt cars, fences shelled like a sieve, and brutally damaged houses with demolished roofs and broken windows.

Despite these awful reminders of the war, life here kept going. In the places where hundreds of people were killed months ago, young couples were leisurely walking with strollers and construction workers were restoring buildings with groups of volunteers.

The illusion of normalcy in Kyiv

Upon my arrival in Kyiv, I quickly realized people had already become used to their new realities.

Trenches and dugouts around the city had become a natural part of the scenery. The same applied to the sandbags that replaced famous sights of interest and the huge barricades, known as "metal hedgehogs.'' Located right on the main street of Kyiv, Khreshchatyk, the barricades didn't feel abnormal to anybody in the city — except for me and a couple of foreign journalists with their cameras.

After I spent several more days in the city, I found myself getting used to the new Kyiv as well. Neither the people in military uniforms at every turn nor the exhibitions of burned tanks that children play on surprised me or brought tears to my eyes anymore. I, like the others, tried to see normalcy in the abnormal world around me.

I saw a couple of friends who were doing yoga in Shevchenko Park. I observed how an elderly man was buying a bunch of sunflowers for his partner. I joined those who were sipping their morning coffee on a beautiful, bloomy cafe terrace, trying to forget their last sleepless night.

After so many months of war, Ukrainians are trying to create the illusion of a normal life. But no matter how much they try to combine the shadow of the happy past with the dark present, there's always the fear of the unknown future nearby. With the shrill siren of an air alarm, the illusion is ruined.

The traces of war

When the siren started wailing at 3 a.m. during my return to Ukraine, most of the neighbors in my student dormitory didn't run to a shelter like they did in the early months of the invasion. They got tired of those every-night marathons, and of leaving their warm blankets for cold basement floors. In solidarity with them, I just laid there and thought: "What if this is the end?"

When this happens, you hopefully wake up the next morning, read the news about those who were not as lucky as you, and then keep living the fantasy of a normal life until a new air siren rings and ruins it all again.

Since I last saw Ukraine months ago, the country has significantly changed. The biggest traces of war I noticed were not in the infrastructure, but in Ukrainians' eyes.

I saw eyes that had wept over the occupation and the loss of their loved ones. Eyes that were empty, sad, happy, mature, and tired. Eyes that were tired of tragedy, but not of a fight. But, no matter how deep the scars the Russian forces leave on our souls are, they will never take our love for freedom.