It was a bold move, maybe even a reckless one. Looking back, it doesn’t seem logical. But love rarely is. It started with her voice. For weeks, Iryna and I had been communicating through messages. We had a great connection—we were witty, we were deep, we were interested. But it was all text on a screen.
One morning, instead of a written "good morning," she sent a short voice note on sofia date. She just said, "Dobroho ranku," followed by my name. The words were foreign, but her voice was warm, with a hint of a laugh in it, as if she felt a little shy. In those three seconds, she became completely real to me. The sound of her voice did what a thousand text messages couldn't: it gave our connection a heartbeat. After that, voice notes became our primary language. She would tell me about her day in Ukrainian, and I would listen, not understanding the words but understanding the melody of her happiness or her fatigue. I would respond in English, describing my world to her. It was the most intimate form of communication I had ever known.
A month into this, she sent me a longer voice note. This time she was singing—a soft, beautiful folk song. I listened to it over and over. I didn't know what it was about, but I knew, with a certainty that defied all logic, that I had to meet this woman. I wasn't just falling for a profile; I was falling for a soul I could hear in my ear every day. So I did the only thing that felt right. I opened my laptop, went to an airline website, and bought a ticket to Kyiv. I sent her the confirmation email with a simple message: "I need to hear that song in person." It was a crazy leap of faith, prompted by a voice, but it was the best decision I have ever made.