It's as if at this very moment the world opens a tiny window of opportunity, and everything that seemed impossible suddenly gets a chance.

I often think: why this night?

Why do we cling to it so tightly, as if to the last thread between "was" and "will be"?

Probably because New Year's is a pause.
The only honest pause in the endless stream of news, worries, responsibilities, and fatigue. On this night, we seem to make a deal with ourselves: now is the time to believe. Without explanation. Without logic. Without excuses.

A New Year's miracle is special. It doesn't scream. It doesn't promise to fix everything right away. It's more like a whisper: wait a little longer. And in that "little while" lies all our hope.

We don't expect fireworks from fate. We expect something simple.

For a new day to dawn—and with less fear. To wake up and not flinch at sounds. To plan not for "if," but for "when." For the word "future" to once again sound like an invitation, not a risk.

On New Year's, we allow ourselves to be vulnerable. We admit—at least to ourselves—that we're tired of being strong. That we want someone from above, to the side, or simply nearby to say: I'll take this on.

And perhaps this is precisely the essence of the New Year's miracle—the feeling that you're not alone in your anticipation.

I think on this night, miracles are born not from without, but from within.

In that very moment when we close our eyes to the chimes of the clock and suddenly feel: yes, I'm still alive. I still hope. I still want.

Ukrainians know the value of time.
And perhaps that's why we believe so much in New Year's Eve.
Because it symbolizes a boundary.
Thin, fragile, but real.
Between what was and what we desperately want to give a chance.

A New Year's miracle is not a promise.

It's permission. Permission to dream again.

To wait again. To love life again, even if it's been cruel.

And when the hands align, I'm not making a wish.

I'm making a wish for a state.

That the new year would bring room for silence. Warmth. Closeness. And a day that will one day begin without war.

If a miracle comes, it's like this.

On New Year's Eve.

When we finally allow it to happen.