Lviv under attack

I was in my apartment in a mid-rise block not far from the western edge of the city, half awake when the first bangs came. At first I thought it was thunder, or construction — then came the smell: acrid, like burning wires, something chemical. My heart jumped into my throat.

I stumbled to the window. The street outside was dark, though the power flickered, and in the distance I saw flashes — orange pinpricks, then wider blooms of light, followed by columns of smoke rising into the dawn. The night was torn by explosions, echoing in waves, the walls trembling.

Then the real terror: one explosion sounded much closer. The glass in my windows rattled violently. I ducked instinctively, my ears ringing, thoughts scattering. Something heavy slammed against the façade — debris? A shock wave? I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to stay upright. The lights went out; everything plunged into darkness and shadow.

From down the hall, someone screamed. The building shook again, and dust fell from the ceiling. I could hear pounding footsteps, doors banging open, people shouting — “Get down, stay down!” — in panicked voices. I caught the scent of smoke, of asphalt burning, of fuel. Ash drifted in through broken windows like gray snow.

I tried to move toward the stairwell, but halfway there another blast — distant, but strong — jarred me, and I fell to the floor. My knee hit the ground hard, pain flaring. Voices above: “Is everyone okay? Did you hear that one?” A child’s sob. I squinted in the gloom, saw shadows running through the hall, a phone’s screen glowing in someone’s hand. People scrambling.

The building’s walls creaked, the plaster cracking. Dust coated everything. In the darkness I crawled, hands ahead of me, searching for my shoes, for my phone, for something. Light from outside flickered as if the city were an old film reel skipping frames.

Outside, the sirens began — distant wails growing louder. Somewhere, a fire burned. The city was now a place of confusion: streets clogged with panicked figures, people running, cars honking, alarms blaring. The sky glowed with faint red beyond the rooftops, smoke smeared across it like a wound.

I finally reached a stairwell, joined others in hushed terror. We descended step by step, uneven, hearing every creak in the structure, unsure whether the building would hold. Outside, someone shouted: “Stay inside! Go to shelters!” Others muttered prayers, wept, cried names of missing family. The rumble of more explosions rolled across the city like monstrous thunder.

Standing in the street, I looked around: shattered windows, twisted metal, scorch marks, smoke drifting. The city I thought safe — a place of relative calm, far from the front lines — was now under assault. I felt helpless, small, trapped in a nightmare I could not wake from.

Every heartbeat pounded in my ears. Every sound — a distant boom, a scream, a siren — made me flinch. I clutched my jacket, pressed my back against a wall, wishing for cover, for safety, for it to end. The fear was raw, elemental: you don’t think, you just survive — and try to stay alive until the next blast.