Message in the Telegram channel: A series of explosions are heard in Kharkiv. At this moment, you stop breathing and wait for endless minutes for the next message with a photo to understand where it hit this time.

I recognized this crossroad immediately. Of course, this is the main artery connecting the city center with the airport. It's always full of traffic and people. Of course, this is where the central bus station is, where I used to go to get to camp as a kid, and to visit my grandfather in Dnipro region with my mother. Later, from this station I sent my eldest son to summer camp in Latvia.

The city trolleybus is just steps away. I used to get off the bus here almost every day when I went to work and to pick up my sons at school. Today, it was not me who got off at this stop, but another woman. She was killed by a fragment of the Russian missile.

And there's the underground metro nearby, one of the busiest stations in all of Kharkiv. When I was a kid I used to get off at this station to go to my beloved circus and to music school (not so beloved). Later, I took this subway to my university. And here I was, a grown-up, walking from this station to driving school a hundred meters away. I hope this metro station saved the lives of those who managed to get down there before the explosion.

What else? The final bus stop going to our house, which my husband and I bought and where my children grew up. I could have been there right then. I wasn't. 

But, my eldest son, where is he? I texted him right away. No answer. I texted again. Yes, he actually was on the bus going to this stop. He tells me they just arrived. It's 15 minutes after the explosion. When I realized this, I stopped breathing for a while.

My family, my house, our car in Kharkiv were not damaged. But the people who were killed and wounded, who suffered from the Russian strike today, and all the other days in my city and everywhere in Ukraine - they are someone's children, parents, loved ones. As I contemplate this, I stop breathing again...