I first met him while moving into the dormitory. We were all sitting in the dorm library, waiting for the document submission to begin. Vitalik (I didn’t know him yet at the time) and another guy were having a very lively discussion about some historical topic — I don’t remember which one anymore — but I remember thinking he must be a graduate student, just like the other guy, because he was so smart and knew how to clearly express his point of view. After some time, we met again in the classroom where first-year classes were held.
Our first class on the very first day was physical education on Cheremshyny Street, quite far from the main LNU building, and we, as freshmen, had to figure out how to get there. Vitalik immediately showed leadership and led the way, even though he didn’t know the streets that well himself at the time.
You shouldn’t be a tourist,
but a traveler
Vitalik traveled a lot by hitchhiking. His first major trip was to Iceland in April 2019. On the way there and back, he passed through six other countries. After that came a long journey through the Balkans and Turkey, as well as hundreds of smaller and bigger trips both abroad and across Ukraine.
Until the very last moment, he wouldn’t tell anyone where or when he was going — he was very spontaneous. He loved to say, “You shouldn’t be a tourist, but a traveler,” meaning that when you hitchhike, talk to locals, and stay in their homes, you get the chance to truly feel the vibe of a place.
From his trips, besides emotions and stories that everyone in the dorm would gather to listen to, he would bring small gifts — black sand from Iceland, a Moomin chocolate bar from Finland, postcards — and tell stories about the people he met.
He loved the mountains. Before the full-scale invasion, we often went hiking with friends, and afterwards we tried to escape there even just for a day during his leaves. In our conversations, we often dreamed about where we would climb next — maybe doing a trek in Switzerland or somewhere in Mallorca.
It was easy to be friends with Vitalik — he was sincere, open to everyone, reliable, and funny. I could come to him with anything: tell a funny story, share my sadness, ask for help, or invite him on a spontaneous walk around the city at one in the morning.
I feel incredibly lucky to have met someone who was truly “my person” in this life, and to have had the chance to be so happy together — even though there was never enough time. Sometimes I would send him little notes or photos, and he would tuck them into his body armor, saying they kept him safe. And until the very end, I believed they would protect him this time too — it simply couldn’t be otherwise.
It’s such a discovery to realize that your person has always been right beside you — and such happiness that we gave ourselves a chance.
We met literally on the first day at university — in the dorm during check-in. At first, I thought he was a graduate student (he spoke so thoughtfully), and then I saw him again in a first-year class. We became friends and quickly grew close, and sometimes our friends would ask when we were finally going to start dating. And then we just did.
It’s such a discovery to realize that your person has always been right beside you — and such happiness that we gave ourselves a chance.
Насправді, до фрази “How it started” можна ще додати осьо це: pic.twitter.com/5Yx5A5H94K
— турист 🇺🇦 (@tacticalturist) July 23, 2023
There are so many things I came to love thanks to Vitalik: Star Wars, listening to Gorillaz, Turkey (through his stories), green Burn. I can’t even remember everything. I also learned to love myself more, because he used to say: “You have to love yourself very much. Look how much I love you — you should love yourself even more.”
“Imagine — we’ll just live our lives, go to work, watch movies together in the evenings, and go on little trips to the mountains on weekends.” And in the end, Vitalik would always say with certainty: “We will. I’m sure we’ll visit so many places together.”
His optimism was contagious — he knew how to enjoy the simple things and let go of what you can’t change. You just couldn’t stay sad for long when you were with him.
When he got wounded for the second time, he recorded a video for me and, all cheerful, said: “I’ve got good news and good news. I’m 300 — we’ll see each other soon. I love you.”
He talked about everything like it was nothing serious, just another adventure. He was taking care of me.
Vitalik was a person made of stories — they seemed to find their way to him, and he told and wrote them in a way that made them truly captivating.
To me, Vitalik was a person made of stories — they seemed to find their way to him, and he told and wrote them in a way that made them incredibly captivating. Whenever he came back from a trip, half the dorm would gather just to listen to him. We kept telling him that one day he had to write a book. He would always laugh it off, saying who would even be interested — everyone writes books. But he wasn’t everyone.
After his first injury, Vitalik sent me a whole story about how it happened. That’s when I told him again that he absolutely had to write a book someday — because, first of all, his life could easily be a movie script, and secondly, he had a real gift for telling it.
Vitalik was a rebel. He never held on to comfort or “the usual way of things.” He wanted to change things, to keep moving forward — and for him, that came naturally. His lightness toward life was uniquely combined with a deep sense of responsibility. Because it was that sense of responsibility — the understanding that “this is what must be done” — that led him to the enlistment office on the morning of February 24, 2022, without hesitation or doubt.
Попросив дівчину вислати лінзи, а з лінзами приїхало ось це 🥹
Тепер можна покласти десь в бронік і чисто always remember what you’re fighting for 💛 pic.twitter.com/F4vnJ1b9o2
— турист 🇺🇦 (@tacticalturist) July 4, 2024
Sometimes I would send him little notes or photos, and he would tuck them into his body armor, saying they kept him safe. And until the very end, I believed they would protect him this time too — it simply couldn’t be otherwise.
I remember once telling him that I wouldn’t survive if something happened to him.
“If something does happen, I want you to live a beautiful life. Okay?”
I nodded, with a lump in my throat, holding myself together so I wouldn’t start crying — because what kind of “beautiful life” could there be if you weren’t in it?
In the first weeks, I couldn’t talk about him in the past tense. I couldn’t put “Vitalik” and “died” in the same sentence. I would stretch my words, pause, wait for someone else to finish the thought for me. It feels like four months is already a long time, and yet I still catch myself thinking this is temporary — that I just need to wait a little longer, and I’ll tell him all of this like a joke, because he simply missed it.
Such a mix of feelings — loss and pain, but at the same time…
It’s strange — I feel the loss, but also your constant presence with me now. As if you’re still taking care of me.
I used to think that death was like sleep — that one day I would close my eyes and that would be it, nothing more. And I was okay with that. But now, I want there to be something beyond. I want us to meet again someday.
«Travel, Shoot, Love. Not just another patch — something much more. The meaning and philosophy of life in three simple words. Because that’s how I live»
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