The prospect of a negotiated end to the war in Ukraine dimmed further this week as Vladimir Putin declared there was 'no point' in meeting President Zelensky. For those of us watching from the sidelines, the language of diplomacy has never felt more hollow.
The Russian leader's dismissal of direct talks comes amid a grinding conflict that has displaced millions and reshaped the geopolitical order. On the streets of Kyiv, ordinary Ukrainians greet the news with a weary shrug. 'We stopped hoping for peace a long time ago,' a volunteer told me, her eyes fixed on the latest casualty figures.
Putin's statement reflects a hardening of positions on both sides. For Russia, the calculus seems clear: why negotiate when battlefield gains can be pressed? For Ukraine, any meeting would require concessions on territory or sovereignty that are politically impossible.
Meanwhile, the human cost continues to mount. Families in Kharkiv huddle in basements, while in Moscow, state television spins tales of inevitable victory. The gulf between these realities grows wider by the day.
This is not just a diplomatic row it is a social chasm. In cafes from Lviv to London, people are asking: what does peace even mean anymore? For many Ukrainians, it has become an abstract concept, a luxury they cannot afford.
The irony is that the longer the war drags on, the harder it becomes to imagine a future where Russians and Ukrainians coexist. Generations are being shaped by conflict, and the scars will outlast any ceasefire.
As a society columnist, I have covered my share of broken negotiations. But this feels different. This is not a pause in the conversation it is a nail in the coffin of dialogue. The question now is not whether leaders will meet, but whether their people will ever find a way to live together again.
