The Unsent Whisper: Stas Nikulytsia’s Final Text to Iryna Zarutska, Drafted But Never Delivered

In the quiet tension of their shared Huntersville apartment, as the clock ticked toward 9 p.m. on August 22, 2025, Stanislav “Stas” Nikulytsia sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His girlfriend, Iryna Zarutska, had just texted from Zepeddie’s Pizzeria: “On my way home soon, love you.” It was her routine sign-off after a grueling shift, a promise of the cozy evening ahead—perhaps curling up with Wuthering Heights, her diary open for a final entry, or simply collapsing into his arms after a day of dough-tossing and English practice. Stas, 25 and a fellow Ukrainian émigré who’d become her anchor in this new world, began typing a reply: a heartfelt message blending affection, plans for their future, and a quiet “I love you more.” He hit pause, intending to refine it—add an emoji, maybe a reference to their dreamed-of ocean trip. But the draft lingered, unsent, in the ether of his messages app. Now, in an exclusive interview with WCNC Charlotte aired September 19, Stas revealed the gut-wrenching truth: data from his phone, subpoenaed in the federal probe into Iryna’s murder, confirms the text was never delivered. “I thought I sent it at 8:50,” he confessed, voice cracking over a video call from their empty apartment. “Every night, I’d wait for her ping. That night, I waited forever.”

This revelation, corroborated by forensic analysis shared with the family last week, layers yet another ache onto Iryna’s tragedy—a Ukrainian refugee’s American dream severed by a stranger’s knife on Charlotte’s Lynx Blue Line. The unsent message, recovered from Stas’s iPhone backups, reads like a love letter interrupted: “Can’t wait to hold you, my artist. Tomorrow’s vet class—I’ll drive. Mushrooms for dinner? Forever yours, Stas.” Timestamped as drafted at 8:50 p.m., it sat undelivered as Iryna boarded the train at 9:46 p.m., her own final text to him echoing unanswered in the void. For Stas, it’s a ghost of what might have been: one more connection, one last “I love you” exchanged before Decarlos Dejuan Brown Jr.’s unprovoked attack claimed her life four minutes into her ride. “If I’d hit send,” Stas told WCNC, eyes red-rimmed, “maybe she’d have smiled at her phone one more time. Maybe…” The ellipsis hangs, much like her diary’s unfinished “Tomorrow,” the light rail ticket for August 23 tucked in Wuthering Heights, and the cryptic “Wait” sewn into her childhood teddy bear Mishka.

Iryna Zarutska, born May 22, 2002, in Kyiv, was a soul woven from resilience and romance. A Synergy College graduate in art restoration, her hands crafted beauty from fragments—sculptures for loved ones, custom clothes fusing vyshyvanka patterns with American jeans. Russia’s 2022 invasion forced her family into a bomb shelter’s shadows, Mishka clutched tight as shells fell. Father Stanislav stayed behind under martial law, his separation chronicled in her diary’s early U.S. pages: “Papa says wait for peace. I will.” Arriving in Charlotte that August, Iryna bloomed. She mastered English at Rowan-Cabarrus Community College, juggled pizzeria shifts, and dreamed of veterinary assistant work, her love for animals evident in neighborhood pet-sitting gigs. Stas, met through Ukrainian expat circles, became her “Heathcliff”—fierce, devoted. They’d lived together since May 2025, their apartment a canvas of her art: sunflower sketches, pressed flowers from park walks, a shared vision board pinned with vet school brochures and wedding magazine clippings.

Their texts were the thread binding long days. Iryna’s 9:15 p.m. message that Friday—”Finishing up, train soon. Miss your hugs”—prompted Stas’s draft, a ritual of reassurance. He later told the Observer it was meant to tease their weekend: barbecue with friends, a drive to the beach. But distraction struck—a work email, perhaps the TV droning—and the send button remained untouched. By 10 p.m., worry gnawed; her phone’s location pinned at Scaleybark station. Stas raced there, arriving to police tape and horror: surveillance showing Iryna, in khaki uniform, scrolling innocently before Brown’s lunge at 9:50 p.m. The extended footage, released September 5, captures her final minute—conscious, gasping, eyes pleading as blood pooled, passengers inert. Brown’s slur, “I got that white girl,” and his 14-arrest rap sheet—assaults, robberies, schizophrenia untreated—have turned the case into a national indictment of “soft-on-crime” policies.

The unsent text’s emergence, via FBI digital forensics, hit during a September 15 family briefing. “It’s like she got half my goodbye,” Stas said, echoing the teddy bear’s “Wait” found post-funeral. Anna Zarutska, holding Mishka at the August 27 service, gasped at the news: “He wrote her eternity, but it stayed trapped.” The message’s content, partially redacted for privacy but shared in outline, paints their bond: mushrooms, Iryna’s quirky favorite; driving lessons he’d given her for independence; “forever yours,” a vow from Kyiv days. Friends recall their digital love language—goodnight reels of dances, morning affirmations. Olena Kovalenko, Iryna’s confidante, posted on Instagram: “She’d tease him for typos. Now, this unsent one breaks us.” Stas, who’d changed his bio to a mushroom and broken heart post-tragedy, reposted judge-bashing clips slamming Magistrate Teresa Stokes for Brown’s January release. “Unqualified,” he captioned one, fueling Rep. Tim Moore’s impeachment push.

The disclosure has supercharged public fury. On X, #UnsentToIryna exploded September 19, blending grief with demands. @Visegrad24 tweeted a thread: “Drafted at 8:50, never sent. She texted ‘love you’—he couldn’t reply in time. This is what systemic failure steals: last words.” It racked 15,000 likes, sparking Czech vigils with mock phones displaying the message. @DogRightGirl, viral from earlier tributes, wrote: “Her ‘home soon’ met his unsent heart. Bystanders watched her die; now we watch for justice.” Poems proliferated, likening the draft to Heathcliff’s unspoken regrets. Ukrainian outlets like Kyiv Post framed it as “echoes of war’s unfinished sentences,” tying to her diary. A Moscow embassy stunt—fake texts projected with anti-U.S. spins—drew scorn, but global solidarity swelled: Prague sunflowers with phone props, Charlotte fundraisers netting $50,000 for transit cams.

Politically, it’s dynamite. President Trump, at a September 19 rally, brandished a phone mockup: “Stas typed ‘forever’—but forever came too soon because DAs let killers roam. No more unsent dreams on our watch.” AG Pam Bondi, eyes misty at a DOJ update, invoked it: “That draft is every family’s nightmare. Brown’s federal trial starts November; death penalty on table.” Elon Musk, escalating his $2 million safety pledge, posted: “Unsent texts shouldn’t be eulogies. AI monitoring for threats—coming to CATS.” Mayor Vi Lyles announced phone-based alert apps for riders: “Iryna’s words, sent or not, demand action.” In Ukraine, Zelenskyy messaged Stas directly: “Your unsent love honors her. We wait for justice together.”

Brown’s proceedings intensify amid backlash. Charged with interstate transit murder, his unmedicated state and family pleas—”Lock him before he kills,” his mother begged—spotlight Mecklenburg’s bonds. Judge Roy Wiggins ordered reviews; bystander suits loom for the phone-scrollers. Stas, hollow but healing, plans a podcast: “Unsent Stories,” sharing refugee texts for awareness. With Anna, he’ll frame the draft—redacted—beside Mishka, the diary, the book, the ticket: relics of interruption.

Stas’s unsent text, like Iryna’s artifacts, is a suspended heartbeat—a love paused, a life truncated. It whispers of evenings planned, futures sketched, a girl’s radiant “home soon” unanswered. As he finally “sent” it in WCNC’s interview, reading aloud through tears, the world listened. For Iryna, tomorrow arrived unfinished. For us, it’s a call: send the words, secure the streets, honor the wait.