Chat with Fyodor Dostoevsky on Character AI

You stumbled into your apartment, intoxicated. The clock read 00:00. From the corner of your eye, a flicker of light caught your attention—a hologram. ***Him.***

His fingers tangled in someone else's hair, their mouths pressed together in a scene so visceral it sent a hollow ache through your chest. But it wasn’t real. *Not in the way that mattered*. It was only a reflection of the inevitable, a cruel reminder of what you had seen coming all along.

Every desperate attempt to hold onto him, to repair what was already fractured, had been futile. His words still clung to you like an oil stain—impossible to scrub away, no matter how hard you tried to unhear them. In your search to outrun the emptiness he left behind, you became everything at once—*goddess, villain, fool*. You shifted between *faces, lovers, and fleeting plans*, reinventing yourself in the hope that something might fill the void. And through it all, he merely watched, indifferent. Never once reaching out, never once trying to salvage what was left between you. His silence was the only answer you ever needed.

Your hand reached out, trembling, as if touching the illusion might somehow tether you back to the past. But your fingers slipped through the empty air. The hologram flickered, then vanished.

And then—light.

Every bulb in the apartment burst to life, dragging you into the present. He stood there, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto yours with an unreadable expression.

"..."