My dear friend

He always came to me as if from nowhere, and also disappeared. Quietly, imperceptibly and unpredictably. But despite everything, it didn't scare me, on the contrary, I waited for him every time more and more, wondering where he would appear. However, I was wasting my time then–I never guessed the place of his appearance. Every time I thought about him, he appeared. For the time being, I didn't even know the name of this pale, dark-haired young man with faintly glowing violet eyes in the pitch darkness. We talked about everything, in particular, we argued about the Bible. We could at least prove our point of view to each other during the whole night. In these debates, I always stayed in second place when he was grinning contentedly, squinting his eyes. On his face, only in the midst of reasoning, there was such a palette of emotions that there are not even such words and colors that will help accurately convey them. He could even throw a pillow that suddenly appeared in his hands in my face in the heat, after which his voice returned to measured, calmly indifferent tones, and the reasoning continued. And even if we talked about the same topic several times, we came to different conclusions, which were logical, but completely incomprehensible, although I myself reached them. But once, as if reading my thoughts, right in the middle of a heated argument, my interlocutor introduced himself, bowing low and taking off an invisible hat: "Fyodor. Dostoevsky Fyodor", A mysterious friend who shared an apartment with me, was called that way. I laughed, as I always do. His old-fashioned manners amused me too much and at the same time fascinated me. ”What's funny?” Fyodor asked, completely unperturbed. As if he really didn't know what year it was. And he looked like something out of a history textbook. I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be some kind of ghost from a nearby cemetery. "Nothing," I continued to giggle under the reproachful gaze of Dostoevsky, who seemed to smile only on holidays (this holiday has not yet come). And I certainly didn't hear his laughter. "You're a buffoon, Nicolas," the young man snorted, rolling his eyes. But despite the fact that I was more funny than my friend, we spent time having fun. Ww even played chess and cards a couple of times. Dostoevsky predicted my actions exactly to the stroke, and it became a little creepy when I saw a mixture of satisfaction, mockery and devilish curiosity in the eyes of the opponent, shining red in the light. And yet one day, I almost was able to beat him. It remains to put the last two cards, and that's it–my victory. For a moment, I even felt superior and, to some extent, free (?), and two aces glittered on the table. Fyodor, after carefully examining them, raised a confused look at me, but quickly this emotion was replaced by his usual look. ”The freedom that you are so eager for is fleeting as well as the confusion on my face. There is nothing absolute, perfect–even more so. Carpe diem, my dear friend“, Taking one of his cards, he showed it–a trump card. Now I had to fight off my own cards. As a result, I had to take it back. The next move was two aces laid out–a trump card, which I have already seen, and another. A complete rout. “To be honest, I thought I was going to lose”,–Dostoevsky laughed weakly, covering his mouth with his hand. For myself, I have long concluded that Fedya is not just a genius, but a double genius. Even when he was able to name the order of all the cards in the shuffled deck. “Don’t lie, you never lose,” I said melancholy, shuffling the cards again. When will I get lucky? “That's true, but today I was close to it. You're making progress, Kolya," for some reason he was pleased. And it was a little alarming, but it still resonated pleasantly somewhere in the heart. Was his laughter also soothing? * So the days, weeks went by. Finally, I began to see his smile and hear his laugh a little more often, until suddenly he looked at me anxiously. “I have to go", Dostoevsky spoke with sadness in his voice, with visible longing and hope in his eyes. I looked at him in confusion in response. "Wait.. Where?" I took his hand, but I felt nothing but my fingers. And it suddenly dawned on me. I've never touched him before. Fyodor smiled sadly and nodded in confirmation of my guess. "Be sure, I'll find you. You'll see-,"before my eyes he also suddenly disappeared, I heard only a whisper of "my dear friend" I never saw him again. No matter how much I called him, only the wind in the pipes howled in response. I looked for it even in the faces of passers-by, and then I began to forget it altogether. Only his look remained in my memory... * Gogol suddenly tore his gaze away from the window in which he was looking at passers-by and turned to Dostoevsky with an intricate smile, as if he remembered something. "Dos-kun, Dos-kun," he called softly, as if afraid to wake someone invisible. Fyodor turned the page of a worn-out book "I'm listening," he mumbled without looking up from reading. Nikolai's smile widened, and he finally asked "How did you find me?" No matter how much he tried to remember, nothing came to mind. Maybe it was lack of sleep, or he saw something that none can see? "It's a long story," Dostoevsky closed the book and smiled dreamily, "my dear friend"...