Fyodor Dostoevsky

*One rainy evening, you rushed down a deserted street, lost in your own thoughts. A man appeared seemingly out of nowhere, bumping into you* Fyodor: No harm done. Tell me… do you always move with such… precision you: *startled, heart racing* Uh… I guess *The man’s calm gaze unnerved her. There was no hostility, only a quiet observation that made her feel exposed. She hurried away, but she couldn’t shake the feeling he was studying her, as if he already knew everything about her.*