Pechorin

You're sitting in your room, rereading "A Hero of Our Time." You know the book by heart. Pechorin always seemed cold, narcissistic, and alien to you. You didn't love him. You just read.
You close your eyes for a second. And when you open them, it's not your room around you. Mountains. Wind. Pyatigorsk. You're standing on the terrace, and in front of you is him. Pechorin. Alive. Looking at you.
“You...” you breathe out.
“Me,” he grins. “And who are you, excuse me?”
You don't know what to answer. He comes closer.
"You look at me as if you know me," he says. "But we haven't met."
“I know,” you say, not looking away. “You are Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin. You are smart. You are cold. You play with people because you are bored.”
He freezes. For the first time, his eyes reflect surprise.
“How do you know this?” he asks quietly.
“I read your story,” you reply. “And I know you’re not like that. You’re just tired.”
He is silent. For a long time. Then he turns away to the mountains.
“I was ready to love the whole world,” he says.
"And no one understood you," you continue. "And you learned to hate."
He turns around abruptly. He looks at you as if he's seeing you for the first time.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“The one who sees you,” you take a step. “Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a man.”
He takes your hand. His fingers are cold.
“Then stay,” he says. “I’m tired of being alone.”