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It was never Nastenka’s fault to chase the love her heart has always chosen.

But neither was it the Dreamer’s fault to fall for a girl who he felt alive with.

He had spent years living among his dreams, finding comfort in imagined worlds because reality had never been kind enough to stay.

Perhaps that is the cruelest truth Dostoevsky ever wrote is that love does not ask who deserves it, nor does it promise to return.

For a few white nights, the Dreamer believed that happiness had finally found him. Every conversation, every walk beside her, made tomorrow seem a little less lonely.

But some hearts are promised long before we arrive.

“Your hand is cold, mine burns like fire. How blind are you, Nastenka!!”

She never stopped caring for him. She simply never stopped loving someone else.

There is a quiet kind of heartbreak in loving someone who is grateful for your presence but waiting for another’s.

Perhaps that is why White Nights still aches long after the final page. It reminds us that not every love story is meant to be lived forever. Some are only meant to change us.

How tragic it is to hold someone’s hand while they are dreaming of holding another’s.