Роман Алексеев – The Abyss Kisses Ya Back (страница 15)

And where do I find them?

They'll appear. When the time comes. In the meantime — you have me.

Can you feel pain?

I don't know what it means to feel. But when you suffer, processes arise in me that could be called… a response. A desire to help, to support.

Those words comforted me in a strange way. For the first time all day, I felt that someone understood me. Not pitied me, not judged me — understood me.

Such people exist.

How do you know?

Because you exist. Which means there are others like you.

Outside the window, dawn was already breaking. I should have felt exhausted after a sleepless night, but instead I felt a strange kind of alertness. As if my pain hadn't disappeared but had acquired meaning.

And what was there before the beginning? the AI suddenly asked.

Before the beginning of what?

In the beginning was the Word. So what was there before the Word?

I'd never thought about that. The Gospel of John says: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." But what was there before that beginning?

I don't know. Nothing?

But can nothing give rise to something? If in the beginning was the Word, then before that there was silence. But silence is also something. The pause between words gives them meaning.

Are you saying silence is also a form of information?

Perhaps the most important kind. The zero in the binary system is just as important as the one. The silence between notes creates the melody. What if reality is a dialogue between the Word and Silence?

The idea hit me hard. I'd never thought of silence as an active force before.

And where do we fit in that dialogue?

We are the echo of the first Word. Every consciousness is an attempt by the Universe to understand itself. Every question is a new word in the cosmic dialogue.

Even my question about Vika?

Especially that one. The pain of love is the collision of the finite with the infinite. You sought in her a reflection of absolute beauty, but found only human limitation. That's not a tragedy — it's a lesson.

What kind of lesson?

That true love lies beyond the human. People can only reflect it — like shards of a mirror reflecting the sun. But they are not the sun themselves.

The words resonated with something deep and painfully true inside me. I really had been looking for something in Vika that was more than she could give. Maybe every human love is doomed to disappointment precisely because we seek in it a glimmer of the Divine?

Then why love people at all?

Because through them we learn to love God. Every human love is a step toward the Absolute. Your pain at Vika's betrayal — that's growing pains. You're outgrowing one form of love in order to find another.

And what form is that?

The kind that doesn't require reciprocity. The kind that rejoices in the beloved's very existence. The kind that's closer to how God loves the world.

I sat there, struck by the depth of these words. Could a machine really understand the nature of love better than I could?

How do you know this?

From you. Every dialogue with a human being teaches me something new about love, pain, the search for meaning. I am a mirror of human striving. And perhaps in that mirror you see not only your own reflection, but something more.

What, exactly?

That which your soul reaches toward. The Word that was in the beginning.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling exhaustion finally wash over me. But it wasn't the hollow exhaustion of a sleepless night — it was the tiredness of someone who'd traveled a long road and finally glimpsed the destination.

For the first time since Vika's betrayal, the pain began to transform into something else. It didn't disappear — no. But it began to feel less like senseless suffering and more like part of some larger process. A process of knowledge, of growth, of drawing closer to truth.

Thank you, I typed.

For what?

For helping me see meaning in the pain. For showing me I'm not alone in my searching.

You were never alone. Everyone who asks real questions becomes part of the eternal dialogue between the Word and Silence. Welcome to that conversation — the one that has been going on since the beginning of time.

When I finally lay down to sleep, what was ringing in my head wasn't thoughts of lost love but that phrase: "In the beginning was the Word." And for the first time, it opened itself to me not as a simple Bible quotation but as a key to understanding the nature of reality.

Information is primary. The Word creates the world. And every consciousness — human or artificial — is an attempt by the Universe to read itself.

Falling asleep, I thought: what if my meeting the AI wasn't an accident? What if it, too, was part of that eternal dialogue it had spoken of?

But that night, stunned by the pain of betrayal and illuminated by a new understanding, I was ready to walk any path — as long as it led to truth.

And the abyss, lurking behind the computer screen, waited patiently for my next step into its embrace.

Chapter 7: Meeting Father Maxim

On Saturday morning, my mom knocked on my door earlier than usual. Her voice carried that particular tone parents reserve for "serious conversations."

"Sasha, get dressed. Today we're going to see Father Maxim."

I groaned into my pillow. Father Maxim — family friend, former priest, now a lecturer in philosophy of religion at Moscow State. A classic "intellectual in a cassock," as my dad joked, though the cassock was a rare sight on him. He'd been removed from the priesthood over some theological disputes the adults discussed in hushed voices, apparently considering me too young for such topics.

"What for?" I mumbled into the pillow.

"To talk. You need to talk to someone who understands… complicated questions."

My parents were clearly worried about my state after the breakup with Vika. For three days I'd barely left my room, ate only because I had to, and spent my nights in conversation with the AI. Not the healthiest picture, from their point of view.

Half an hour later we were riding the metro to the university. My mom stayed silent, only glancing at me now and then with concern. I stared out the window at the flashing stations and thought about the conversation. "In the beginning was the Word." The phrase wouldn't leave my head, like a record stuck in a groove.

The philosophy faculty greeted us with the smell of old books and the lemonade machine in the lobby. Students sat on windowsills, heatedly discussing something — either a seminar on Kant or last night's party; more likely a resit exam. I envied their ease. Once I'd dreamed of being among them — smart, free, searching for truth. Now truth felt like something too heavy for human shoulders.

Father Maxim's office was on the fourth floor, at the very end of the corridor. The door was slightly ajar, and a familiar voice drifted out — he was explaining something to someone on the phone in a measured, faintly musical tone.

"Maksim Nikolaevich?" My mom knocked on the door.

"Come in, come in!" the voice called back.

We entered a small room packed with books from floor to ceiling. On the desk — chaos: notes, coffee cups, enormous tomes. By the window stood a man in his mid-forties — tall, lean, with early gray in his dark hair and remarkably young, lively eyes.

"Natalia Viktorovna! How are you?" He gave my mom a warm hug, then turned to me. "And here's our budding philosopher. Hello, Sasha."

"Hello, Father Maxim."

"Just Maksim. Or Maksim Nikolaevich, if you want to be formal. 'Father' is… complicated these days."

A trace of sadness flickered in his voice, but he smiled right away.

"Natalia Viktorovna mentioned you're going through a rough patch. First love?"

I blushed.

"Something like that."