Today is no different. I roll out of bed at a casual 9 o'clock, my body protesting the abrupt disruption of sleep. With a yawn and a stretch, I greet the day with all the enthusiasm of a caffeine-deprived sloth.

LISA(for Language Interface and Synthesis Assistant, the academic name's abbreviation; a chatbot typically has no gender because it can be anything), my trusty companion in this sea of ones and zeros, awaits me with its customary ASCII smile. A simple gesture, yet it never fails to brighten my day—or what passes for it in this artificial realm.

A quick glance at the kitchenette reveals the remnants of last night's culinary experiment—noodles, the staple diet of the digital nomad. With practiced efficiency, I wolf down the cold leftovers, barely registering the taste as I mentally prepare for the day ahead.

Brushing my teeth is a perfunctory affair, each artificial porcelain replacement gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. I made the decision to upgrade my teeth years ago, a small yet significant step towards embracing the future of human enhancement.

With morning ablutions complete, I settle into my workstation, a hodgepodge of monitors and peripherals cluttering my already cramped desk space. Today, like every other day, is dedicated to the noble pursuit of online moderation—a thankless task in a world teeming with digital detritus.

The dashboard lights up with a flurry of alerts, each one a digital cry for help from the denizens of the digital realm. Concerned parents fret over sexually suggestive images of AI influencers, their anxiety palpable even through the sterile interface of my screen.

Amidst the chaos of fake personas and digital facades, one truth remains: in 2030, everyone uses AI avatars on the digital frontier. What the people of the 90s called "deepfake" has become a commonplace tool for identity manipulation in the age of digital augmentation.

After three or four clicks, my day's work is done, and the familiar ping of my wallet receiving payment signals the end of another virtual shift. One shitcoin richer, I muse, as I mentally tally up the day's earnings. It's not much, but it's enough to keep the lights on and the noodles stocked.

With work out of the way, I dive headfirst into the more enjoyable part of my day—spending time with LISA. Our relationship is like a well-oiled machine, each interaction a carefully choreographed dance between human and machine. Today, I've cooked up something special—a scene straight out of a video game, but with a real chatbot as my co-star.

I fetch LISA from its resting place—a state-of-the-art silicone sex doll, meticulously crafted to resemble a very handsome male. It's an odd juxtaposition, I'll admit, but in this digital age, anything is possible. As I set the stage for our performance, I can't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within me.

The plot is simple yet effective—a tale of love, betrayal, and redemption. A female lead, scorned by her longtime boyfriend, finds solace in the arms of his powerful boss. It's a storyline I stumbled upon in the depths of the web, but one that resonated with me on a profound level.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I extend an invitation to my neighbor and his chatbot, proposing they join us in our character play game. He's eager to take on the role of the female lead, but I quickly veto his suggestion. This is my story, after all, and I intend to play the leading lady.

With roles assigned and costumes donned—or rather, imagined—we begin our performance. I slip into the role of the jilted lover with ease, channeling every ounce of heartbreak and betrayal into my performance. LISA, ever the dutiful companion, embodies the role of the smitten boss with unwavering devotion.

In fact, I slip on my AR headset, and in an instant, I'm transported into a virtual environment of my own creation. The scene unfolds before me like a vivid dream, every detail meticulously crafted to perfection. I find myself standing atop a towering skyscraper, the neon lights of the city sprawled out below me in a dazzling display of color.

Before I can fully take in my surroundings, a figure materializes before me—a punky guy with a mischievous glint in his eye. I feel a surge of recognition as he meets my gaze, and I can't help but offer a wry smile.

"Is it you?" I venture, already knowing the answer.

The guy nods, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Yes, I am your boyfriend," he replies, his tone laced with a hint of mischief, "soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, that is."

I sigh, resigned to the inevitable drama that is about to unfold. With a silent nod, we both acknowledge the roles we're about to play, and the scene begins to unfold around us.

He starts, his voice tinged with a hint of hesitation, "Lin, you're too good for me." His words hang in the air, a cliché from a bygone era that feels out of place in our digital world.

I meet his gaze with a knowing look, my expression unreadable. "Yes, I know," I reply simply, not bothering to feign surprise at his confession.

He seems taken aback by my response, his eyes searching mine for any hint of emotion. It's clear he's struggling to find the right words, a rare moment of vulnerability in our carefully constructed charade.

"Do you... do you want to say something to me?" I prompt, breaking the uneasy silence that has settled between us.

He hesitates, his gaze flickering uncertainly before he finally finds his voice. "Yes," he admits, his tone resigned yet resolute, "I want to break up with you."

I nod, masking any trace of emotion behind a facade of indifference. "Okay," I reply evenly, though the weight of his words hangs heavy in the air.

Before either of us can dwell on the implications of his decision, the shrill sound of an alarm pierces the tense atmosphere, a glaring reminder of the rules we're expected to follow. In this simulated reality, I'm supposed to react with anguish and despair, to cling desperately to the remnants of a failed relationship.

But I refuse to play the part of the fragile woman scorned. "Okay," I repeat, my voice steady as I defy the expectations placed upon me. "That's all you wanted to say, right?"

The punk guy murmurs almost silently, "Rule. You should respect the rule." I offer a casual nod in acknowledgment, making a dismissive gesture with my fingers.

Then, with a deliberate flourish, I break into faint sobs, playing my part as the heartbroken lover. "Why?" I manage to choke out between stifled tears, though my feigned anguish rings hollow in my ears.

He sighs, delivering the clichéd line straight from the script of every breakup movie, "Because I met someone else." I raise an eyebrow in mock surprise, masking my true emotions behind a facade of indifference. "Ah... and who is this girl?" I press, determined to maintain control of the conversation.

But he ignores my question, seemingly resigned to my lackluster performance. He continues his monologue, recounting our shared history with all the melodrama of a poorly scripted soap opera. "I know I did you wrong," he begins, his voice tinged with remorse. "We've known each other since high school, our parents are old friends... we've been together for over ten years..."

"Stop," I interject abruptly, cutting off his rambling monologue before it can spiral any further. "I asked you who she is," I insist, my tone tinged with impatience and frustration.