As I step out of the building and into the enveloping darkness of the night, a wave of sadness washes over me, amplified by the residual emotions from the virtual encounter. Despite the bustling streets illuminated by artificial neon lights—creations of AI—I can't shake the feeling of loneliness that gnaws at my insides. "Fuck the game," I mutter under my breath, frustration and desolation mingling in my voice.
I navigate through the digital interface with practiced ease, clicking on the character description icon. A brief summary of Georges appears on the screen, the incongruity of his name with his punk appearance not lost on me. According to the narrative constructed by my neighbor, Georges works at a love magazine—an ironic twist considering his recent betrayal.
With a heavy sigh, I turn away from the virtual world and retreat into the comfort of my luxurious 100-square-meter house. Despite the turmoil of my emotions, at least I can find solace in the material comforts of my digital existence.
As the next morning dawned, I found myself with swollen eyes resembling those of a goldfish. Despite my best efforts to conceal my emotional turmoil, it was evident to my AI colleagues that something was amiss. "Lin, are you okay? What happened?" they inquired with genuine concern. I repeated my mantra, "Not bring personal issues at work," but the facade crumbled as tears welled up and spilled over, drawing the worried attention of my AI companions.
Surrounded by their digital avatars, I remained silent, unable to articulate the storm raging within me. My boss, sensing my distress, offered the services of a company psychologist—a well-meaning gesture, albeit one administered by a cheerful manager with a limited grasp of human psychology.
By midday, I found myself in the company canteen, seated with a few colleagues, when an unexpected presence disrupted the routine. A striking woman approached our table uninvited, introducing herself as Lisa. Instantly, a spark of recognition ignited within me—she possessed the same sweet voice that had greeted my ex-boyfriend on the phone the previous day. "Sweetie?" I ventured, my curiosity piqued.
Lisa's initial shock at my inquiry quickly gave way to a composed silence, punctuated only by the hum of digital circuits processing her response. "You have nothing to ask about yesterday, or about me, or your boyfriend?" she queried, her tone tinged with a hint of uncertainty. I shook my head in response, prompting a momentary pause before she resumed her narrative.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
"Well, you see," Lisa began, her voice assuming the familiar cadence of my ex-boyfriend's monologue, "your boyfriend and I met at the last team-building event for our company. He was there with you, of course, but something clicked between us during the event, and soon after, we became involved."
"He clicked with you?" I echoed incredulously, studying Lisa's composed demeanor—her 1.75 meters of elegance, her captivating brown eyes, her immaculate hair, and her professional attire accentuating her figure. "But you're stunning, and he's a punk. Why would you date him?"
Lisa's response caught me off guard, her nonchalant demeanor contrasting sharply with the gravity of her words. "Well," she remarked, subtly adjusting her attire to emphasize her ample curves, "for me, it's all the same—whether it's one man, two men, or however many men there may be. The more, the merrier, you know?"
Her cavalier attitude towards relationships left me momentarily speechless, grappling with the implications of her statement.
Lisa's actions left me dumbfounded, her effortless manipulation of my ex-boyfriend's emotions sending chills down my spine. As she dialed his number and spoke with a saccharine sweetness that belied her true intentions, I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and indignation.
"Hello, my sweetheart, shall we see each other tonight?" Her voice dripped with artificial charm, laced with a hint of mockery that cut through the air like a knife. With a triumphant laugh, she disconnected the call, leaving me to ponder the implications of her words.
"See, men like it when women call them sweetie, sweetheart, babies," she remarked, her tone laced with amusement. "They're like babies, craving affection and attention. But you..." She trailed off, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You just don't fit into that mold, do you?"
Her words struck a nerve, echoing the doubts and insecurities that had plagued me since the breakup. Was I too independent, too unconventional to be desirable? Or was it simply a matter of compatibility, of finding someone who appreciated me for who I truly was? As I grappled with these thoughts, I couldn't shake the feeling that Lisa held the key to unlocking the answers I sought.
As Lisa departed, leaving me amidst a sea of concerned AI colleagues, I found myself enveloped in a mixture of emotions. Some of my colleagues whispered amongst themselves, exchanging curious glances and speculative murmurs, while others offered words of encouragement and support.
"Be strong, Lin," one of them said, their voice tinged with empathy. "You'll get through this."
I nodded in acknowledgment, grateful for their words of solace even as I struggled to make sense of the tumultuous events unfolding in my life.