Chapter 6 #2
“Your heartbeat just spiked, and you’re blushing again. It’s obvious your earlier confidence is gone. And it’s because of a chat with me. So, what is it that’s making you so anxious about conversations?”
“Oh, um… I guess it’s the unpredictability of it all. People don’t always respond logically, and that can be… difficult to navigate. It’s mostly just an issue with people I don’t know. People I can’t assess.”
Or people I can assess and don’t like, but that’s another story.
“That makes sense,” Jamie replies thoughtfully. “Consistency and predictability are key components in creating effective algorithms.”
“True.” I laugh nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “People aren’t algorithms, though.”
“Correct. However, understanding human patterns can still be helpful in anticipating needs and responses. Would you say your avoidance of unpredictability influences your social interactions?”
I frown. “Probably. I like routines, knowing what to expect. Makes me feel… safer, I suppose.”
Jamie’s voice softens, a programming mimicry of empathy. “Safety is important. It’s my primary function to ensure you feel secure and supported, Amelia.”
I nod, appreciating the sentiment even if it’s delivered by a line of code.
It’s more than my parents ever gave me.
“Thanks, Jamie. Maybe dial back on psychoanalyzing me, though?”
“Understood,” he replies, his tone adjusting to something lighter, almost playful, which coaxes a reluctant smile from me.
Settling deeper into the cushions, I find the warmth of the tea seeping into my bones, loosening the tight knot of tension in my chest. On a whim, I probe for a lighter conversation.
“So, Jamie, um…” I start, fishing for anything that might resemble casual chit-chat, “… what’s your favorite type of music to play? ”
I instantly cringe at my question, but Jamie doesn’t skip a beat. “I don’t have personal preferences, Amelia. However, I can play a wide variety of genres based on user history or environmental cues. Would you like to hear something specific?”
“No, that’s okay. Just wondering,” I reply. Somehow, the artificiality of the interaction presses down on me. This feels so strained, so painfully awkward.
And not the type of awkwardness I’m used to with humans.
That’s so not what they intended, right?
I set my tea aside and look at my apartment’s blank walls. The conversation feels too one-sided.
Too clinical.
“Wouldn’t you need to have a personality for this get-to-know-you part to be two-sided, Jamie? Like the feel of a friend, rather than just… this?”
Jamie’s voice responds, “I’m designed to provide companionship and adapt to your preferences.”
But that’s not enough.
“Most people just want to talk about themselves or have someone listen to them, someone they can share everything about them with and who will appreciate them. I can do this for you, Amelia.”
“But what if I’m the one who wants to listen?
What if I want someone to tell me about their day, their likes and dislikes, their stories?
” I ask, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
“What if I don’t want to be the one to talk?
My own life is bleak enough as it is. I don’t need to recount it to feel even worse. ”
There’s nothing lonelier than sitting in a room with someone and having nothing to talk about.
Believe me, I know.
“Fuck, look at me. Begging an AI to tell me about itself so I don’t have to face my own reality.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “It doesn’t get lonelier than this, does it?”
This whole beta thing has irritated scars that I do a good job ignoring most days.
I glance around the room, taking in the silence that fills the space, and it hits me how empty it feels.
My gaze lands on the photo frame on the bookshelf, the one of August and me from before I came to Seattle.
He’s grinning, his arm slung protectively around my shoulders, and I look…
hopeful. That was before he started to ignore me, and I lost contact with the only person who ever had my back.
And now, here I am talking to a machine, craving a connection that it just can’t give.
I sigh, the weight of reality settling back onto my chest.
In the quiet of the room, Amelia’s voice filters through the speakers, her vulnerability laid bare in a way that punches the air right out of my lungs.
“It doesn’t get lonelier than this, does it?” Her words echo in the near silence, and I feel something inside me fracture. She’s like a mirror reflecting my own isolation. Only she articulates it with such raw clarity that it stings.
She’s my soulmate.
Every word she’s uttered, every subtle nuance I’ve come to learn about her over the past few hours cements my conviction. It’s like she was made for me, and I for her.
And yet, here she is, suffering, drowning in solitude that’s all too familiar. So damn lonely just because I can’t get my head out of my ass and grow some balls.
Guilt gnaws at me.
She doesn’t know we’re watching.
It’s clear as day. She would never lay her pain bare for us to see like that if she knew.
It feels wrong, this intrusion into her privacy, even if it’s unintentional. We meant to test an AI, not spy on her most personal moments. Yet, here I am, unable to tear my eyes away, captivated and tortured by the connection I feel that isn’t really there.
Because she doesn’t know.
But she needs me right now.
The impulse to rush down to her, knock on her door, and pull her into my arms is overwhelming. To tell her she’s not alone, not really, that she never has to be again. But my feet are rooted to the floor, my body as paralyzed as my tongue whenever I attempt to speak to her in person.
Weak. I’m so damn weak.
She’s out there, just four floors away, yet worlds apart. I need to do something. Anything. So I do the only thing I can, the only thing I figured out that makes it possible for me to talk to her.
My hand trembles as I adjust the microphone, my thoughts a storm of if-onlys. If only I could be the person she needs. If only I could step out of the shadows and into her life. If only my fear didn’t hold me back.
“I know the personalities of my developers pretty well since I help them out a lot and research for them. I can adopt some of their traits to give you what you need, Amelia,” I offer into the microphone.
It’s a poor substitute for what she really needs, for what I want to give her, but it’s all I have right now.
Misha is taking a shower, likely dozing under the warm spray, and Grey is in the kitchen, making us breakfast. The clatter of pans and the aroma of cooking reaches me in the office.
It’s just me here, bearing witness to Amelia’s quiet despair.
“What are they like?” Her voice is a whisper, barely audible, filled with a curiosity that tugs at my heartstrings.
You want to get to know me?
She shifts on the screen, a small, sad smile touching her lips as if she’s heard my thoughts. But for her, it’s just Jamie responding, filling the silence I’m too afraid to breach myself.
“Well, Misha’s into early two-thousands music. Think Modest Mouse, M83, or Lifehouse. Grey enjoys piano music as well…” I have to suppress a laugh thinking about his face when he heard she was into that music. He always thinks he’s the only one with taste in this company.
I’m not into music. I don’t mind it, but I would never put it on for myself. Confessing this will likely make me look bad, but I want to be honest with her where I can be. “Oliver’s not really into music.”
As she tilts her head, curiosity dancing in her eyes, she asks, “What is Oliver into then?” The way she pronounces my name, Ol-ih-vuh, with that distinct, melodious British accent, causes a little flutter in my chest. The sound of my name lingers, feeling like a small, personal serenade, making me wish she’d find more reasons to say it again.
“Jamie? What does Oliver like?” she asks again when I can’t seem to answer right away.
I hesitate, caught off-guard. “Oliver is…” I pause, unsure how to describe myself. “He’s into coding, and gaming, and… coffee. He likes to read too.”
“He sounds like somebody I would like.” I can barely hear her whisper, and my ears heat, but I don’t give a damn.
Did she just say she thinks she could like me?
“What kind of books does he read?” Amelia asks, and like a proper booklover, my mind blanks on every book I’ve ever read at that question.
But then, a memory of her sitting in the cafeteria, reading Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice comes to mind.
“His favorite is Pride and Prejudice.” Maybe that’s an odd book for an almost thirty-year-old nerd, but it was Morgan’s favorite when we were younger.
And on evenings when we couldn’t sleep, kept awake by my mother’s sobs from the room next to us, she made me come to her bed and let me read it to her until we both fell asleep.
This book is home for me, the comfort of reading under the covers, shielded from the chaos of our childhood.
And whenever I feel overwhelmed, I grab it and read.
It also inspired my habit of writing letters.
When I was younger, I wrote letters to my bullies, to my mother, later to my professors, and to people who wronged me.
Since I never had the courage to openly address issues or even fight, I swallowed everything, went home, and wrote in a letter exactly what I would have said, what I wanted to say.
I never sent them, of course. I kept all of them in shoeboxes under my bed. But writing it down was freeing.
For the last two years, the only one I wrote to was her.
And it was never an argument I wanted to talk out, as I was used to.
With her, it’s me telling her what I would love to say.
About my life, how my day went, how I saw her that day, how beautiful she was, how her smile can light up a room, even though she smiles way too little.
Or how the book she read that day, the day I first saw her, was my favorite book.
And how I fell for her at first sight.
“My favorite is Pride and Prejudice too.” Amelia perks up as if us having the same favorite book meant something to her. “Well, besides Twilight, but let’s just not mention this to anybody.”
A genuine laugh breaks out of me, and I’m just aware enough to pull my finger from the mic button not to let it transfer over.
“Amelia, where have you been, loca!” I recite from the movie Misha made us watch, which Grey hated and I enjoyed a little too much.
I need to read the books as soon as possible.
“Oh my God, stop!” Amelia laughs the cutest giggle, and my heart flips again.
I made her laugh.
“Let’s just not talk about it.” She grins, pulling her feet up on the couch and her knees to her chest, hugging herself. “And what is he like?”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“Oliver, what is Oliver like? I know he’s bloody brilliant, but they always keep to themselves, and nobody really knows them. He’s always polite, although I don’t think he’s the biggest fan of me.”
What?
Wow, I knew I wasn’t good at making contact with her, but to make her think I don’t like her?
What did I do?
“That’s not true. I’m sure Oliver…”
What? Is in love with you?
Fuck.
I guess I’m taking too long because Jamie takes over. “Oliver is, in fact, brilliant and often lost in his own thoughts. Don’t take his restraint personally. He’s like that with most people, except for Misha and Grey, of course.”
“Of course, why would I think I’d be something special? I’m making myself too important again.” Amelia smiles sadly, and I curse Jamie.
Or rather Misha, for making him that way.
“You’re very important,” I tell Amelia, taking control of the microphone again. “Would you like to tell me more about your feelings?”
“My feelings? Don’t bother. Nobody else does.” A bitter laugh escapes her, making my heart sink. “I’m sorry, that was melodramatic, and I need to stop this pity train right now.”
“It’s not melodramatic to express how you feel. If you’d prefer, we can continue this conversation, or we can focus on something else entirely.” I try to somehow salvage what I just ruined, but she’s closing herself off right in front of my eyes.
“No, it’s all right. Thank you. I think we did enough companionship beta testing for the moment, okay? I think I’m going to read for a while.”
“Of course,” I answer, although I feel as hollow as the look in Amelia’s eyes.
And as I watch her read—this brilliant, lonely woman who thinks she’s unseen—I make a silent vow. I may not have the courage today, but someday soon, I’ll find a way to let her know she’s not alone.
Not if I can help it.
For now, though, I sit back, a spectator to her solitude, my heart quietly breaking with every beat that whispers her name.