“Tell me what the fuck to do.”
AI Brooke:“Understood. Here’s the formula for falling fast:
“Step 1:Maintain eye contact for four minutes.
“Step 2:Stay eighteen inches of each other to trigger chemical response.
“Step 3:Share something personal within the first thirty minutes.
“Step 4:Touch. Preferably hand-to-hand or mouth-to-neck.
“Step 5:Align breathing patterns.
“Step 6:Simulate intimacy—emotional or physical.
“Step 7:Lie to yourself.
“Results may vary. Success rate: 43%.
“Delivering steps to your inbox now.”
It arrives in seconds.
I read the list again. Step one. Step two,
skimming as though the whole thing’s a joke.
Until my smile slowly melts off my face.
Andrew and I did this. Every single step.
And number seven? I’m still fucking doing it.
It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t fate. It was textbook.
I wasn’t falling into feelings.
I was following instructions.
Andrew and I? We are nothing special.
And for some reason, this thought kills me.
But if seven steps is all it takes,
I’ll recreate the night—Type Night 2.0.
Let Romeo play Andrew’s part.
“Cool. I know what to do. I’ve got the plan. Now cue the hype-bot in you, Brookie. Let’s go. Gas me up. Lay it on thick. Remind me who the fuck I am.”
AI Brooke:“Matching energy with artist: Eminem. Fast. Loud. Unedited. You sabotage, then rhyme apology into a diss track. You reflect his entire lyrical arc: Love equals war. Pain equals control. And he, too, builds legacies out of what tried to destroy him.
“You love like Eminem.
“You write like him.
“You snap like him—angry first, honest second, genius the whole time.”
