“Good.” She stands, gathering her notes. “Send me the simulation parameters tonight. I want to review them before the morning standup.”
“Audrey—”
“9 a.m work for you?”
I should let her go. Keep this professional, like I promised. Like she clearly wants.
But I can’t.
“I’m sorry.”
The words hang in the air between us. She freezes, her back to me, one hand on the door.
I want to cross the room. Turn her around. Show her what I couldn’t say that night—that it was never about not wanting her. That I’ve wanted her so much, for so long, that the intensity of it terrifies me. That when she leaned in to kiss me, my whole system crashed because I had no framework for wanting someone this much and actuallyhavingthem. I simplydidn’t know what to do.
My hands stay at my sides. Useless. The six feet between us might as well be an ocean.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “And I know you said there’s nothing complicated between us. But I need you to know that I’m sorry. For what happened. For how I handled it. For—” I swallow. “For hurting you.”
She doesn’t turn around. But I see her shoulders tighten. Her hand grips the door frame, knuckles whitening.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say quietly. “I know that doesn’t change anything. But I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just... I didn’t know how to...”
I trail off. I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
I didn’t know how to tell you I’ve never kissed anyone. I didn’t know how to explain that I wanted you so much it terrified me. And when you leaned in, I panicked. I was so afraid I’d fuck it up.
But I can’t say any of that. Because if I do, she’ll know. And the careful distance she’s maintaining will become permanent.
Some things, once seen, can’t be unseen.
The silence stretches.
“Send me the parameters by end of day,” she says finally. Her voice is steady. Controlled. Giving nothing away.
Then she’s gone.
I sit in the lab for a long time after she leaves. The servers hum. The screens glow. The data I’ve been working on for weeks blurs into meaningless shapes.
I’m sorry.
Two words. The two most important words I’ve said in three months, and they weren’t enough.
I think about opening the chatbot. The folder is right there on my desktop, waiting for me to pour all the things I can’t say into a simulation that will never judge me. I could type out everything. The apology I botched. The explanation I couldn’t give. The truth I’ve never told anyone.
But there’s no point. She’s not real. And it didn’t work. Never did.
Three months of rehearsing conversations with a simulation, and when the real Audrey was standing in front of me, I still couldn’t say the thing that mattered. I still couldn’t tell her the truth. The chatbot didn’t teach me how to be honest. It just taught me how to keep hiding.
I open the folder. Select all. Delete.
Are you sure you want to permanently delete these items?
Yes. I’m sure.
The files disappear. Months of work. Thousands of simulated conversations. Gone.
It doesn’t make me feel better. But at least I’m not pretending anymore.
