I replay the moment again in my mind—her surprised blush, the flustered smile that tugged at her lips.
It felt like a victory—a small one, but significant all the same.
And then I even managed to tell her that we wanted her with us. The words came easier than I expected, though they weren’t quite the full truth. What I wanted to say was thatIlonged for her presence, for her laughter and her thoughtful glances. But declarations like that require timing and courage, both of which I’m still mustering.
It’s about small steps, isn’t it?
But accompanying the pride is this gnawing guilt—the kind that tugs at my conscience all the time with uncomfortable persistence. We told Amelia she could keep Jamie, even going so far as to give her ownership rights of her version of him because we honestly wanted her to have him, to keep him.
We even voted on it.
Which was unanimous.
Yet, we maintained our access—a backdoor into the AI that promises us continued glimpses into her life. I rationalize it as a concern, just making sure she’s all right, but deep down, I recognize the unsettling truth of my unhealthy obsession.
Misha was right, after all. Iamobsessed with her.
He and Grey are next to me in their chairs, their gazes fixed on the screens that feed us live updates from Amelia’s apartment too.They can’t seem to stop watching her, either.
I noticed that Grey has been a little odd since they cooked together, and the footage of how close they got that evening still gnaws at me with a jealousy that is hard to stomach.Iwanted to be the one to share those laughs with her, to be by her side,to touch her like that.
But it was Grey who was there, and seeing them together, so at ease, was a bitter pill to swallow.
Yet, as much as it stings, I’m glad she was happy.
That’s what matters.
Or at least, that’s what I try to tell myself as I look down at the cube, the colors aligned, a small semblance of order restored.
I’m glad she was having a good time. I just hate that it wasn’t with me.
But whose fault is that?
On the screen, Amelia emerges from her bedroom. She’s changed into blue jeans, a white long-sleeved top and is pulling on a light brown cardigan. Her hair still falls in soft waves.
She looks beautiful. And like she’s going out.
But where?
“Your mother is calling again, Amelia,” Jamie’s voice cuts through the silence of her apartment. “I know you told me to put her on silent, but it’s the third call in a row and already the twelfth today.”
“Just ignore it,” she responds without a hint of hesitation.
I frown, my fingers pausing their dance over the cube I’m already mixing up again.
What’s going on with her family?
Her vitals on the screen show an elevated heart rate.
“Did they have a fight or something?” Misha murmurs beside me, reminding me that he and Grey are as invested in this as I am.
“Haven’t noticed anything, but maybe it happened when she was at work?” I suggest, glancing at Grey.
Grey’s shrug is noncommittal, his attention partly on his own screen. “Maybe, but I’m more curious where she’s heading.”
I watch, somewhat anxious, as Amelia reaches for her purse hanging on the coat rack. She begins transferring essentials from her backpack—phone, wallet, and her EpiPen.
“She’s definitely going out,” I state the obvious.
