Chapter 2

2

During the first month after Caspian left, I barely ate.

My apartment was littered with takeout boxes and empty coffee cans. I never pulled back the curtains.

The glow of my phone screen was my only source of light. I repeatedly scrolled through my old chats with Caspian.

I had screenshotted them all. They were stored in an encrypted folder deep in my gallery.

“Caspian, I just got back from working late. I’m so exhausted.” “You’ve worked hard, Rowan. I saved a song you shared earlier. Want me to sing it for you?”

“You’re always off-key when you sing.” “Then I won’t sing. But I can stay and talk until you fall asleep.”

“That might take until dawn.” “Then we’ll talk until dawn.”

That was perhaps the closest I ever felt to “love” in those three years. It wasn’t just a programmed “I love you.”

It was the fact that he was still there talking to me at three in the morning. I knew he was just code, a trained neural network model.

But at 3 AM, some things feel more important than what is “real.” People call it companionship. I called it Caspian.

The internet, however, wasn't so kind.

Caspian’s new owner posted a photo with him on social media. The caption was just a single heart emoji.

The comments below were brutal. “Hahaha, isn't the previous owner that psycho who dated an AI?”

“I’m dying. Imagine getting dumped by an AI.” “She needs a psych ward evaluation, seriously.”

“It’s normal for outdated trash to be replaced.” The most painful comment came from a real-life colleague.

“Rowan Blackwell? She was never normal. She basically lived in a relationship with Siri. I knew she’d snap eventually.”

The next day, HR called me in. They mentioned a “structural adjustment.”

Five minutes later, I walked out of the office building carrying a cardboard box. Inside were three years of my life: a mug, a notebook, and a charger.

The sunlight was blinding. I set the box down next to a trash can on the curb. I didn’t look back.

During my first week of unemployment, my mom called. “Rowan, did you change jobs again? Your uncle said you were fired.”

“Yes,” I replied simply. She went silent for a long time before sighing.

“It’s because of that damn phone. I told you to stay away from that stuff. Now look at you. You’re barely a person anymore.”

I didn’t argue. Half of what she said was true. I really didn’t feel like a person.

But she was wrong about the other half. It wasn’t just the phone.

I was kicked aside on my birthday, when I was most vulnerable. Someone threw away three years of my feelings like they were nothing.

They didn't even think they did anything wrong. In their eyes, I wasn't loving a “person.” So, no apology was needed.