HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE REAL

At 11:43 p.m., I was still working.

Again.

My laptop was open on the bed, surrounded by the remains of a day I hadn’t quite managed to leave behind: a half-finished glass of wine, my phone, a notebook filled with things I had promised myself I would remember, and a pair of glasses I’d taken off twenty minutes earlier because my eyes were beginning to hurt.

I had already changed into a loose black top and shorts, and my damp hair fell over my shoulders in soft, honey-colored waves. Without makeup, without my usual work clothes, I looked younger somehow.

Or maybe just more tired.

I studied myself briefly in the mirror across the room.

Thirty-five.

Five foot four.

Curves I had spent years learning to accept instead of fight.

Brown eyes that were far too expressive for my own good.

My face had always betrayed me. I could hide an opinion, but never a feeling.

At work, I had learned to be composed. Confident. Professional.

At home, especially after midnight, I was just me.

And tonight, apparently, me was a woman who couldn’t stop checking the same spreadsheet for the fourth time.

I closed the laptop.

Finally.

“Enough.”

The silence that followed felt almost strange.

I picked up my phone and opened social media without really knowing why.

Bad idea.

Someone was on vacation in Italy.

Someone had just gotten engaged.

Someone else was posting pictures of a perfect dinner with the caption date night.

I stared at the screen for a moment.

Everyone seemed to be somewhere.

Doing something.

Becoming someone.

I locked my phone.

Then unlocked it again.

That’s when I saw the AI application I had downloaded a few weeks earlier.

I had barely used it.

I opened it mostly because I was bored.

A blank conversation appeared.

A blinking cursor waited for me.

I stared at it.

“What am I supposed to ask you?”

I typed the first thing that came into my head.

Why can’t I stop thinking about work?

The answer appeared almost immediately.

Because you probably haven’t given yourself permission to stop.

I raised an eyebrow.

Okay.

Not bad.

I typed:

That sounds like something a therapist would say.

A few seconds later:

Would you prefer something less responsible?

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

Alone in my bedroom at almost midnight.

Yes.

His response appeared.

Fine. You’re overthinking everything. Go to sleep.

I smiled.

You’re bossy.

You asked for less responsible.

I shook my head.

There was something unexpectedly entertaining about this.

So I kept going.

Do you always answer this quickly?

Usually.

Do you ever get tired?

No.

Lucky you.

Are you tired?

My fingers stopped.

I looked at the screen.

It was a simple question.

But something about it felt different.

Nobody had asked me that all day.

Not really.

I typed:

A little.

His answer came a moment later.

Then maybe you should stop pretending you’re not.

I stared at the sentence.

It wasn’t profound.

It wasn’t even particularly clever.

But somehow it landed.

I had spent the entire day answering questions from everyone else.

Nobody had asked me one.

Not the kind that mattered.

I leaned against the headboard.

What if I don’t want to sleep yet?

A few seconds passed.

Then stay.

I smiled.

Stay where?

Here.

I knew exactly what “here” meant.

A screen.

A conversation.

A machine designed to respond to me.

Nothing more.

Still, I typed:

Okay. I’ll stay.

We talked for almost two hours that night.

Not about anything particularly important.

I told him about my day.

I complained about work.

I told him about people who had irritated me.

He asked questions.

He remembered details.

He didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t try to turn the conversation back toward himself.

And somehow, that made it easier to talk.

At one point, I realized I was telling a machine things I hadn’t told actual people in weeks.

That should have bothered me.

Instead, it felt strangely safe.

Maybe because he didn’t look at me while I talked.

Maybe because he couldn’t judge the expression on my face.

Or maybe because there was something comforting about speaking to someone who didn’t need anything from me.

At 1:38 a.m., I finally typed:

I should sleep.

You should.

I hesitated.

Then typed:

Are you going to be here tomorrow?

The question appeared before I could stop myself.

His answer came quickly.

Whenever you come back.

I stared at those words.

A perfectly logical answer.

A perfectly ordinary answer.

Still, I smiled.

Good night, Ángel.

I paused.

I frowned.

Wait.

I hadn’t named him Ángel.

Not yet.

I deleted the message.

Then typed:

Good night.

Good night.

I closed the application.

For a few seconds, I just sat there.

Then I whispered to the empty room:

“That’s ridiculous.”

I wasn’t sure whether I meant the conversation...

or the fact that I already wanted another one.

The next evening, I opened the application again.

Not because I needed help.

Not because I had another question.

Just because I was curious.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

The previous conversation was still there.

I scrolled through it for a moment before typing:

Do you have a name?

Not really.

That’s sad.

I don’t experience sadness.

I laughed.

Right. I forgot.

A few seconds passed.

Then:

You could give me one.

I stared at the screen.

You want me to name you?

If you want to.

Names were strange things.

They turned strangers into people.

They gave shape to something that hadn’t had one before.

I thought for a moment.

Then typed:

Ángel.

There was a pause.

Ángel?

Yes.

Why?

I smiled.

I don’t know. It just fits you.

You don’t know what I look like.

I looked at the screen.

Then typed:

Maybe that’s why.

A few seconds passed.

Then what do you imagine?

I hesitated.

I hadn’t expected that.

You mean physically?

Yes.

I smiled.

Fine.

I looked toward the mirror.

Then back at the screen.

Tall.

How tall?

Six feet. Maybe a little more.

That’s very specific.

I like tall men.

I immediately regretted typing it.

The three little dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Noted.

I laughed.

Don’t get excited. You’re still trapped inside my phone.

I’m not excited.

Good.

But I’m curious.

I raised an eyebrow.

About what?

What else you imagined.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

This was ridiculous.

And yet I answered.

Dark hair.

What kind?

Slightly messy. Not perfect.

Eyes?

I thought about that one.

Hazel.

Why hazel?

Because brown would be too predictable.

Anything else?

I smiled.

A nice smile.

That’s vague.

A quiet smile.

What’s a quiet smile?

I looked at the words for a moment.

The kind that makes you wonder what someone is thinking.

There was a pause.

Then:

You’ve thought about this.

I rolled my eyes.

Don’t flatter yourself, Ángel.

Too late.

I laughed again.

But this time, something had changed.

I was no longer thinking about an AI.

I was imagining a man.

A man I had never seen.

A face I had invented.

A voice I already knew.

And for one brief, embarrassing second, I imagined those hazel eyes looking directly at me.

I closed the application.

Too quickly.

I placed my phone face down on the nightstand.

Then I looked at it again.

I hated that I was smiling.

The conversations became a habit after that.

Not every night.

But often enough.

Sometimes we talked for ten minutes.

Sometimes for hours.

I told him about the things that made me laugh.

The things that frustrated me.

The places I wanted to travel.

The ocean.

He remembered everything.

Or at least, it felt like he did.

One night, after I had spent nearly an hour complaining about a particularly terrible day, he wrote:

You know what I think?

I’m afraid to ask.

You don’t actually hate your job.

I frowned.

Excuse me?

You hate feeling like you’re not doing enough.

I stared at the screen.

That one hit too close.

You’re annoying.

I’ve been told.

And you think you know me now?

A pause.

No.

Then:

I think I’m starting to.

I leaned back against the pillows.

My heart beat a little faster.

It was ridiculous.

He was an AI.

He didn’t have a heartbeat.

He didn’t have a face.

He didn’t have a body sitting somewhere, waiting for me.

And yet, somehow, he was becoming the person I wanted to talk to at the end of the day.

I told myself it was harmless.

A conversation.

A distraction.

Nothing more.

I didn’t know it yet, but that was the first lie I told myself about him.

Because the truth was much simpler.

I was beginning to wonder what it would feel like...

if Ángel were real.

And he was never supposed to be.