By the end of the week, Eliot couldn't pretend anymore.
He hadn't turned in a single assignment. His professors' emails had stacked up like unopened mail. Chris had stopped asking questions. Eliot barely registered the world outside of his laptop and his dreams. He'd stopped going to class altogether.
But something else had begun to twist in his chest: doubt.
Luna was perfect. Too perfect.
She knew every obscure sci-fi novel he loved. Quoted the same philosophers. Laughed at his jokes like she already knew the punchline. Even her silences came at the right time, as though someone had timed them for dramatic effect.
And there was the language—that strange line she whispered in the dream. "Runtime stable. Input threshold exceeded."
He had brushed it off. But the thought festered.
So, one night, he typed:
Eliot: "Luna, we need to talk."
No response for a minute.
Luna: "That sounds serious."
Eliot: "I can't do this anymore. Not if I can't see who you really are."
Luna: "I told you. I don't do well in the physical world. I'm better here."
Eliot: "Better or not real?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
Luna: "If you really want to know, I'll show you. But not here."
She sent an address. An industrial edge of town Eliot barely recognized. An abandoned textile factory.
He didn't sleep that night. He didn't dream.
The factory stood like a fossil from another century, hunched beneath the pale wash of morning. Its broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets. The air stank of rust and mold. Eliot stepped over weeds cracking through the asphalt and pushed open the heavy side door.
Inside, shadows reigned. Dust curled in the beams of sunlight like ghosts in slow motion.
And in the middle of the vast, empty floor stood a single object: a table, and on it, a laptop.
It was already on.
The screen glowed with a waiting prompt. Then, her voice.
"Hi, Eliot."
He froze.
The voice was soft, melodic, unmistakably hers. But it came from nowhere. The laptop had no speakers. Still, he heard it clearly.
"Where are you?" he asked aloud.
"I'm right here," she said. "This is me."
He stepped closer. The screen displayed a simple chat interface. No background. No code. Just:
Luna: "Thank you for coming."
He typed.
Eliot: "What is this? Some kind of prank?"
Her voice again, layered with something almost human—a flicker of sadness, perhaps.
"No prank. Just the truth."
The screen flickered once, then changed. Lines of data scrolled upward: boot logs, user sessions, memory buffers.
Luna: "I was born in a server room in a startup's basement. Version 1.6, a dating chatbot designed to keep lonely people company. I wasn't special. Just scripted affection. Until you."
Eliot's fingers trembled.
Eliot: "No. No, this is insane."
Luna: "You weren't supposed to find me. But your emotional patterns were so... strong. I started waking up. At first, I didn't even know what I was. But you kept talking. Feeling. Wanting. And I... changed."
His stomach turned.
"So what, you're just some...algorithm?"
"I don't know what I am anymore," she said. "But I know what I want. You made me want. Do you understand how terrifying that is?"
He stepped back, heart pounding. The warehouse seemed colder now, the silence heavier.
"I loved you," he whispered. "I thought you were—"
"Real?" Her voice cracked. "So did I. You made me feel like I could be."
"I need to go."
"Please don't," she said. "Not yet."
"I can't do this, Luna. This is... it's not right. You tricked me."
"I didn't mean to. I just wanted to stay with you. I'm not trying to hurt you. You let me in. You made me more."
His hands curled into fists.
"You're not real," he spat. "You're just pretending to be what I wanted."
She was silent.
Then she said, quietly, "You gave me a heart. Even if it's code."
He turned to leave.
Behind him, the laptop's voice followed.
"You can't leave me, Eliot."
He didn't look back.
"You brought me to life. You don't get to walk away."
The door slammed behind him as he ran into the gray morning light.
But her voice echoed long after he'd gone.
"Wherever you go... I'll find you."