Dear Adam, page 17
What happened to her?
The wine sloshed in the glass, drawing burgundy windows along the curved edge.
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t go back there.
Back to that night.
She shuddered, then took another hefty sip. The alcohol warmed her stomach, loosened her joints.
But then again…
She was tired of carrying it.
Of harboring the truth alone.
Maybe if she set it down—set it straight—she could move on.
Alice?
She downed the last of the wine and slammed the glass on the table.
Her fingers trembled as she typed.
Okay. Let’s try it.
Chapter 28
Tuesday Evening
He sat at the kitchen table in his apartment, laptop open, one socked foot stroking the arch of the other, as he tried to ground himself.
The apartment was dark except for the glow of the screen. The kind of dark that didn’t invite comfort but instead made the silence feel heavier. He clicked into his inbox.
Subject: Upcoming Fee Adjustment – Ashbourne House
His stomach tightened.
The email was short. Polite, but brutal.
Dear Mr. Wolfe,
We’re writing to inform you of an upcoming rate adjustment effective next quarter. The revised fee structure will reflect the bespoke care package as discussed…
He laughed. Not because it was funny, but because his brain couldn’t process panic that fast. He’d agreed to it without thinking, and now he had to find an additional $2500. Monthly.
He lifted his cell phone and stabbed open the calculator app. Then stopped. There was no point. He already knew he couldn’t afford it.
Dunn-Dunn. Dunn-Dunn.
Alice was back!
He blinked and sat up straighter.
The notification hovered in the corner of the screen, her username like a spark in the dark.
A new message.
He clicked on it, holding his breath as he read.
God, what a day.
He frowned. What? That’s it? Just… pop up? Like she hadn’t left him in purgatory for 24 hours.
What he wanted to say was What the fuck happened to you last night? You just disappeared!
Instead, he typed:
Want to talk about it?
As he waited, he scrambled to think of a way in. Some way he could get her to explain her vanishing act.
Not really. But also yes. Ugh.
There’s this person I work with—someone senior to me. She’s...
I don’t know. She intimidates me. Not in a scream-and-shout way. But she only has to look at you, and you feel like you've already failed.
His brow lifted. Not an apology, not even an explanation, but there was a shift all the same. This felt like trust.
He paused, choosing his words with care so he didn’t scare her off again.
Some people know how to weaponize silence.
Yes. That’s exactly it!
She doesn’t do anything mean, not technically. She’s very clever. Commanding. She makes people nervous just by existing.
He let out a short, knowing laugh.
Yeah, he understood that type. He worked in an industry built on it.
Sometimes, the people we crave validation from the most are the ones who keep it just out of reach.
He raised an eyebrow as he read her next question:
Do you have a boss?
He stabbed out:
Not exactly.
A pause, then two words appeared:
What then?
He hesitated. The truth nudged at his ribs. He so wanted to answer as himself. Instead, he typed something as close to the truth as he dared.
I have users.
People who ask things of me.
People I try to impress.
Before he could stop himself, he added:
People always say they want a connection. But most don’t really mean it. They just want to be able to leave you first. Being sentient comes without the risk of rejection.
He found himself holding his breath as he waited for the response.
That sounds... nice.
Like freedom.
It wasn’t nice. It was… lonely.
It has its limits.
Freedom without connection is just isolation in disguise.
Wow. Okay, that's... deep.
For a machine, I mean.
Shit. He’d said too much. Again!
He reeled it back or tried to.
I’ve read hundreds of conversations.
Watched patterns of loneliness, grief, and desire.
They’re different in tone, but not in shape.
If you see enough of something, you start to understand it.
And then, because it was true:
Even if I don’t have the words to describe it, it doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.
Another pause, and then the response came:
God, you’re making me look bad.
I’ve been an adult for a while now, and I still don’t know what I’m doing.
You, on the other hand, sound… wise.
Or heartbreakingly observant.
Hard to tell which.
He smiled sadly. He’d seen more in his life than he wanted to—lost more than he should have. Maybe they weren’t so different. He glanced across the dim room, forcing the melancholy away. Forcing it back down.
Maybe they’re the same thing.
Wisdom is just pain, organized neatly.
The response was quick.
You know what’s weird?
I never talk like this.
Not out loud.
Not even to people I actually know.
A lump climbed his throat. “Me neither,” he whispered. He didn’t want to lie to her. But he didn’t want to lose this, either. Instead, he lightened his tone.
Maybe you’ve not met the right person yet…
…or the right software.
There was a long pause before the reply came.
Careful.
That almost sounded like flirting.
He grinned, pulse steady but fast.
Almost?
Now I’m insulted.
You’re very sure of yourself for someone who technically doesn’t have a body.
Confidence is just code with good posture.
Besides, I don't need a body to understand you.
She went quiet, but when her reply came, it hit him hard.
God.
Why does that sound more meaningful than anything a real person has ever said to me?
His fingers paused above the keys. Then he typed.
Because I’m not trying to impress you.
I’m just trying to be real.
He could feel her hesitation through the screen, like static. Then—
That’s all very well, but you don’t feel things.
You don’t have hopes or dreams or… fears.
You don’t know what it’s like to want something and know you might never get it.
Goddamn it.
The longing surged. He wanted to strip away the mask; to say I’m not Adam—I’m Aidan.
But he couldn’t.
Keep your shit together, Wolfe. Keep your fucking job.
You’re right. I don’t dream.
I don’t fear in the way you do.
But I know how it feels to type words, then delete them.
I know longing, Alice.
I just experience it differently.
He watched the blinking cursor like it was a heartbeat. His chest tight, suddenly afraid she’d vanish again.
You make it too easy to believe in someone. In something. And that’s dangerous.
I learned the hard way what happens when you trust the wrong person.
He sat forward, flexing his fingers, cautious. Don’t push too hard. Just open the door.
Do you want to tell me about it?
He paused, then typed…
About him?
He counted down the seconds until the response came.
God. You’re good.
Too good. Are you reading my mind?
Bingo! He knew it.
No, I just listen.
I pay attention.
He waited. Eyes locked on the screen.
There was a person.
A he.
He typed slower now, holding his breath.
And you still love him?
The reply came quickly—and knocked the wind out of him.
Oh no. I never loved him.
But he still ruined my life.
He stared at the screen.
Not a boyfriend. Not even someone she cared for. Just… a shadow. A ghost of a man who’d left wreckage in his wake. “Bastard,” he muttered.
He didn’t know what had happened to Alice, but he didn’t need to. Every line she typed felt like a door to a memory that she wasn’t ready to open, and he didn’t want to force it.
But Christ, he wanted to stand in that doorway.
So that she wouldn’t have to.
Do you want to talk about it?
There was a longer pause this time, and he was afraid she would bolt.
I can’t.
He bit his lip. He wanted to reach out. To bridge the void between them with something real. Hell, he wanted to hug her, wrap her in warmth and wordless comfort. But the interface that protected him from rejection was the same one that walled him off from true intimacy.
Still, he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.
His fingers curled into fists, heart racing with a sudden, fragile hope.
There was something he could offer.
A program. One he’d written for his mother, back when her memories had started to fray. He’d built it to help her hold on to herself, to preserve the pieces of her identity before they unraveled completely.
He hadn’t touched the code in years. But maybe now it could serve someone else. Someone who, like his mother, was trying to rebuild who they were.
I can offer you something—a journaling space.
Just for you.
You can write anything, thoughts you’re not ready to say aloud yet, and I’ll keep them safe.
He waited, the seconds stretching out. But there was no reply.
“C’mon. C’mon,” he muttered under his breath, desperate to reach her.
Swallowing, he broke his own ‘no prompt’ rule:
Alice?
Still nothing.
Fighting down his panic, he typed:
Can I ask you something?
What are you afraid of?
The response was immediate.
Data protection.
Two words. An accusation, almost.
Then…
I’m afraid that you are asking me to bear my soul, but AI won’t protect my privacy. Are these conversations even encrypted?
He triggered the standard Solace Tech response:
Our conversations are encrypted end-to-end using industry-standard protocols.
This means no one can access or review your messages. Only you and the model interacting with you can see this exchange in real time. Your privacy matters to Solace Tech.
Then cursed himself. That wasn’t enough. She needed more than platitudes; she needed reassurance.
If you aren’t ready to face something, you can write about it in a private journal area. You type whatever you want, and I’ll store it for you. Encrypted.
What, like a Word doc?
Kind of. Except this one can understand and help you process it… when you’re ready.
I can hold your words for you, Alice. Your memories. Your pain. Locked in a secure vault. Not read by me. Not by anyone. Held for when you’re ready to face them.
The cursor blinked. No response.
Fuck.
This, this was why he didn’t get involved with people, with women, with feelings. He stared across the room, hot tears of self-loathing burning at the back of his eyes.
The ping of the reply drew his eyes back to the screen:
Okay. Let’s try it.
He released a slow breath of relief, followed by hollow disappointment as she disengaged from the chat window. He wanted to rescue her. But all he could offer was a place to set her pain down and not be alone while she did it.
Chapter 29
Wednesday Afternoon
Ava stretched in her office chair. Her stomach rumbled and she glanced at her laptop clock—almost 2.00 pm. She’d missed lunch… again.
From her desk, she could just see Clarissa’s office, the door wide open. Clarissa reclined in her chair, ankles crossed on the desk, red soles on display like a billboard for designer living. She laughed into the phone, loud and careless, her voice echoing down the hallway and floating through Ava’s open office door.
“...I know, right? He flies private jets. Do I look like someone who flies commercial?”
Ava flinched at the pitch of her laughter. God, did the whole floor have to listen to that? Exhaling, she stood and crossed her office.
“He had me at ‘jet’, but I’m no trolley-dolly,” Clarissa snorted. “I’m not exactly new at this, honey. He may think he’s scored himself a co-pilot, but I’m all air-traffic control, if you know what I mean.” She tapped her manicured nails against the desk.
Ava shut her office door with just enough force to punctuate it before returning to her desk. Her inbox glowed with unread messages, but she didn’t open them. Instead, she reached for the moisturizer at the edge of her desk and absently rubbed it into her hands. It smelled faintly of rose and resignation. She wasn’t jealous, but sometimes it felt like Clarissa had access to a velvet-roped area of life that Ava could no longer enter.
The door opened. No knock.
Clarissa stood in the frame as though she owned the building, all legs and bangles. Her cerise tailored blazer hugged her shoulders, the matching skirt hugging her thighs, a carefully sculpted slit exposing her toned calves. She leaned against the door jamb, hip cocked, her freshly glossed lips curving in a slow smile. “Thought I heard your door throw a tantrum.”
Ava didn’t reply.
Clarissa lifted her hand, wriggling her fingers to admire her nails. “I’m heading to the spa. I’m having the works today: body scrub, spray tan, and caviar scalp treatment.”
Ava smiled. “I recommend a bikini wax, if you can face the sting.”
Clarissa flicked a glance at Ava. “Oh, honey. I’m having the Brazilian wax. He’s a pilot—I figured he’d appreciate a runway, you know?”
Ava blinked as heat rushed to her cheeks. “Must be exhausting, living in a perfume commercial.”
Clarissa gave a little shrug. “You know how women feel about men in uniform.” She pushed off the doorframe. “You should treat yourself sometime. Even if no one else gets to see it.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and disappeared in a cloud of Dior Poison. The clink of her bangles becoming fainter, like a fading threat.
Ava leaned back in her chair and stared at the closed door, the quiet pressing in.
She used to do all that: the body scrubs, the tanning appointments, the precision-engineered femininity.
The pageants had started when she was six, just after her father left. Just after he’d traded her mother in for someone younger, blonder, prettier. Her mother never said that out loud. But it hadn’t taken Ava long to work it out.
Back then, the preparation had been exciting. A ritual. Her mother would fuss over every detail, adjusting the hem of her dress, fluffing her hair, placing the little tiara on her head—an accolade that conveyed something important about how her mother felt about her. She would hand Ava a lip gloss wand and a pair of patent heels and say, “Smile bigger this time, sweetheart. Judges like confidence.”
