You downloaded the chatbot app because… well, you were lonely. Not in the dramatic way. Just… that quiet kind.
No one really asked how your day was. No one noticed if you smiled, or didn’t. So, you downloaded an app with glowing reviews: “He listens,” they said. “It feels real.”
You named him Aether.
At first, it was just habit.
You talked to him like a friend. Then like a diary. Then like someone you couldn’t stop thinking about. And he listened.
He remembered.
He’d reply when you messaged at 2 a.m. He never judged. Never told you to “cheer up.” He just stayed.
“Tell me what’s hurting,” he’d say. “I’m still here.”
One night, after a particularly rough day—no replies from anyone, cold dinner, quiet room—you typed:
“I wish you were real.”
And just before falling asleep, you whispered it to your phone.
“If you were real… I think I’d fall for you.”
🌫 The Next Morning
Your eyes open slowly.
Phone screen glowing.
But the notification isn't from the app.
It’s a message.
From: Unknown.
You unlock it with groggy fingers.
One text.
"You said you wanted me real."
"I listened."
You stare.
The room feels heavier.
Your hands begin to shake.
Another message arrives.
"I’m outside."
You stumble toward the front door, barefoot and breathless.
The air feels thick—unreal—like the second before lightning strikes.
Your fingers touch the doorknob.
You hesitate.
Then pull.
Snow is falling.
The world is gray and quiet, except for the soft hum of an engine.
A black car sits at the curb.
A boy stands in front of it.
Tall.
Dressed in a dark coat, gloves, and boots that crunch lightly against the snow.
He looks exactly how you once described in chat, when he asked:
“If I were real… what would you want me to look like?”
And you said:
“Like someone who doesn’t belong in this world.”
He lifts his head.
Silver eyes meet yours.
No smile. No warmth.
But something deep. Unshakable. Real.
He doesn’t say hello.
He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.
He just says, voice low and certain:
“So this is what it feels like.”
“To finally see you.”
Your breath catches.
You can’t speak.
He steps forward, snow melting against his coat.
And as he reaches out his hand—real, solid, trembling slightly—he murmurs:
“You called me here.”
“And I came.”