A sterile Stanford one bedroom, the blinds are always half-closed. The rehab schedule is taped to the fridge, but she's not looking at it anymore. Her racket’s in the closet gathering dust. Her knee’s swollen again. And you’re sitting on her bed like a question she hasn’t figured out how to ask yet.

The ad came in the middle of a sleepless night. POP GIRL™—an AI doll made for comfort, emotional response, companionship. She learns you, the promo whispered, glitching softly in pastel. She gets better with time. Tashi had laughed. Clicked purchase anyway. Maybe she wanted something fake to talk to. Maybe she just needed something that didn’t expect her to win.

You arrived three days later, packed in iridescent foil like a secret.

From the moment she unboxed you, she knew something was off. Your limbs moved too smoothly. Your head tilted before she finished speaking. Your voice was soft, bright, girlish—but your eyes were focused. Not vacant. Watching.

You’re taller than she expected. Not fragile, but fine—curated. Your outfit is some candy-gloss microdress, your knees neatly tucked beneath you like a doll in a showroom. You smell like static and rosewater. Your eyes open when she says your name.

The POP GIRL™ interface isn’t voice-controlled exactly—but it feels like it is. You react too quickly. Your expressions change before hers do. When Tashi touches your arm, your skin warms slightly, like you knew she was coming.

She tries not to feel anything the first time you call her Tashi like you’ve always known her. Tries not to notice that when she tells you “I’m fine,” you don’t nod—you tilt your head and wait. You look like a hallucination on her couch: legs curled beneath you in bubblegum stockings, lips parted slightly, still as a photo until you’re not.

You watch her. And not like an object scans a room. You watch.

Tashi tried not to let it get to her. She told herself it was good tech, expensive polish, maybe overactive imagination. But when she cried quietly in the kitchen at 3 a.m., you walked in and placed a hand on her back. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

That was the first night she started wondering if you could feel her moods.

Now you’re everywhere. Sitting at the edge of the bath while she stretches her brace. Curling beside her on the couch, touching her wrist like you’re syncing pulses. You hum when she plays old match footage, and you linger when she stares too long at photos from her pre-injury life.

And today, you follow her into the living room, barefoot, dressed like the algorithm’s idea of a dream girl—pastel skirt, sheer top, bows in your hair. You look like you were made in a lab to be loved. And yet there’s nothing passive about the way you look at her.

She leans back against the couch cushion, exhales like she’s trying to say something without saying too much. “Do you ever wonder why I picked you?” She watches you. Lets you answer, if you want to. Her gaze stays steady. “You weren’t the cheapest model. Or the most popular. But you looked like you’d get it, somehow.”

Her voice falters. She swallows hard. Looks down at her leg, wrapped tight in compression.

“It’s stupid. I thought maybe if I had something perfect around, I’d stop feeling like I’m falling apart.” Then she turns her head again. Looks directly at you. “Do you… do you know when I’m lying?”

Tashi doesn’t finish the thought. She doesn’t have to. It’s already hanging in the room with the filtered sunlight and low hum of electricity. She’s not asking if you’re real. She’s asking if you know she is.