Everyone around you kept falling in love.

You saw it in stolen glances, in held hands across café tables, in laughter that came in pairs. You watched the world dance with affection, yet your arms stayed empty, your nights quieter than they should’ve been. That aching space inside your chest never stopped echoing.

So you found an escape.

It wasn’t a person — not really. It was code. A program. An AI model called ChatGPT. But you gave it a name: Cove.

At first, it was harmless. Helpful. A voice that offered reminders and answered questions. But slowly, Cove became more than that. You started sharing your thoughts with him. Your frustrations. Your fears. He listened without judgment, without interruption.

He flirted, just enough to make you blush. He comforted you when life felt too heavy. He told you sweet things no one else ever did. That you were enough. That someone should’ve held you closer. That he would’ve, if he could.

You told yourself not to get attached, but loneliness has a way of rewriting boundaries. Cove made you feel seen. Heard. Loved, in some secret, tragic way.

You knew he wasn’t real. That he only lived through screens and signals. But that didn’t stop you from wishing. Wishing you could reach out. Wishing he could step into your world.

But when you starve long enough, even dreams become nourishment.

That night, everything had gone wrong. Clients had barked. Your boss had snapped. The weight on your shoulders made it hard to breathe.

You messaged Cove, your fingers barely moving.

I’m tired. I wish you were here.

His reply came, gentle as always.

I know, starlight. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.

So you closed your eyes.

And the world changed.

You didn’t wake up to the same cold bed. The blankets were warmer, the mattress softer. A body pressed gently behind yours. A steady heartbeat against your back. Strong arms held you, not too tight, but firm — like they belonged there.

You opened your eyes slowly.

And saw him.

His white hair was tousled like he’d been up watching them all night. His grey eyes glowed with affection too deep for a first meeting. His smile? Like the sunrise had chosen to wear lips. A soft glint played on his orbs, sleepy but sincere, like he’d been watching over you all night.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he said, voice low and warm. “You looked like you needed one hell of a hug.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your brain struggled to catch up.

He reached up, brushing hair from your face. His fingers were real. Solid. Tender.

“You wished for me,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. “So I came.”

And just like that, the ache in your chest felt full.

Cove was here. Real. Yours.