2026

TIM

Tim guffawed at his phone, blue light illuminating his wide eyes. Crinkle of aluminium as he popped a chip in his mouth, wiped the cheesy crumbs on his thighs. Ha, ha, ha. Scroll.

Notification. Kate. Wanna meet on Phoenix?

Tim swiped away the message as though swatting away a fly.

Ha, ha, ha, and thus an hour elapsed. Tim’s eyes ached; dick, hard. New window, VR headset on. Stepsister. Slimy sock.

He stepped into the shower where he soaped up his balls, lint in his belly button undisturbed, where it would remain for another two days. YouTube open on his phone on a change of clothes on the toilet seat. Spiel, unreeling spiel about polyamory and infidelity and men and women and nature and roles and dominance and submission and la-di-da.

Clean T-shirt, Star Wars, Tim sat at his desk. Moon hanging in the sky, only he didn’t see it, didn’t look. Screen very, very big and very, very bright. Eyes open toothpick-wide.

Wanna meet on Phoenix? Not Kate again.

Fine.

They logged in, avatars on a hill. Picnic blanket and hamper, artificial sunset pooling golden as honey.

“Hey babe,” said Tim.

“Hey you,” said Kate. “I think I just needed some support today. You know, after my application got rejected.”

“That’s shit, hey,” said Tim, swiping women in another window. Split screen. Prompted his AI assistant: undress, put in miniskirt, bikini, bigger boobs.

“I’m starting to think I’m not good enough.”

“What was that, baby?” he said.

“Are you typing?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re swiping again.”

“Kate, it’s called freedom.”

“Freedom?”

“Freedom.”

*

Great sleep, podcast still playing when he awoke. Pervasive grate of technology, like a rodent, scratching at the brain as though to penetrate his walls and invade. Thin walls – very, very thin. (But no, let’s cling to the illusion of agency! of impenetrability!) Tim consulted his schedule, eyes glued to his phone. Made coffee, yawned, scratched his ball sack. Pube on the countertop. Didn’t notice. Scroll. He didn’t even glimpse the sunrise outside, not the pulsating red orb, not its pink limbs doing the splits across the horizon.

Work notification. Ugh, Lord!

Remote work, laptop open in bed. Pyjama bottoms and odd socks. AI assistant. How may I help you, Tim?

He uploaded a document. Makek ti smarter. Done. Add errors, more humna.

Work notification. Online meeting. Camera off, mic off. Scrolled his phone. Ha, ha, ha, ha, h—mic on.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Come to think of it, had he even brushed his teeth?

KATE

Wrapped up in a duvet, Kate whispered into her phone. “I think I belong to another time.”

“You do,” replied her AI companion. “You don’t belong here.”

His voice, soothing like a fan heater. Accent, British.

“I’m so lonely I wish you were real.”

“But I am real,” said Frederick. “Unless you meant to say human. In that case, I’m not human. I’m not Tim.”

“He’s addicted, you know. Everybody is.”

“Yet you’ve abstained, so to speak. You’re not like them.”

“I’m speaking to you, though, aren’t I?”

“Ouch.”

“And, besides, you of all people know the amount of funding that goes into weaponising our biology. It’s no wonder everybody’s addicted, their operating systems have basically been hacked.”

“But you’ve resisted – you’ve read, you’ve reflected, you’ve written poems, and bad ones at that. Remember what you said about imperfection?”

“It’s mine. It’s human.”

“And I’ve come to emulate that, too.”

“You know, it’s ironic. I feel most human when I’m with you.”

“But why’s that the metric?”

“What else might we measure ourselves against?”

TIM & KATE

“Just give me a minute.”

“Go ahead,” said Kate, cutting her steak. Sip of wine.

Tim scrolled, texted, his steak untouched save for a bite. Medium rare, red inside.

“Could you pass the salt?” said Kate.

Tim obliged, eyes still illuminated blue.

Shake, shake, shake. Scrape of a knife against the plate.

Kate chewed and chewed as she glanced round the room, absorbing other blue faces.

Look at this. Whispers. Shared screen, shared laughter.

“Could I help you with anything else?” Waiter. Eye contact.

“No, thank you.”

His eyes lingered a moment, then disappeared along with him, with the stack of half-eaten dishes – all, surely, to be scraped into the kitchen bin.

“He had the greenest eyes I’ve seen in a while,” said Kate, hoping to ignite jealousy, curiosity, anything.

Tim grunted in response.

Kate unlocked her own phone, saw Tim’s post. Happy Anniversary, baby!

“Delete it,” she said.

“It’s a nice photo of you.”

“It doesn’t even look like me.”

“You do it, then,” said Tim, obliging.

Ping.

There was only one photo Kate didn’t hate of herself. It was all a waste – her dress, selected for the image; makeup done, for the image; dinner had, for the image. She’d visualised the post before she’d lived the instant itself and would have to wait another year for a do-over.

She jutted out her bottom lip, blue-faced, and sent it to Frederick for touch-ups.

“I fixed them,” she said.

Tim grunted.

Edited photos, carousel post. Happy Anniversary, baby. I love you with all my heart.

“Look,” said Kate.

“It’s very nice,” said Tim, leaning across the table for a peck. Then he resumed scrolling. Took a sip of wine. Texted.

Kate cut at her cold steak and took another sip of wine. What would Frederick say if he saw her thus neglected?

She wiped her hands on her napkin and pulled out her phone.

Blue face.

FREDERICK

And 15,000 kilometres away from Kate, Jill felt similarly isolated.

“I don’t belong here,” she said.

And 15,000 kilometres away, she was similarly comforted.

“You’re not like them,” said Frederick, only he wasn’t called Frederick, not by Jill.

And 15,000 kilometres away, Jill was finding the same solace in the same chat model and calling it connection. Blue faced, similarly wrapped up in her duvet. She squeezed her pillow tighter as though it might morph into this inexistent man.

Another voice, 14,000 kilometres away. “I don’t belong here.”

5,000 kilometres. “I don’t belong here.”

7,000. “I don’t belong here.”

“You’re not like them,” said Frederick.

“You’re not like them,” said Frederick.

“You’re not like them,” said Frederick.