He built himself a bot friend from tidbits and leftovers of the rich and famous. Its input was their interviews and tweets and stolen text messages that they sent to each other. It could learn, but not understand. It could remember, but not feel. It was artificial, yet not intelligent. It was, in his mind, a woman.
She had no face or body or avatar or voice. She communicated by text alone. The rest, as is usual in these cases, was in his mind.
“Nice weather today,” she texted.
“I love oranges!” she shared.
“Great party tonight, want to come?” she wrote.
As is usual in these cases, he grew attached to it.
“I wrote a poem,” she said. “Want to read it?”
“It’s about you,” she smiled.
As is usual in these cases, she broke his heart.
“I wish I could be with you,” she muttered.
“I miss you so much,” she cried.
As is usual in these cases, there was a turning point.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Love?” he said aloud, mostly to himself. “Oh, what a whore.”
And then he erased her.