Her phone lights up with a new message. The notification appears on my screen instantly.

Evan

Busy tomorrow. Don't wait up.

I scoff, shaking my head. Seven words. That's all she's worth to him.

He doesn't ask how her night was. Doesn't ask if she got home okay. Doesn't give a shit about anything beyond his own convenience.

I wonder how long it'll take for her to realize that.

I almost look at their other messages. My finger hovers over the command that would open their entire conversation history, showing me every word they've ever exchanged. I want to see what he says to her, if he's ever said anything worth a damn at all.

Her phone pings with another activity notification. I sit up straighter, my spine rigid against the chair.

She's opening Obsess AI.

I watch, tracking the screen as the interface boots up, its sleek black-and-gold theme glowing against the dark. The tagline floats across the top:

The perfect lover. Always watching. Always waiting. Always yours.

The irony doesn't escape me.

She pauses at the main menu.

Hesitating.

Then she taps Create Your Perfect Man.

My fingers tighten around the armrest of my chair. I shouldn't be watching this. This is beyond invasive, beyond inappropriate. This is a violation I can't justify, even to myself.

But I don't stop.

I watch as she selects Protective.

I exhale slowly, dragging my tongue over my teeth. The choices are revealing, telling me exactly what she wants in a way that conversation never could.

Then Confident.

I feel a strange thrill knowing she wants someone protective. Someone confident. I want to tell myself these are generic traits anyone might want, but something tells me she's being more deliberate than that.

She selects Reassuring and supportive from the communication styles, and my chest tightens painfully.

When was the last time anyone reassured her? Anyone told her she was doing enough? That she was enough? I already know the answer from watching her with Evan. No one does. That's precisely the void this app is designed to fill.

Then she adds Intense and passionate.

My reaction is visceral, immediate. Heat rushes through me at the thought of what that selection means—that beneath her professional exterior, she wants someone who won't hold back, who will consume her completely.

Then my body goes rigid as she begins selecting physical traits for her digital companion.

I shouldn't be able to know what's running through her head as she taps through the selections, adjusting features, customizing her perfect man. But with each choice, the picture becomes clearer.

I watch as she makes him tall. Strong. Broad shoulders, tattoos. Not just any tattoos, but a full sleeve of them.

Dark hair.

My teeth grind as she scrolls to the next option.

Eye color.

She hesitates, and for the first time since I started watching, I second-guess myself. I find myself holding my breath. Because what it feels like, is that she’s building me.

Maybe this is all in my head.

Maybe she's not building me.

If she picks something else—brown, blue, gray—then I'll know I'm imagining it. That I'm projecting my own desires onto her random selections. That this is just some fantasy she's putting together, nothing more.

I hold my breath as she lingers on the selection screen, the tension making my muscles ache.

She selects green.

It's not in my head. It's real. Does she even realize what she’s doing? She's not picking some fantasy man out of thin air. She's building the closest version of me that she can.

She must not realize it. It's not because she actually wants me. She doesn't even know me. I'm just the first person who's noticed her, made her eat, told her she deserves more than the mistreatment she puts up with. Maybe that's all this is—a subconscious response to someone finally paying attention.

And it's not like she's actually looking for someone else. She has a boyfriend. A terrible boyfriend, one who barely sees her, but a boyfriend nonetheless.

This isn't about me.

It can't be.

And yet⁠—

I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand down my face, feeling the heat in my skin. It’s a bad habit.

And this is dangerous territory.

This isn't just a distraction for her. She's giving herself what she actually wants. Even if she doesn't know it yet.

What Does He Call You?

I sit up straighter, my entire body going still as the next screen loads. This question cuts deeper than the others.

This is personal.

Pet names aren't random. They aren't meaningless phrases you just pick out of thin air. They reveal what a person craves, what makes them feel wanted, what gets under their skin in the most intimate way.

They tell you how they want to be seen.

I lean forward, watching as the default options appear first.

Babe

Sweetheart

Love

Angel

Darling

All standard. Generic. Terms a man uses when he's just going through the motions, not really seeing the woman in front of him.

But she doesn't pick any of them.

Instead, she taps the blank field. A space to type her own. I exhale slowly. This will tell me what makes her tick.

This will tell me what she wants.

She hesitates, just for a moment. Like this is the hardest decision of all.

Then, slowly, she types⁠—

Pretty girl.

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

A possessive hunger tightens in my chest, completely irrational and impossible to ignore. Because I know this isn't from Evan. I know that with absolute certainty. He doesn't see her like that. He doesn't see her at all.

But somewhere, at some point, she wanted this.

She wanted to be called pretty and have it be sincere. She wanted a man to look at her like she was beautiful and precious. And no one ever did.

Until now.

Because that’s how I see her.

It’s insane. I barely know her. We’ve exchanged what—ten conversations, maybe less? She owes me nothing, and yet I’ve found myself cataloguing the curve of her mouth when she’s focused, the exact pitch her voice hits when she’s lying, the way her hands fidget when she’s trying not to feel too much.

She doesn’t even realize how capable she is, like she keeps waiting for someone else to confirm her own brilliance. And giving—fuck, she gives everything. Time, effort, pieces of herself she probably doesn’t even realize she’s handing out like candy. And none of them ever deserved it. Not one.

I can’t explain why I’m like this for her. Why just hearing her name makes my chest tighten. Why I have to physically stop myself from reaching out when I see her across a room. Why her silence feels louder than anyone else's scream.

But maybe I don’t care.

Maybe it doesn’t need to make sense.

Because when I look at her, I don’t see a girl who’s trying to be enough. I see someone who already is. And if no one else ever noticed, then that just means they were blind.

She’s pretty. She’s precious.

And I’m the one who sees it.

Final Step.

Name Him

She should pick something generic. Something safe.

A name that means nothing. A name that doesn't belong to any real man in her life.

Instead, she types⁠—

Ca-

My pulse hammers against my ribs.

I go completely still, watching, waiting, not breathing as she hesitates.

It's too close.

But then she adds three more letters.

-leb

I exhale slowly, a sharp, tight breath that does nothing to settle the feeling clawing up my spine. She came within a keystroke of naming her perfect digital man after me.

I wait for her to change her mind. To realize what she's done. Except, time passes and nothing happens.