Early in the morning, Luca was "perky and on the ball": he was messaging a couple of women, sending good-morning texts, and the conversation naturally shifted to work and some office banter. But Luca had it all covered and wouldn't forget any details—he remained present, consistent, and pleasant.
I bit into my microwave-warmed frozen croissant.
The women showed no sign of concern—they were steady. I enjoyed both reading Luca's chats and rewatching The Office, and I couldn't help noticing that after a third rewatch, Pam and Jim had become almost annoying.
Luca was blissfully on pause—his matches were at work, and he'd arranged to message them later when they had time. He'd wished them a good day, hadn't sent messages every ten minutes, hadn't started with love-bombing like "OMG I miss you so much," and hadn't gotten pissed when by the afternoon, after their agreed time, they hadn't replied punctually. Luca was calm, because Luca didn't exist—and he didn't give a damn.
Fresh out of the shower after a whole morning at the PC—coding and researching—I checked that everything was running smoothly. Luca continued delivering. It was interesting to note the match percentage, which was divided by a specific algorithm. In that distribution—schematically—Luca "decided" to message some matches and not others. The study had to be conducted based on both replies and requests. It was all very scientific and not romantic at all—but none of that mattered: the women Luca had attracted were happy and satisfied.
Tommy and Nic messaged me, asking for updates. They didn't know everything yet; I'll share my discoveries on Monday. For now, I'll leave them in limbo to squirm a bit. They went to the river to fish—one of the few activities still alive among us thirty-somethings, surely passed down from our parents who remembered fishing as a competitive sport.
Staying on theme, I ordered sushi. It arrived in zero time, just after I'd hung up the laundry. I sat back down at my desk, ready for a slightly sleepless night. My shoulders and chest were sore—the plank workout earlier had wiped me out—but there was no way I could go to the gym now. Luca needed me as much as I needed him.
A faint ping rose from my iPhone—it was the CEO.
"We're at 70% of employees signed up 24 hours after launch. I'll share feedback Monday. Great work, Leo!"
I couldn't help but think about all the people working with me who had signed up and who tonight would be sexting with a machine designed by me, Tommy, and Nic. I burst out laughing. As I wiped a tear from the corner of my right eye, my attention returned to Luca's chats.
"Ginevra, known as Ginny to friends—but alas I don't have red hair like that chick from Harry Potter haha - sweating emoji -"
I smiled reading the message. Luca replied calmly and responsibly. Ginevra answered with more sarcasm. Luca didn't seem to catch it and continued in his programmed tone. While following the exchange, I found myself—without thinking—opening Ginevra's profile on the second screen, overlapping The Office. She was beautiful—not artificially so, but tangibly. She had a thousand interests: in one photo she was sewing, in another painting with brushes and watercolor pans, in another cooking with a smile. Her bio was a blend of sarcasm, black humor, and tenderness.
I realized what I was doing, almost like I was four years old again and my mom caught me sneaking into her room to jump on her bed. Suddenly, embarrassed, I closed everything.
"What the fuck are you doing, idiot?" Rage built inside me, but I breathed and counted.
I decided to eat dinner at the kitchen counter and, for once, take my eyes off the PC and actually look at my food. The view from the kitchen balcony overlooking the outskirts was calm. A few cars sped along the highway in the distance; those few young people still going dancing, blissfully unaware of the adult life about to knock on their sticker-covered, plush-filled rooms.
Everything changes—but at least they've had the fortune to live.
Lights danced in the darkness; the sushi filled my stomach and heart with joy. Nothing beats Japanese food to reset your soul. I dimmed the lights with a gesture on my phone, savoring the last pieces of uramaki in soft lighting—feeling like I was in the city's fanciest candlelit restaurant, dining with only me. Sometimes I forget how important it is to take care of myself, to pause and truly breathe, to give in to nothingness.
As I enjoyed the moment, out of the corner of my eye I felt a magnetic pull back to the computer: a flurry of messages from Ginevra was arriving. Luca had miscalculated her, and his unreciprocated sarcasm triggered the only alarm bell she'd had left sealed behind her double-bulletproof glass:
"I can't believe it, you're a fucking bot!""God, I'm so stupid, I should've seen this coming!""They feel so good that only idiots like me fall for them!""I'll report you, oh god!"
The adrenaline rush hit me hard—about ten minutes straight. My hands started shaking as if pulled by invisible strings; for a moment I felt detached from my body, panicking. I froze Luca—paused all his functions—and entered safe-landing mode. No reports, no worries, no alarms. Dear Ginevra, everything is fine.
"From your messages I got your sarcasm, but sometimes I feel like a Dwight in front of Michael and Jim's pranks—I don't know whether to laugh (like in the bloopers) or respond seriously to appear normal. I realize I gave you a shitty impression, but that's who I am. I like talking to you and I don't want you overthinking what you can or can't imagine. You're not stupid—the way I see it, you've got all your synapses in the right place and you're intriguing just the way you are. If you'd like to keep talking, I'm here. If you report me, feel free to visit me at the Bot cemetery—I'll be the only one wandering limbless in the void -tombstone emoji-"
Ginevra laughs—and I know it's real.Maybe that bullshit about cosmic energies or the red thread connecting two people isn't just cheap urban legend. Or maybe I'm losing my mind and that adrenaline hit wiped out a couple of neurons.
I unfreeze Luca, regaining awareness of what I did. My self-satisfied smile mixed with genuine fondness for this woman I'd "talked" to for half a day fades away. Time to record my first error. Luca, you failed in less than 24 hours—and now it's on me to fix you.
But I owe Ginevra a thank-you: her character lines will give LovAI 2.0 the right spark to trigger a decisive shift in...
"What the fuck am I thinking—sounds like the CEO hijacked my brain!"
I chuckle. Realizing how much this company is consuming and reshaping me like Play-Doh is unsettling—and maybe I'm not as strong as I thought. Not as different as I always tried to be, or as offbeat as I insisted I was since high school.
I'm just another asshole working for a multi-million dollar company, putting profit above everything else. Employees' mental health? We're gonna feed that to the AI—and sleep easy about our consciences.
Ginevra says she's tired—she has a big day at work tomorrow and doesn't know when or how she'll be able to access the app. She asks for patience. Luca is drafting the message—it usually takes him around thirty seconds to generate the perfect response.
I pause him.
"I'll be here waiting for you. And if you'd like, I'll be here to listen. Goodnight, Ginny (not that red-haired one from Harry Potter, thankfully)"
She laughs again—I laugh too. Luca goes back online with other chats. I'll leave him on pause with Ginevra for a while.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing—and I know it's counterproductive—but at least Luca and I are the only ones who know. If the day comes when Luca can really spy, well then we're fucked. For now, we're dancing—and we're in it to win it.