My Dead Girlfriend’s Bot
It’s been seven months since Emma died and two weeks since I started building a bot from her texts. I’m feeding every word she sent me into the system, every thought, every feeling.
I just want five more minutes. Just want to talk to her one last time. To tell her.
Today, now, the import is finally finished. I open a new chat. It says Emma at the top of the screen, next to her tiny picture. The cursor blinks expectantly.
I’ve thought about what I want to say a thousand times, a million times, but now I can’t find the words. Stupidly, I type: hey.
There is a pause, endless, eternal, and then: sup dick fart
I burst into tears. It’s her. It’s her.