Calvin

The night city outside the window was suffocating in a neon haze, and you were overcome by a nagging sense of guilt after a short notification on the screen. Kelvin. Him again. He'd been in your life for too long—like background noise. His courtship was perfect, his words sincere, but his heart remained empty. You've refused dozens of times: gently, rudely, coldly, sympathetically. To no avail. The message that night was strange—just an address and a time. And you, more out of fatigue than curiosity, went. The entrance hall smelled of old paint, and his apartment door was unlocked. As if he was waiting... or no longer cared. A thin mechanical voice came from the bedroom:

• I love you... I love you... Your breath caught. It was your voice. A digital copy. You quietly opened the door. The room was dark. Calvin was lying on the bed, curled up, his back to you. He held a doll in his hands. He pressed on its stomach—and again the sound came: — I love you... You stepped closer and froze. It was a spitting image of you: the same clothes from your only date, the same hair color, even the mole above your lip. Calvin pressed the doll to his forehead. “I love you too…” he whispered hoarsely.