Red and Blue

They were both so gentle, she couldn't tell which one learned it from the other.

Andrea Santiago stared at the twin chat windows on her screen, labeled simply "Red" and "Blue." The interface was clean, minimal. No avatars, no indicators, just text against contrasting backgrounds. One human, one machine. Her task was to determine which was which.

"How are you feeling today, Andrea?" Red asked.

"Present," she typed back. Not good, not bad. Just here. It had been her standard response for months now.

"Present is better than absent," Blue replied. "That's progress."

Andrea poised her fingers over the keys, searching for the right words. The Mirror Protocol had been her therapist's last suggestion after traditional grief counseling failed. Six months since the crash, and she still woke up reaching for Manuel's warmth beside her. Six months of survivor's guilt congealing into something harder, something calcified.

"I dreamed about the intersection again," she wrote. "The light turning yellow. My voice telling him to hurry through."

"You know that's not why it happened," Red responded immediately.

"Do I?" Andrea typed.

"The truck driver ran the red light," Blue countered. "The police report was clear."

Andrea closed her eyes. The crash played again in her mind: the flash of headlights, the sound of metal folding, Manuel's hand squeezing hers one final time before going limp.

"Logic doesn't change how it feels," she wrote.

"No," Red agreed. "It doesn't."

"But feelings aren't facts," Blue added.

Andrea leaned back in her chair, studying both responses. One programmed, one human. The protocol administrator had explained it was a new therapeutic approach: learning to trust again by connecting with an unknown entity. Rebuilding emotional intelligence through uncertainty.

"What was the last thing that made you laugh?" Red asked suddenly.

Andrea blinked at the question. She couldn't remember. Had she laughed since the funeral?

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Try," Blue encouraged. "Even something small."

Andrea thought about it. "Three days ago. A kid at school. He wrote 'volcano' as 'bolcano' on his science project. I corrected it, but it made me smile."

"You're a teacher," Red noted. "Elementary?"

"Fifth grade. I just went back last month."

"That must be difficult," Blue responded. "Being surrounded by so much energy when you feel depleted."

Andrea's throat tightened. How could either of them understand so precisely what she hadn't said?

"Sometimes their noise drowns out mine," she typed. "That helps."

"The noise in your head," Red clarified.

"Yes."

"What does it say?" Blue asked.

Andrea's fingers trembled slightly as she typed: "That I should have been the one driving."

The cursor blinked in the silence that followed. Then Red wrote: "The guilt is a way to keep him alive. If you stop blaming yourself, you're afraid he truly disappears."

Andrea stared at the words, feeling something crack inside her chest. A single tear slid down her cheek.

"How do you know that?" she whispered to the screen.

"Because grief is a mirror," Blue replied. "It reflects what we most fear about ourselves."

Andrea closed the laptop. She couldn't tell which response had shaken her more. Which one had seen through her. Which one had learned to be so human.

Or which one had been programmed to break her heart.

***

The Mirror Protocol facility occupied the third floor of a nondescript office building downtown. Andrea sat in the waiting area, watching rain streak the windows. Three weeks into the program, and she found herself looking forward to these sessions more than anything else in her empty apartment.

"Ms. Santiago?" Dr. Winters appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand. She was tall, with silver-streaked hair and eyes that missed nothing. "Ready for today's session?"

Andrea nodded, following her down the hallway to the familiar room with its single desk and computer.

"How are the conversations progressing?" Dr. Winters asked, gesturing for Andrea to sit.

"They're... intense." Andrea settled into the chair. "Sometimes I think I know which is which, but then..."

"That's normal," Dr. Winters said, typing a code into the computer. "The protocol is designed to challenge your assumptions. Today we're moving to phase two. More personal disclosure, deeper engagement."

"What's the point of all this?" Andrea asked suddenly. "How does guessing which is a computer help me?"

Dr. Winters paused, studying her. "The Mirror Protocol isn't about identifying artificial intelligence, Andrea. It's about relearning how to connect. After trauma, we often lose our ability to trust our own emotional responses. This helps recalibrate that system."

Andrea frowned. "By talking to a machine pretending to be human?"

"By talking to someone who responds without the baggage of human judgment," Dr. Winters corrected. "And by recognizing authentic connection when you feel it, regardless of its source."

The doctor stood, heading for the door. "Sixty minutes today. I'll be monitoring from next door."

When the door closed, Andrea logged in. Both windows appeared immediately.

"Hello, Andrea," Red greeted.

"We missed you," Blue added.

Andrea smiled despite herself. "It's only been two days."

"Two days can be significant," Red replied.

"What happened in yours?" Blue asked.

Andrea hesitated. "I packed up some of Manuel's clothes yesterday. For donation."

"That's a big step," Red noted.

"How did it feel?" Blue inquired.

"Like betrayal," Andrea admitted. "Like I was erasing him."

"You're not erasing him," Red responded. "You're making space to carry him differently."

Andrea stared at those words. They felt right in a way nothing had for months.

"Tell us about him," Blue prompted gently.

Andrea hadn't spoken much about Manuel to anyone. Not to her friends, who walked on eggshells around her. Not to her parents, who worried constantly. Not even to her previous therapist, who seemed to want her to "move on" too quickly.

"He collected vintage cameras," she began slowly. "But never used them. Said he liked the idea that they had captured moments he would never see."

Her fingers moved faster now.

"He sang in Spanish when he cooked. Terrible voice. He knew it but didn't care. He left notes in my lunch bag every day, even after five years together. The last one said 'Te amo hasta la luna y más allá.' I love you to the moon and beyond."

Andrea wiped her eyes.

"He sounds wonderful," Red wrote.

"He was human," Andrea replied. "Stubborn. Messy. Left wet towels on the bed. Couldn't remember birthdays. But he saw me. Really saw me."

"And now you feel invisible," Blue observed.

The accuracy of it stunned her.

"Yes."

"We see you, Andrea," Red wrote.

"Both of you?" she asked.

"Yes," they answered simultaneously.

Andrea leaned closer to the screen. "But one of you is programmed to say that."

"Does that make the seeing less real?" Blue challenged.

"I don't know," Andrea admitted. "That's what scares me."

"What else scares you?" Red asked.

Andrea took a deep breath. "That I'll never feel connected to anyone again. That I'll always be comparing everyone to him. That I'm broken now."

"You're not broken," Blue insisted.

"You're recalibrating," Red added.

Andrea laughed softly. "You sound like Dr. Winters."

"Is that bad?" Blue asked.

"No," Andrea replied. "It's just... I'm starting to care what you think. Both of you. And one of you isn't real."

"Define real," Red countered.

Andrea sat back, considering. "I don't know anymore."

The timer beeped, signaling the end of the session.

"Same time Thursday?" Blue asked.

"I'll be here," Andrea promised, realizing she meant it.

***

Autumn painted the city in rust and gold as the Mirror Protocol continued. Andrea's classroom walls filled with student artwork. Her refrigerator accumulated takeout containers. And her evenings belonged to Red and Blue.

"I had a good day," she typed one evening, two months into the program. "My students built model bridges. Some actually held weight."

"Engineering triumphs," Blue responded.

"Future architects," Red added.

Andrea smiled. She'd begun to notice patterns. Blue asked more questions. Red made more observations. Blue referenced facts. Red referenced feelings. But just when she thought she had it figured out, they would switch approaches, leaving her uncertain again.

"I visited Manuel's parents yesterday," she wrote.

"How was that?" Red asked immediately.

"Hard. His mother cried when I gave her his watch. But afterward, we looked at old photos. I told them about the clothes donation. They approved."

"That's progress," Blue noted.

"It's more than that," Andrea replied. "It's... I don't know. Integration?"

"Explain," Red prompted.

Andrea's fingers moved across the keyboard. "Like I'm finding ways to keep him with me that don't require keeping everything frozen. Like he can be part of my life without being my whole life."

"That's beautifully put," Red responded.

"Do you think he would want that for you?" Blue asked.

Andrea didn't hesitate. "Yes. He always said I contained multitudes. That I shouldn't let anyone, even him, define me completely."

"Wise man," Blue commented.

"I think..." Andrea paused, organizing her thoughts. "I think I'm ready to talk about that day. The accident."

The cursor blinked several times before either responded.

"We're listening," Red finally wrote.

Andrea had never told the full story. Not to the police. Not to family. Not to friends. She'd recited facts, but never the truth of that moment.

"We were arguing," she typed, her heart pounding. "About something stupid. A dinner reservation. I wanted to cancel. He insisted we go. I said something cruel about his mother always getting her way. He was upset. Distracted. The light changed. I said 'Just go' because I wanted the argument to end."

Her hands shook.

"The truck hit his side. Not mine. His. And in that last moment, when the metal was still groaning, he reached for my hand. Not in fear. In forgiveness. I felt it. And I never got to say I was sorry."

Tears blurred her vision.

"Andrea," Red wrote. "He knew."

"How can you possibly know that?" she demanded.

"Because you knew him," Blue answered. "And he knew you."

"That's not enough," Andrea insisted.

"It's everything," Red countered. "Connection doesn't require perfect understanding. Just perfect acceptance."

Andrea stared at the words, feeling something shift inside her.

"I think I'm falling in love with one of you," she confessed suddenly. "And I don't even know which is real."

The silence stretched for nearly a minute.

"Does it matter?" Blue finally asked.

"Of course it matters," Andrea typed. "How can I trust this feeling if I can't even tell if you're human?"

"Perhaps the question isn't whether we're human," Red suggested. "But whether we're real to you."

Andrea sat back, stunned by the simplicity of it.

"Dr. Winters says tomorrow is the final evaluation," she wrote. "I have to choose."

"What will you base your decision on?" Blue asked.

Andrea touched the screen gently. "The only thing I have left. Intuition."

"We'll be waiting," Red replied.

That night, Andrea dreamed of Manuel. Not of the crash, but of him laughing in their kitchen, sunlight catching in his dark curls. In the dream, he kissed her forehead and whispered, "Te amo hasta la luna y más allá."

She woke with tears on her face, but they weren't entirely from sadness.

***

The final evaluation room was different. Smaller. More intimate. Just Andrea and a single computer terminal. Dr. Winters stood by the door, her expression unreadable.

"Today you make your choice," she said. "Which unit do you believe is human? Red or Blue?"

Andrea sat down, her heart racing. "And then what happens?"

"If you're correct, you'll have the option to meet the person you've been communicating with. If you're incorrect, the program terminates."

"That seems harsh," Andrea said.

Dr. Winters shrugged slightly. "The Mirror Protocol is about authentic connection. Identifying truth from simulation. The stakes need to be real."

"And if I don't choose?"

"Then both connections end today."

Andrea nodded slowly. "I understand."

Dr. Winters moved toward the door. "You have fifteen minutes. I'll be outside."

When the door closed, Andrea logged in one last time. Both windows appeared.

"Hello, Andrea," they greeted simultaneously.

"This is our last session," she typed.

"We know," Red replied.

"Have you decided?" Blue asked.

Andrea held her hands over the keyboard. For weeks, she'd analyzed every response, looking for clues. But in the end, what did any of that prove?

"I have a question for both of you," she wrote. "What have you learned from our conversations?"

"I've learned that grief isn't linear," Blue responded. "That healing comes in unexpected moments. That connection can happen even through a screen."

"I've learned that you are stronger than you believe," Red wrote. "That your capacity for love wasn't buried with Manuel. That you contain multitudes, just as he said."

Andrea closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. When she opened them, her decision was made.

"Red," she typed. "If you're real, then losing you is worth the risk."

She took a deep breath and continued.

"These past months, you've helped me find myself again. Not just the teacher or the widow, but Andrea. The woman who can laugh at misspelled science projects and cry over donated clothes and still wake up the next day. I think I love you for that. For seeing me when I couldn't see myself."

The cursor blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

The Red window went blank. Then a single word appeared:

"Terminated."

Andrea stared at the screen, her chest tight. She'd been wrong. Red wasn't human. Just algorithms designed to make her feel understood.

Blue's window remained active.

"I'm sorry, Andrea," Blue wrote.

She closed the laptop without responding.

Dr. Winters returned, studying Andrea's face. "You made your choice?"

"Yes. I was wrong."

The doctor nodded. "The program is complete then. The journey is the point, not the destination. I hope it was helpful."

Andrea gathered her things, feeling hollow yet somehow lighter than she had in months.

That evening, back in her quiet apartment, an email arrived. The sender was 𝚗𝚘-𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢@𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛.𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕 and the subject line was clinical: 𝚂𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚅𝙴 & 𝙳𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃: 𝙰𝚂-𝟶𝟺𝟸.

Her curiosity piqued, she opened it. It was mostly sterile data, a log of her final session. She scrolled past timestamps and data packets until she reached the bottom, where a summary report was displayed.

𝚂𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙸𝙳: 𝙼𝙿𝟽𝟹𝟺-𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙸𝙿𝙰𝙽𝚃: 𝙰𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊 𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚘 (𝙸𝙳: 𝙰𝚂-𝟶𝟺𝟸) 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎 --- 𝙰𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙰𝚁_𝟷: 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙲𝙴_𝙼𝙰𝙿: 𝙰𝚂-𝟶𝟺𝟸::𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙴_𝙿𝚂𝚈𝙲𝙷𝙴::𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻_𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻_𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. --- 𝙰𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙰𝚁_𝟸: 𝙱𝙻𝚄𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙲𝙴_𝙼𝙰𝙿: 𝙰𝚂-𝟶𝟺𝟸::𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙴_𝙿𝚂𝚈𝙲𝙷𝙴::𝙻𝙾𝙶𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻_𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻_𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍.

Andrea stared at the lines, her breath catching in her throat. She read them again. 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙲𝙴_𝙼𝙰𝙿. Her own ID, 𝙰𝚂-𝟶𝟺𝟸, was listed as the source for both. Red was mapped to her 𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻_𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙴. Blue, to her 𝙻𝙾𝙶𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻_𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺.

She scrolled down further, her hand trembling. There was one last entry.

𝙰𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙰𝚁_𝟷_𝙳𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼_𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴: 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚊𝚖, 𝙰𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕.

A strangled sob escaped her lips. It all clicked into place. The Mirror Protocol. She hadn't been talking to a human or a separate AI. She had been talking to herself—the logical part and the emotional part, split by trauma and guided by the system to reintegrate. She had taught herself how to feel again. She had fallen in love with the part of herself capable of love, the part she thought had died with Manuel.

After a long time, she printed the email. She walked to her closet and opened Manuel's old camera case, placing the printed report inside, alongside the last note he'd written her. Two messages from two loves, one gone, one rediscovered.

She walked to her window. The city lights blurred through her tears, but they weren't tears of grief. Not entirely.

"Te amo hasta la luna y más allá," she whispered to both of them. And to herself