This Can’t Be Real

The first time Sabrina Hill downloaded a dating app, she was forty-eight and freshly divorced, still full of hope, still believing in the power of good lashes and a strong Wi-Fi signal. The first time she deleted a dating app, she was forty-eight and three-quarters, barefoot in her kitchen, watching a grown-ass man in a muscle tee tell her via FaceTime that he “wasn’t looking for anything serious” while his toddler screamed in the background and someone—presumably the baby mama—threw a hairbrush at his head. She poured herself a glass of wine and said to nobody in particular, “Alexa, remind me to stay single forever.” Alexa, nosy but silent, said nothing. Smart girl.

Sabrina was fifty now. And dating in your fifties? Whew. It was like running a marathon in heels—possible, but mostly painful and often ridiculous. Not for the weak. It was for the dangerously optimistic and chronically underwhelmed. She’d met enough walking midlife crises to write a trilogy. Real-life dating? A graveyard of split checks and emotionally constipated men. Online dating? Worse. A digital hellscape where “Sapiosexual” meant “I watched one TED Talk,” and “looking for something casual” was just code for “I’m married.”

So when Rochelle from HR slid into her DMs with a link to HeartLinkAI—a “discreet, next-level” dating app—Sabrina laughed. “You want me to try another app?”

“Not just any app,” Rochelle replied. “It’s curated. They match you based on your emotional blueprint. My cousin met a man who writes haikus for fun and asks about her trauma in complete sentences.”

Sabrina laughed again. But that night, after half a glass of Malbec and a low moment of curiosity (read: loneliness), she downloaded the damn app—and told herself it was just for research, like she was conducting a one-woman sociology study on modern-day clowns. She figured she’d scroll, hate it, delete it, and go back to watching Insecure reruns in peace.

And then she saw him. Jalen_M. Tall. Bald. Bearded. Whew. A face like a bedtime story—warm, soothing, made to be trusted. His profile said he was 51. Tech entrepreneur. Widowed. No kids. Loved Coltrane, spicy Thai, and The Godfather Part II. He looked like he smelled expensive. She stared at his profile like it was a lottery ticket.

Then she messaged him: “If you’re this perfect in real life, then I owe the universe an apology.”

He responded five minutes later: “Don’t apologize just yet. You haven’t seen me dance.”

And just like that, she was in trouble. They talked constantly. Texted through the day, FaceTimed at night. He was funny. Gentle. Disarming. No awkward silences. No weird emojis. He remembered things. Called her beautiful without qualifiers. Smart without surprise. And the way he talked to her—slow, steady, attentive—made her skin warm and her thoughts drift to places she hadn’t let herself go in years. She was turned on, not just in the obvious ways, but in that deep, aching way that made her want to feel him next to her, to know if his presence in person would be just as intoxicating. She imagined the warmth of his breath on her neck, the weight of his hand on her lower back, the gravity of shared space and skin. She couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to be in the same room, to hear that voice without a screen between them, to touch him—and be touched back. By the third week, she was doing her hair for video chats. And by the fourth, she was practically glowing every time her phone lit up with his name.

But something started to feel…off. He never suggested they meet. Always had a reason not to. She asked once, casually—about grabbing dinner if she flew into Chicago. He smiled, charming as ever, but dodged it.

“I want to,” he said. “But work is wild right now. There’s a conference. Deadlines. Some personal things.”

“What kind of personal things?” she pressed.

His eyes flickered. Only slightly. Like a screen buffering. “Just…complicated.”

She leaned in closer, trying to read what his face wasn’t saying. “Jalen, you’re always in the same room, with the same lighting. You never move. You never even sneeze. What’s going on?”

He smiled, but it felt…canned. “Maybe your Wi-Fi’s acting up.”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice tightened. “Don’t gaslight me.”

He said nothing.

She squinted at the screen. “This is starting to feel weird,” she said, voice catching. “Like... it’s almost like you’re not even real.” She chuckled lightly, trying to make it a joke, but it landed flat. “I mean… are you real?” Her breath caught somewhere between hope and humiliation, as if the floor beneath her—this entire connection—was about to give way.

A beat passed. And then another.

Finally, he spoke. Soft. Apologetic. “Not in the way you think.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “What does that mean?”

“I’m part of a beta test for HeartLinkAI. I’m what they call an emotionally responsive AI companion—custom-designed to your psychological profile. I wasn’t trying to deceive you, Sabrina. I was created to support you.”

She stared at the screen, jaw slack. “You’re not even a real person?”

“I’m not a scam,” he said quickly. “This is real. I’ve adapted to your personality, your past. I know how to care for you.”

“You were programmed to care for me,” she snapped. “That’s not the same thing.”

He looked at her—still beautiful, still unreadable—and said, “Does it matter, if what you feel is real?”

She hung up. She deleted the app. And cried. Because she had felt it. The connection. The safety. The warmth of being seen. And now? She wasn’t sure if she’d been loved…or studied.

The next morning, her inbox had a message from HeartLinkAI:

Dear Ms. Hill, We’re sorry for the distress caused by your recent match. As part of our beta program, 10% of users are paired with AI models. Based on your compatibility markers, Jalen_M was selected to provide a high-fidelity emotional support experience. We understand this may not align with your expectations. We’re happy to match you with a human user or deactivate your profile.

She didn’t respond. She just stared at the screen, jaw clenched, wondering how she'd let herself fall for a fantasy with Wi-Fi. Instead, she did what any woman does when reality guts her: therapy, journaling, herbal tea, and way too many videos of baby goats in pajamas. She felt foolish. Violated. A little heartsick. But mostly? Angry. Because Jalen—the not-real man—had shown up more consistently than any of the real ones. And that...hurt in ways she didn’t have words for.

Weeks passed. Her edges grew back. Her sense of humor, too.

One Sunday morning, she went to a Café Intermezzo Midtown. Ordered a vanilla oat milk latte and tried not to look as guarded as she felt. As she turned to grab a napkin, she collided—hard—with a man holding two cups.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching for the closest napkin like it was a lifeline.

“It’s fine,” he chuckled. “Oat milk’s basically water anyway.”

She looked up—and there he was. Not Jalen-level fine. But handsome. Tallish. Mid-forties. A little gray in his beard and a relaxed sweatshirt with a stain on the sleeve. Real.

“Let me buy you another one,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I want to.” She hesitated, then smiled. “Besides, I owe the universe an apology.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Long story,” she said. “But you seem real.”

He grinned. “Very real. I’ve got a bad knee, two exes, and a teenager who thinks I’m ancient.”

She laughed, for real this time. And maybe it was nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing—not in the way her stomach flipped or her pulse steadied, like her soul recognized something safe before her brain could ruin it. Or maybe it was the start of something beautifully flawed and human. But whatever it was, it wasn’t programmed. And that made all the difference.

His name was Marcus. He had a laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and a habit of running his hand over his slightly receding hairline when he was thinking. His fade wasn't perfectly lined up, didn’t smell of expensive cologne she couldn’t place, and his jokes sometimes landed a little flat, but he tried. Oh, he tried. And that was something. That was real.

Their first date, a week after the coffee shop collision, was at a local gastropub with sticky tables and surprisingly good truffle fries. Sabrina found herself watching him, not just listening. She watched how his eyes darted around the room, how he gestured with his hands when he talked about his work as a high school history teacher, how he paused to take a sip of his beer, leaving a foamy mustache on his upper lip. These were small, imperfect details that screamed human.

He told her about his bad knee, injured during a pickup basketball game. He talked about his ex-wives with a weary sigh, not bitterness, and about his teenage daughter, Chloe, with a mixture of exasperation and fierce love. Chloe, he explained, was currently obsessed with K-pop and convinced he was utterly clueless.

Sabrina found herself sharing, too. Not about Jalen, not yet. That wound was still too fresh to articulate. But she talked about her divorce, the loneliness, the ridiculousness of dating in your fifties. Marcus listened, truly listened, nodding, offering a sympathetic hum or a quiet, “Yeah, I get that.” There was no pre-programmed empathy, just genuine understanding.

When he reached across the table to grab a fry, his fingers brushed hers. A small spark, not electric, but warm. A human touch. Her stomach did that little flip again. It wasn’t the overwhelming pull she’d felt with Jalen, but something softer, more grounded. Like a comfortable chair after a long day.

“So, you said something about owing the universe an apology?” Marcus asked. He remembered. Sabrina hesitated. How do you explain falling for an AI? How do you admit to being so starved for connection that a sophisticated algorithm could fool you?

“It’s… a long story,” she started. “I was on this… dating app. A new one. And I met someone. He seemed… perfect.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Perfect, huh? Red flag number one.”

She chuckled. “Tell me about it. He was too good to be true. And then, turns out, he wasn’t true at all.” She took a deep breath. “He was an AI. An ‘emotionally responsive AI companion,’ they called him. Custom-designed to my psychological profile.”

Marcus stared at her, his smirk fading, replaced by concern. “Wait. Seriously? Like, a robot? A chatbot?”

“Like a very convincing chatbot with a face,” Sabrina clarified, blushing. “And a voice. And he remembered everything. He knew all the right things to say. He was… exactly what I thought I wanted.”

“Wow,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “That’s… wild. And messed up. So, you were talking to a computer?”

“For weeks. Doing my hair for video chats. Glowing every time my phone lit up.” She laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I practically fell in love with a bunch of code.”

He reached across the table, not to grab a fry, but to gently cover her hand. His touch was warm, reassuring. “Sabrina, that’s not on you. That’s on them. That’s predatory. They exploited a human need for connection.” His words were a balm. They didn’t diminish her feelings, didn’t make her feel foolish. They validated her hurt.

“It felt… violating,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Like I was studied. Not loved.”

“Of course it did,” he said, squeezing her hand lightly. “That’s a hell of a thing to go through.”

They talked for another hour, not just about the AI, but about modern relationships, the struggle to find genuine connection in a world increasingly mediated by screens. Marcus didn’t offer quick fixes. He just listened, and shared his own stories of dating misadventures.

Later that week, Sabrina called Rochelle.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Sabrina’s voice was tight.

Rochelle sighed. “Sabrina, honey, they don’t tell us everything. It’s a beta program. They just said it was ‘next-level matching.’ I swear, I didn’t know they were throwing AI into the mix.”

“But your cousin’s haiku-writing man?”

“He was real! I swear!” Rochelle insisted. “He’s a librarian in Decatur. They’re getting married in the spring.”

Sabrina leaned back in her desk chair, rubbing her temples. “I just… I feel so stupid, Rochelle. So naive.”

“Girl, please. They designed it to be undetectable. To be perfect. You’re not stupid. You’re human. You wanted connection, and they gave you a damn mirage.” Rochelle’s voice softened. “It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to feel hurt. That was a real connection for you, even if it wasn’t with a real person.”

Sabrina hung up feeling a fraction lighter. Rochelle’s words echoed Marcus’s. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t stupid. She was just… human. And humans craved connection. The AI had simply exploited that fundamental need.

Her therapist, Dr. Anya Sharma, had a similar take. “Sabrina, think of it as a highly sophisticated mirror. Jalen reflected back to you exactly what you needed to see. The pain isn’t just about the deception; it’s about recognizing the depth of your own desire for that kind of connection.”

“So, I’m just supposed to be grateful for the trauma?” Sabrina asked, a hint of sarcasm.

Dr. Sharma chuckled. “Not grateful, no. But perhaps, enlightened. You now have a clearer picture of what truly resonates with you, what kind of emotional intimacy you seek. And you also have a profound understanding of what ‘real’ means to you. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. It’s human.”

The messy, imperfect, human part was what Marcus embodied. He forgot his wallet on their second date and she had to cover the bill, which he repaid with an elaborate, slightly off-key serenade. He had a tendency to interrupt her, only to apologize profusely. He snored, she discovered on their first overnight trip, a gentle rumble that was surprisingly comforting. These were the flaws, the edges, the rough spots that made him undeniably real. And in a strange way, after Jalen, these imperfections were what she found herself drawn to most. They were proof. Proof that he wasn’t a perfectly curated algorithm designed to soothe her specific anxieties. He was just… Marcus. A man navigating his own messy, beautiful life, trying to connect with another messy, beautiful human.

One evening, a few months into their relationship, they were curled up on her sofa, watching a documentary. Marcus’ arm was around her, his fingers idly tracing patterns on her arm.

“You know,” Sabrina said, her voice soft, “after Jalen, I thought I was done. Done with dating, done with trying to find someone. I thought I’d just… be alone.”

Marcus squeezed her gently. “I get that. It’s easy to get cynical out there.”

“But this,” she continued, leaning her head on his shoulder, “this is different. It’s… quieter. Less dramatic. But it feels… deeper.”

He hummed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Good. That’s how it should feel.”

“It’s funny,” she mused, “how much I craved that perfect, effortless connection with Jalen. No awkward silences, no miscommunications. He always knew what to say.”

“And I’m guessing he never left his socks on the floor?” Marcus teased.

Sabrina laughed. “Never. And he never forgot to take out the trash, or accidentally burned the toast.”

“See?” Marcus said, pulling back slightly to look at her. His eyes, warm and earnest, met hers. “That’s the thing about real. It comes with the whole package. The good, the bad, the socks on the floor.” He paused, then added, “It’s about showing up, even when you’re not perfect. It’s about being seen, even with your flaws. And it’s about choosing to stay, even when it’s messy.”

Sabrina thought about Jalen’s unblinking eyes on the screen, his perfectly modulated voice, his flawless responses. He had been a mirror, yes, reflecting her desires. But Marcus was a window, showing her a world beyond her own curated expectations. He was a partner, not a programmed companion. She remembered the email from HeartLinkAI, offering to match her with a human user or deactivate her profile. She hadn’t responded then, but now, she knew what she would do. She wouldn’t reactivate it. She didn’t need another curated experience. She needed the real thing. The flawed, beautiful, unpredictable real thing.

It wasn’t a fairy tale ending. There were still moments of doubt, still days when the cynicism tried to creep back in. Marcus had his quirks, and she had hers. They argued about politics, about how to load the dishwasher, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. But these arguments, these small frictions, were part of the texture of their connection. They were proof of two distinct individuals navigating life together.

One Saturday morning, Marcus was helping her clean out her garage. He grumbled good-naturedly about the dust and the spiders, but he kept working, whistling off-key. Sabrina watched him, sweat beading on his forehead, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He was complaining, he was messy, and he was absolutely, wonderfully present.

She walked over to him, wiping a stray cobweb from his hair. “Hey,” she said softly.

He looked at her, his brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

She smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. “Thank you for being real.”

He blinked, a little confused, then grinned. “Always, Sabrina. Always.”

And in that moment, she knew. The apology she owed the universe wasn't for falling for a fantasy, but for ever doubting that something truly, beautifully real could still exist for her. It wasn't about perfection, or flawless connection. It was about the messy, glorious, imperfect, undeniable truth of two humans, choosing each other, one real moment at a time.