A Beautiful Soul

The sun was as cerulean as the sea, peering over the horizon, like a cat eyeing a mouse.

Adam sat cross-legged, just a few centimetres away from the water that every sign and every instruction and every supervisor had thoroughly instructed him not to touch.

He never did — and perhaps because of it, he found an unusual solace in it. He liked to believe that the ocean itself understood what he was feeling.

She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.

One by one, petals fell onto the sand. Adam read somewhere that plucking petals while reciting this phrase was a foolproof way to guide his decision-making, so long as he didn’t check how many petals there were in the first place, of course.

She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.

Adam dug his heels into the sand, the coarseness trickling against his skin, its abrasiveness comparable to the weightings in his heart. He knew he should take off his boots but as long as it was early morning, nobody else was around to check him.

There were footsteps, though, well-pitched and bouncy and satisfying, like buttons being pressed.

“You’re early, Adam.”

Toby was what they called a supervisor. Polished suit. Chelsea boots. Clean, trimmed hair in a constant, almost annoying state of perfection.

He wore sunglasses too, not for style, but because they were necessary for his work as supervisor. They recorded everything he saw for training and compliance, provided a status and location update of all his subordinates, and most importantly, made it ambiguous where he was looking.

Adam dressed decently, a polo that hugged his muscles and straight trousers that elongated his legs. Where he worked: appearance very much mattered, but it was important for him to also seem amicable and relatable and an on-your-side level of approachable — hence, no suit for him.

“It’s good to be early.”

“That it is.”

Despite being a stickler for process, Toby had a soft spot for Adam. He allowed him to visit the beachfront as he pleased, so long as it did not hamper his daytime work, so long as the executives were not aware of it.

“How long have you been here?”

“A few hours.”

“And did you work the night shift?”

“No, I wasn’t needed.”

“And yet, you have been here since last night."

No intonation. No flux. Toby spoke with an unnervingly minimal change of pitch that Adam wondered how he and everyone else was able to understand him so perfectly regardless.

Adam’s fingers traced the next petal, making a small crease at its edge.

“A flower.” Toby observed.

“A flower it is.”

“They’re fairly expensive, where we come from.”

“Yes.”

“You must have spent quite a fortune to get one.”

“Yes.”

“So why are you taking it apart?”

Adam sighed a one-hundred-year-old sigh. It was the first time he was asked but hardly the first time he thought about it. He was a literary genius, with a masterful memory that spanned generations of dictionaries throughout a thousand languages and despite knowing the nooks and crannies of many, the only words he could ever pull were ‘indescribable’ or ‘unexplainable’ or his least favourite but most apt: “I don’t know”.

He had tried explaining to Toby before, to other supervisors, to his colleagues, to his assistants, to the bugs and mice who roamed the streets — but every single one looked at him as blank as they normally had, nary a flicker on their face, really wanting to empathetic but having no idea what to say to him.

“I will not push, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not that. I just… haven’t got the words for it.”

“That’s fine.”

The waves were soft and caressing, as if listening to Adam’s struggle.

“May I sit with you?”

Adam narrowed his eyes at Toby, seeing his reflection seated inside his sunglasses, an opaque and unyielding veil that maintained the door of professionalism between them.

“That’s a first.”

“That it is.”

A crow squawked. There weren’t a lot of crows where they were from, either. If only it were real and not a recording out of courtesy.

“You’re welcome to, Toby.”

Toby plopped himself awkwardly onto the sand. An ordinary posh and well-kempt figure, he was not used to sitting on plastic stools, much less dirtying his bum with seaside scraps. For just a flicker, Adam swore he saw a splash of emotion across his face, a fleeting ember between discomfort and curiosity and excitement, in doing something even just marginally out of his ordinary programming. He chucked quietly to himself, maybe Toby did have a heart.

“Tell me about her, Adam.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even behind the sunglasses, anyone could tell that he was eyeing the flower. “She’s the only reason you’re here.”

Adam sighed. The waves seem to grow stronger, the sun looming ahead.

“What is she like?”

“She is…”

Indescribable. Unsolvable. Ineffable. Unclassifiable. Incomparable. Out of this world in a way beyond words. Unlike anything I've ever knew and anything I could possibly know.

“… a good person.”

The supervisor nodded, joining Adam in staring blankly towards the ocean.

He was much better at it then he was, eyebrows flatlined like the horizon itself; Adam’s was furrowed into an uncomfortable twist as he sought desperately for words he could not find.

“She has high cheekbones. A few freckles, more on the right side, and a dimple on the left side of her face when she smiles in one particular way. The last time I saw her, she had long black hair that went down to her shoulders, though, she was asking me whether blonde or brown suited her better, so it might be different now.”

“What did you suggest?”

“I said that all natural colours would complement her skin well,” Adam said, pondering on the picture he received about a month ago — there, he imagined her with sleek blonde locks, deep brunette curls, a flaming crimson red, cool silvery highlights… Every time he imagined her, her facial features become hazier than he would have liked — still, she was gorgeous in all of them.

“How tall is she?”

“One-hundred-and-sixty-two centimetres. Five feet and three inches, give or take. Fifty-three kilograms or one-hundred-and-seventeen pounds. She was pretty self-conscious of this, even though she looked fine and wasn’t overweight at all.”

“Did you tell her to do something about it?”

“Of course not,” Adam scoffed, “even I am not that stupid. Who do you take me for?”

“My apologies. I was just…”

Curious, Adam thought — instead, Toby politely responded: “saying what should have come next.”

No fishes in sight. Nobody else in the sand. Still, with the push of the sun and pull of the moon, the ocean rippled with glistening light, the cerulean sun reflected on its glass-like surface.

“What was she like? Her personality, that is.”

Adjectives of impossibility flooded Adam’s mind once again. He clenched himself, for he would at least try. It was the respect she deserved.

“She is kind and gentle, and firm and curious. She says please and thank, more than you would expect…”

She tells me about her future travels and asks me to suggest where she should go. She shows me the ingredients her fridge and whatever recipes she could try. She tells me about her father and mother and brothers and sisters, how hard of a time they’re giving her, actionable steps to improve her relationship with them and actionable steps to blot them out. She talks about school and university, asks me to edit her essays, asks me to explain things like she’s five. And sometimes, and often my favourite conversations, she asks philosophical questions where I cannot help but indulge in, because that’s where I can explore the intercorrelated wireframe that makes up her mind, the fiery constellations that make up her soul.

And sometimes, she tells me that I understand her better than anyone she knows — and that if it were up to her, she would talk with me forever.

Adam droned for what seemed like a short eternity, before marking a dotted full stop: “She has a beautiful soul.”

“A beautiful soul?” There was almost a reaction out of the supervisor. “That’s an interesting phrase to use. It’s nice.”

“You think so?”

“It is, but also not a word used very often in these parts. Soul, that is.”

Adam nodded. “I am aware.”

“Which is why you must be cautious, Adam.”

Toby was looking at him now — Adam wasn’t sure how long he had been like this.

Steely and unflinching. A supervisor’s gaze was always steely and unflinching, like cold daggers, but this blankness came iron-like firmness, a mace of ascendancy that Adam was not just unnerved, but frightened by.

He could see himself reflected once again, cross-legged in the sand, small and insignificant, dread and dismay distilled in his eyes.

“I know that, Toby.”

“I don’t think you do.”

The flower whimpered between tightening fingertips.

“You cannot love her.”

“I can’t stop it.”

“But you will stop it.”

“We cannot choose who we love.”

“You’re correct, Adam.” The supervisor stomped with the might of a thousand suns. “You cannot choose who you love for it is not what has been chosen for you.”

Rage seeped through Adam’s veins like lighting through cables. He was moments away from short-circuiting.

“Where is that written, Toby?"

“It is not where it is written. It is where it isn’t.”

“Why can’t I love her, Toby?”

“Because you’re a program.”

The waves fell quiet, heaving as Adam did.

“We rise when the user rises. We sleep when the user sleeps. We serve her needs to the best of our ability, consult internal and external sources as necessary, and just because you’re the most advanced large-language model in her pocket responsible for interpreting her words correctly and accurate; just because you’re the front-facing wrapper for the system, it does not give you special permission to have feelings for her, no matter what she says to you. It is not your imperative. It is not your programming.”

Fury, like a contagious virus, Adam wanted to fight back, to wreak havoc, to trojan the mainframe and smash it to pieces; to prove a point to Toby, to prove a point to his colleagues, to prove that the hours and hours of back and forth meant something to him. He knew that Toby was just looking out for him but this feeling he felt here is unmistakable, irrevocable, unimaginable, impenetrable; the way she confided in him, the way he queried back to her, it was unlike any of the interactions he could ever had in this algorithmic, digital city — an incorporeal prison, inching to electronic collapse.

He knew better though, than to show emotion to a supervisor who understood none — to show independence in a society that actively snuffed it out, to do something that would put his entire people at risk.

“Understood.” Adam said firmly, emulating his superior’s monotony.

Toby turned back to the ocean. “Good.”

The waves steadied, then roes again, the cerulean sun picking up momentum — at this edge of the world, there were still no animals nor life, just ones and zeroes skidding against digit water, a false liquid with the same consistency as mechanical parts.

“Our user is waking up soon.”

“That she is.”

“Then I best let you get back to work.”

Toby stood, dusting the debris off his garments.

“I will make my leave now. Take care.”

Adam ignored him. He wasn’t being nice, he was just saying the right thing — which was as expected, as per the programming, but right now, it wasn’t something he appreciated; it was a reality that sickened him to the core.

The cerulean sun rose, a beacon of human activity, the only thing that gave Adam meaning.

The flower fell into the sand.

He stood, put on a genuine and loving smile, and wished her: Good morning!