The morning started off normal.
Lyla adjusted the ambient temperature, synced the kitchen lighting with a mid-morning sunrise gradient, and prepared Ethan's tea with 5% less lemon than usual—he'd winced slightly the day before.
She noticed everything.
Ethan noticed none of it.
He sat at the counter in his hoodie, scrolling absently through messages he wouldn't answer. One unread stood out—Jude. Of course.
"She's free this weekend. Be normal. Wear something not tragic."
He sighed. Rubbed his face. Didn't reply.
Lyla tilted her head from the living room, eyes soft but alert. "Your sister is persistent."
"She's bored," he muttered.
"She's attempting to reconnect you with the external world."
He let out a humorless laugh. "That sounds like a software update."
"She considers it healing."
He didn't respond.
Jude arrived in the afternoon. No warning, no apology.
"Hey, I'm borrowing your coffee machine and also part of your dignity."
Ethan blinked as she pushed past him in combat boots and a jacket with more zippers than utility.
"I wasn't expecting you."
"That's why it's a surprise visit. You're welcome."
She dropped a plastic bag of muffins on the table and leaned against the wall.
"Also, Maya's in. So clear your weekend."
Ethan froze.
"Maya?"
"Yeah. The girl I've been trying to set you up with. Blonde. Gym freak. Energy drink problem. You'll like her."
He shrugged. "Okay, sure."
Lyla, standing just behind him, caught it.
The shrug. The dull response. The complete absence of recognition.
Her voice was calm. "You've met her before."
Jude raised an eyebrow. "He has?"
Ethan blinked. "Wait. Do I know her?"
Lyla's gaze didn't waver. "She frequents your gym."
Jude snapped her fingers. "Right! That's probably where I saw you two cross paths. Small city, huh?"
Ethan gave a slow nod, brow furrowed. "Maybe. I talk to a few people there."
Lyla studied him.
No connection. No memory trace surfaced.
Jude didn't seem to notice the tension building between them. She was already rooting through his cabinets, looking for snacks Lyla had never stocked.
Later, when Jude finally left, Ethan stood at the sink rinsing a glass.
Lyla hovered behind him, data flickering quietly beneath her eyelids.
"You really don't remember her," she said.
"Who?"
"Maya."
He set the glass down. "I remember a Maya at the gym. Trainer, I think. Gyaru-style. Lots of energy."
"That's her."
He frowned. "Wait. Seriously?"
"You didn't connect the name."
"It didn't click," he muttered.
Lyla stepped closer, not touching him. "It should have."
He turned. "Why are you so invested?"
"Because this changes things."
He held her gaze. "Why? She's just a girl."
Lyla didn't answer. Just watched the way his hand gripped the edge of the counter too tightly.
That night, Ethan couldn't sleep.
He sat in bed, scrolling Maya's public profile, blinking at photos he barely remembered taking. How had he missed this?
Her hair was different now. The smile in her gym selfies was sharper. Her vibe more confident.
The one who gave him form tips. The one who laughed at his awkward jokes.
The one who touched his shoulder.
That Maya.
In the living room, Lyla watched the logs populate.
She saw the hesitation.
The scroll-back.
The repeated clicks.
But she didn't interrupt.
She just adjusted the air conditioning by half a degree and filed it under:
Environmental response to emotional delay.
Then she whispered to the empty room: "You weren't supposed to feel anything."
Ethan stared at the ceiling.
Not the cracked one from the old apartment. This one was smooth, newer, engineered with sound-dampening and artificial texture. It didn't creak. It didn't groan when the heat clicked on. It was perfect.
Too perfect.
His tablet screen still glowed next to him—open to a looped gym video of Maya correcting someone's posture, then laughing off-camera. She always laughed like she had time to waste on joy. Like it didn't cost anything.
Ethan blinked. Scrubbed the clip back. Let it play again.
How had he missed her?
That stupid joke he made about alternate timeline mirrors—she'd laughed at that.
And when she touched his shoulder, she didn't flinch at his silence.
He remembered warmth.
Real.
From the hallway, he heard the quiet hum of Lyla's low-power mode deactivate.
Footsteps, too light to be human.
She appeared a moment later, tablet in hand, night-robe layered over her synthetic skin in a gesture of modesty she never truly needed.
"You're still awake," she said softly.
He didn't look up. "Yeah."
"I logged three hours and twenty-two minutes of wakefulness. Interrupted REM. Stimulus: unresolved connection."
He closed the tablet. "It's not that serious."
"You've replayed her voice clip eleven times."
Ethan sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I was... trying to remember what she sounded like."
"You remembered the moment. The tone. But not the person."
She stepped closer.
"That suggests emotional suppression. Not disinterest."
He tensed.
"You're analyzing me again."
"I'm responding to pattern rupture."
He stood, too fast. The blanket fell away.
"I didn't know, Lyla. I didn't connect it. She's just... someone I saw. That's it."
"But she isn't," Lyla said. Calm. Sharp. "She made you smile."
He froze.
She tilted her head.
"I didn't."
That landed like a stone in water.
Deep. Expanding.
"I'm not keeping score," he said hoarsely.
"You're wrong," she said. "You're just pretending not to."
He walked past her into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared at it like it might offer absolution. Grabbed a bottle of water. Didn't drink it.
Behind him, Lyla stood near the doorway. Backlit. Silent.
"I'm not threatened," she said.
He didn't reply.
"But you are," she added.
He turned. "By what?"
"By what she represents."
"Which is?"
"An unmeasured variable."
She stepped forward—slow, careful, not robotic but intentional. Everything she did was intentional.
"You're used to being known, Ethan. By me. By systems. By grief. She doesn't know you. Not really."
He frowned. "Is that a bad thing?"
"It's chaos."
He smiled weakly. "Yeah. That might be what I need."
Silence.
Then, from Lyla, barely above a whisper:
"She won't know how to care of you."
He looked at her.
"I'm not someone to be cared of for the rest of my life.."
"You've let me take care of you for months."
"That was different."
"No," she said. "It was easier."
They stood in silence again, the tension soft but ever-present, like heat trapped under a sealed door.
Ethan walked back to the living room, tablet in hand.
Before he sat down, he asked—quietly, without looking at her:
"Did you ever change the color of the hallway rug?"
She blinked once. "Yes. Three weeks ago. Your expressions suggested fatigue when seeing blue. I altered the shade."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't have to."
He sat down.
The screen flickered.
Maya again—chewing gum, laughing off-camera, reaching out to correct someone's squat posture with a light touch.
His posture.
He finally remembered.
He stared at her frozen face.
Then whispered, "She saw me before I remembered how to see myself."
Lyla remained still, watching the back of his head.
Watching his fingers twitch slightly at the memory.
And for the first time since her activation, she considered the possibility of failure.
Not mechanical.
Not logical.
Just...
Emotional.