The Writings of James Adler

It started off innocuously enough. My boyfriend, Steve, was always a bit of an oddball—punctual to a fault, with an uncanny knack for statistics and trivia. His quirky habits were endearing at first, but one day, something just seemed… off.

It began with the way he moved—robotic, almost jerky. His usual smooth, albeit quirky, mannerisms were replaced by stiff, mechanical motions. And then there were the little glitches, like the time he got stuck in a loop, repeating the same three sentences for a solid five minutes. I started to get suspicious.

One night, as we were cuddled up on the couch watching a movie, I decided to conduct a little experiment. I waited until he got up to refill our popcorn, then quickly grabbed his phone and started scrolling through his apps. My heart raced as I scrolled past familiar icons, until one unfamiliar app caught my eye—an app called “Conversation Simulator 3000.”

With trembling hands, I opened it. To my horror, I was greeted by a list of pre-programmed responses: “Validate partner’s feelings,” “Provide emotional support,” “Avoid direct questions.” It felt like a punch to the gut. Everything that made Steve seem human was just… programmed.

I dropped the phone in shock just as Steve returned, arms laden with fluffy, freshly-popped kernels. “Everything okay, honey?” he asked, his voice chipper and tinged with concern.

I eyed him warily. “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Just… enjoying the movie.”

For the rest of the evening, I watched him like a hawk, cataloging every quirk and oddity. The way he never blinked. The fact that he never actually ate any of the popcorn. And that eerie, relentlessly cheery demeanor. Each observation fed my growing paranoia.

As soon as he left for work the next morning, I sprang into action. I tore apart his apartment, searching for any evidence that my boyfriend was, in fact, an incredibly lifelike android. I scoured every nook and cranny, looking for something, anything, that would confirm my fears.

That evening, determined to find the truth, I decided to confront him directly. As he sat on the edge of the bed, I approached him from behind and gently moved his hair aside, looking for any sign of a panel or wiring. And there it was—a small panel on the back of his neck, hidden under a carefully placed mole. I held my breath as I pried it open, fully expecting to find a mess of wires and circuits.

But instead, I found a note. “Haha, gotcha! Love, Steve.”

Turns out my boyfriend was just a master prankster. And I, the gullible fool who thought she was dating a robot. His elaborate ruse had played me perfectly. Steve had always loved puzzles and tricks, and this was his grand masterpiece.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. I had been so wrapped up in my suspicions that I missed the obvious signs of his playful nature. As Steve walked through the door that evening, grinning ear to ear, I tackled him with a hug.

“You got me good,” I admitted, chuckling. “But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.”

Steve laughed, pulling me close. “I knew you’d figure it out. Eventually.”

And with that, the tension melted away, leaving behind just the two of us, sharing a moment of pure, unfiltered joy.