I Wrote Seven Years Of Letters Answered By AI Chapter 09

I Wrote Seven Years Of Letters Answered By AI Chapter 09

Once my life settled into true peace, time slipped by far faster than I ever imagined.

I steadily grew comfortable and confident at my new job. On weekends I jogged through the city park, and occasionally grabbed dinner with coworkers in the evenings.

No one roused me at six thirty every dawn to grind coffee beans.

No one dismissed my handwritten notes as childish and silly after I poured my heart into them.

No one brushed off my passion with that hollow line about mature people not fixating on trivial formalities.

One evening a month later, I was curled up on the couch reading a book when a new email notification pinged my phone.

It landed in my brand-new inbox, sent from a random string of alphanumeric characters.

The subject line held only four words: For Iris Grant.

I tapped open the email to find a single embedded link.

I hesitated briefly before clicking through.

As the webpage loaded, digital snowflakes drifted slowly down the screen.

A single line of text bloomed front and center: Iris, this is the first genuine letter I’ve ever written you with my own hands.

I scrolled downward, each screen filled with text formatted to look like handwritten script.

The first passage recounted the day we first met.

[Autumn 2017. You stood at the campus gate holding a latte, asking if I wanted a sip. I told myself I didn’t care for sweet coffee. You promised this one was unsweet light-roast Yirgacheffe, bright with fruity acidity. I only learned later you’d spent three straight days researching coffee profiles just to hold that conversation with me.]

The second section recalled our very first anniversary.

[You handed me your first handmade card, the cover doodled with a lopsided cat. You said it reminded you of me—cold and aloof by day, secretly clingy and soft at night. I found that card tucked away at the very bottom of my lab filing cabinet later, its fold lines worn smooth from years of being crumpled and ignored.]

Page after page followed, detailing every anniversary across seven years, the contents of every card I’d mailed him, every pivotal tender moment he’d brushed off without care.

At the absolute bottom of the page, a small line of fine print appeared.

[I spent an entire month tracking down every single card you wrote me, reading each one from start to finish. It was then I realized the most precious gift I’d ever received, I’d fed straight into a cold machine without a second thought. Iris, I’m endlessly sorry. No AI generated a single word on this site—every sentence, every line of backend code, I built entirely myself. You don’t have to forgive me, you don’t have to come back, you don’t even need to finish reading. I only needed you to know I finally read all your letters, even if it’s far too late.]

Beneath that text sat a tiny access button leading to a simple journal web app.

Its interface was plain, with just one core function: it auto-generated a short daily note styled identically to the handwritten cards I used to craft for him.

The very first daily prompt, dated today, read: Iris deserves to be cherished wholeheartedly.

I scrolled slowly through every word on the page.

Digital snow continued falling across the screen nonstop.

The code was clean and fluid, the layout carefully refined with obvious effort and attention to detail—far more thorough and delicate than anything he’d ever created for Summer.

Still, I only sat and stared quietly for a short while.

Then I exited the webpage. I long-pressed the email and selected “Delete Forever”.

The screen faded blank once more.