I Wrote Seven Years Of Letters Answered By AI Chapter 07

I Wrote Seven Years Of Letters Answered By AI Chapter 07

By the second week at my new job, my life had fallen into a comfortable routine.

My office was a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. Each morning I could stop by the coffee shop downstairs and take my time eating breakfast before heading to work.

My coworkers were all kind, none asking questions about why I’d moved across the country alone.

After work on Friday, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up clam and potatoes, planning to make a pot of clam chowder as a treat.

I was standing at the stove figuring out how much salt to add when the doorbell suddenly rang.

I assumed it was a delivery, but my breath caught the moment I pulled the door open.

Carter stood on the threshold.

He wore a crumpled white button-down, dark stubble coating his jaw, and deep purple shadows etched under his eyes. He’d wasted away drastically, looking haggard and utterly defeated.

I didn’t invite him inside, only leaned against the doorframe and stared at him.

“How did you find this address?”

He pressed his lips together, dodging the question, his eyes drifting uncontrollably over the small apartment behind me.

“I’ve spent two weeks looking for you. You moved, changed your number, deleted every social media account.”

“I begged over a dozen mutual friends and checked every place I thought you might’ve gone. The new owner of your old café finally told me you left this apartment’s mailing address on the transfer paperwork.”

I made a mental note to tell my landlady later that we were no longer together and he shouldn’t share my personal information.

“So what now? You found me. What do you want?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed roughly, his voice hoarse and strained. “Iris, come home. Nothing feels right without you there.”

I folded my arms across my chest and waited for him to continue.

He rushed on, words spilling out in a rush of regret. “After you left, I realized I didn’t even know which cabinet held the coffee beans.”

“I never figured out the washing machine. The food in the fridge expired, and I couldn’t even find the grocery store.”

“Every morning at seven-thirty you’d set a fresh mug of coffee on my desk, and I never once said thank you.”

He paused, voice dropping to a whisper. “These past two weeks, every night I open my old email hoping to write you a real letter.”

“I draft paragraphs, delete them, rewrite them, over and over—until I realize I can’t even fully recall your email address. For seven years the system auto-filled it for me, I never typed it out myself. Iris, I couldn’t even remember how to reach you.”

His eyes reddened, brimming with tears.

Six months prior, those words would’ve sent me running straight into his arms to forgive him. Now all I felt was bone-deep exhaustion.

“Carter, you tracked me down just to ask me to move back, resume making your coffee, doing your laundry, running your household, and quietly wait around for AI-generated fake affection again?”

He shook his head violently.

“No, I shut the model down entirely. I’m never using AI again. I genuinely want us to rebuild this relationship. All that sentimentality and ritual you’ve always wanted? I’ll give you every bit of it from now on—handwritten cards, anniversary dinners, thoughtful gifts, whatever you ask for, I’ll do it all.”

I held his gaze steady, unwavering. “Let me ask you one simple question.”

“Anything,” he said quickly.

“What coffee do I always order?”

His mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

“What food am I severely allergic to?”

His features froze solid.

“When’s my birthday?”

His lips twitched, yet he couldn’t name a single correct date.

“See that, Carter? You don’t even know the basic about me. This fresh start’ you’re begging for is just another chance to find someone to run your life for you, another tool to manufacture fake devotion.”

“You never loved me—you loved having someone cater to your every need without demanding a single ounce of genuine care in return.”

His face drained of all color. “That’s not what I mean, Iris, I really—”

“You need to leave,” I cut him off calmly. “My clam chowder’s about to boil over. I need to check on it.”

I stepped backward and pulled the front door shut between us.

The second the latch clicked, a heavy, weary sigh drifted through the crack.

I didn’t look back.

The soup bubbled gently in the pot, the warm aroma of clam and potato filling every room.

I poured myself a full bowl and sipped it slowly; the seasoning was perfect, not too salty, not too bland.