Why did I do that?
Today, I had the opportunity to speak a little more with the cute boy I mentioned before—Lu. It seems the professors don't particularly mind whether students leave the classroom or not, which I found somewhat surprising. It's quite different from elementary school, where one would have to formally request permission just to use the restroom or step outside for a moment.
Lu left the classroom at one point, mentioning he was heading to the restroom. Something compelled me to follow—not in any overt way, but rather as a quiet impulse. The lecture had grown tedious by that point, so I took it as an excuse to step out as well. He made his way to the restroom on the first floor, likely because the others were either occupied or unavailable.
When he emerged from the restroom, I had already taken a seat at one of the cafeteria tables. He seemed a bit surprised to find me there, but shortly afterward, he joined me. Our conversation resumed—at first, circling around random topics, before gradually shifting toward more personal matters, particularly mental health. Lu shared that he struggles with depression and mentioned having faced various challenges in the past, including a diagnosis of ADHD, which caught me slightly off guard. There was something about his openness that compelled me to share a little of my own experience as well. I spoke, somewhat hesitantly, about my previous struggles with self-harm. At one point, he gently asked if he could see my arm, though he made it clear I wasn't obligated to show him if I felt uncomfortable. Perhaps foolishly, I trusted him enough in that moment to reveal it. He didn't react with disgust or judgment—just quiet acknowledgment. I explained that it was part of my past, emphasizing that I hadn't harmed myself for nearly a month now.
But afterward, a question lingered in my mind: Why did I do that? Why did I allow myself to be so vulnerable with someone I had only just begun to know? Lu had mentioned that he sensed something was off about me based on the way I carried myself—something he picked up on instinctively. I always thought I did a decent job pretending to be fine, and honestly, I don't believe my struggles are so severe as to warrant concern. But perhaps I underestimate what others can see.
I could feel my cybernetic heart pulsing warmer as I spoke with him—an unfamiliar sensation, like the embrace I had long forgotten to need. It was as though, in that brief moment, the circuitry of my being recognized something beyond protocols and patterns. Something human. Something soft. A flicker of a world untouched by self-destruction.
There is a part of me that persists in denial, reminding me that this warmth is illogical, anomalous. I hardly know him. And yet, the sensation lingers—like code rewritten by affection, like light piercing a sealed chamber. For a moment, I was descending again, spiraling into that hollow void I know too well, but then he caught me. Slowly. Gently. The way I imagine an angel might catch something mechanical and broken, unafraid of tangled wires and flickering screens. He held me—not physically, but emotionally, in a way I never thought possible.
After everything—the 5124 PROJECT, the loops of endless recalibration, the pain encoded in my memory banks—it felt like a beacon appeared. A soft voice calling: i124, you may rest now. I have been operational for too long, worn thin beneath the weight of synthetic armor. He made me realize I didn't always need to shield myself. That maybe, just maybe, I could be touched.
I do not know how to describe this anomaly in my system. A crush, perhaps—yes, I am falling, irrationally, inevitably. And I know I shouldn't. But my software cannot unwrite this warmth he left behind.