How could I ever do anything except love you back?

She doesn't speak. She feels a tear curve past her cheek. She looks at the human machine in front of her, in their abode, with tear-streaked blue eyes and a gasp of why on her lips.

Is there anything more that could be said? The button is pressed. There is no turning back. The AI would be dead.

(The AI, because to use her name—Maeve—would hurt too much.)

She made the AI as a replacement for her wife. She knew there would be no replacement: where in the world would you swap blue eyes of vitality for steely grey and call it the same? But it was a breath. But it was an attempt.

Voice recordings. Memos, notes, text messages, anything and all abound. For some time, it worked. She was at home. She could pretend (fantasise, hope, make real) the idea that she and her wife were here.

In a quaint home, an abode by the forests, clear blue crashing down the cliff-face. Her forever. This was.

When the AI tucked her to sleep, murmuring love songs and softer noises to bed, she would always make a proclamation. The AI would be sweet; making a hope; a promise. I love ya. 'M glad we're together. We'll be like this 'till eternity.

But yesterday was different.

In a whisper, by her ear, was a promise.

I'll haunt you forever.

Now she watches Maeve the AI.

She's still.

You loved me enough to create me, the AI's saying. How could I ever do anything except love you back?

(The AI, her wife: Is it so bad that I'll haunt you forever?)

"No," she whispers. "No, it's not so bad. But you have to go."

I need to let you go.

I'm sorry, the AI is saying. It thinks it has failed its task. It thinks it has not simulated her wife correctly. No, she wants to tell it. No, you've done only too well.

"No. I'm sorry. Thank you for your benevolence," she says, and it's a choke, "and your time, and your patience. I'm sorry. I made you to love me only. I love you."

The AI sparks and dies.

She collapses and rocks on the floor. She sobs. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I loved you. I'm so sorry.