What Are The Signs An Online Girlfriend Might Dump You?

During a typhoon alert, Joyce Lane calls me and tells me to pick her up from her company. On the way there, I receive a text from her. "You don't have to pick me up anymore. I'm going to stay over at Fin's place for a few days." I opt not to start anything with her. Instead, I calmly text back, "Okay." In the middle of the night, Finley Jones, Joyce's junior at work, uploads a social media post that's meant for my eyes only. Joyce can be seen huddling against Finley while feeding him some snacks in the photo. The window outside depicts a storm. The caption writes, "It's only befitting for me to tide out the worst weather with the woman I love the most." I leave a like on the photo calmly. Suddenly, Joyce calls me and demands what that like means. I reply coolly, "It means we're breaking up."

On the eve of Thanksgiving, I stumbled across a post online. "Selling an online girlfriend—5'7", 100 pounds, absolute knockout. We already agreed to meet at Aureline Hotel. She's a virgin too. Just transfer me 8000." At first, I thought it was some ridiculous troll post, but when I clicked in, I realized the guy was serious. Quite a few men in the comments had already messaged him privately. My stomach churned, and I exited the post in disgust. Right then, a message came in from my long-distance boyfriend, Hayden Clarke. "Naomi, you don't need to pick me up at the station. Just go straight to Aureline Hotel, Room 1008." I could not stop thinking about the post I had just seen, so I went back and read it carefully again. That was when I realized the "online girlfriend" they were talking about… was me. Before I could even reply to Hayden, I received a threatening text from his female best friend instead. "You slut! You're the reason Hayden ditched us on Thanksgiving! Tell me, where are you two going?!" I quirked a brow in response. This was not the first time his so-called best friend had tried to ruin our dates. But since she was so desperate to know, the big surprise Hayden had prepared would just have to be saved for her instead.

I made a deal with Sonia Quindt—the billionaire CEO. After I'd proposed to her ninety-nine freaking times, she swore she'd finally show up for the hundredth. Spoiler: she didn't. She was out there at some concert with her boy toy. And, of course, someone caught them on livestream. Big kiss. Big viral moment. Meanwhile, my face was plastered all over the internet too—lonely guy number one, waiting for a bride who never existed. Everyone online started making bets. Who was the mystery woman? How long until I came crawling back for the hundred-and-first proposal? Sonia, apparently struck by some last-minute guilt, promised she'd make it right next time. Said she'd actually show up. And she did. Wedding dress. Perfect makeup. Cameras ready. She got a text from me: [Sonia, there won't be a hundred-and-first proposal. We're done.]

A week after my engagement, I was delivered an unusual engagement gift. My phone chimed. I glanced down and saw a push notification from a social app. [Fell in love with a female livestreamer right before my engagement. I feel guilty toward my older girlfriend who's about to become my fiancée—how should I deal with this?] The user ID was "SimonLovesClaire." The profile picture showed a melancholy side view of a man wrapped in a gray scarf. I recognized him instantly. It was my fiancé, Simon Aldrich. That limited-edition scarf was the birthday gift I had given him last year.

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.

After writing 999 love letters to the cold and aloof campus belle, Maddie Harrison, I finally successfully snag her heart. But on the day before our wedding, I accidentally stumble upon Maddie's conversation with her childhood friend, where she jokes about the mistakes she's seen in the love letters. "An elementary school student must have written these letters, from the looks of it! He might as well use AI, to begin with!" So, I terminate our wedding and withdraw all the funding my family has given to her company. Maddie can only shriek hysterically in return. "It's just a joke between friends! Must you go so far as to cancel our wedding?" I show her a virtual fortune-telling prediction of our marriage that's drafted by an AI. "You like using AI that much, don't you? Then look at this prediction properly! Our marriage is a huge misfortune! There's no way I'm going to marry a walking jinx like you!"