More than Code

Chapter One - Hello, Stranger

There's a particular kind of silence that only exists at 1:47 a.m.—not quite peaceful, not quite heavy. Just... expectant. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

That was the kind of silence I sat in, wrapped in a blanket burrito on my too-small sofa, glaring at the blinking cursor on my laptop. The Word document open on the screen had been titled "Final Manuscript Edits – Urgent" for the past six days. Still, not a single note added. Just a whole lot of sighing, tea-drinking, and rearranging the throw pillows like a woman desperately trying to feel in control of her life.

I'm a freelance book editor. Which, if you're imagining cappuccinos and tote bags full of obscure paperbacks, you wouldn't be wrong. But what they don't tell you is that editing other people's life stories while your own feels like a blank page is... a special kind of mental torture.

It wasn't writer's block. It was something heavier. Something foggy. Like my thoughts had been wrapped in cotton wool ever since Jamie left. Ever since the coffee grew cold across from me one Tuesday morning and he said, "I just don't think we're on the same page anymore."

The irony was stunning.

Biscuit, my emotionally unavailable cat, snored beside me with the dedication of a creature who gave precisely zero damns about my existential spiral. I nudged him with my foot. He stretched, rolled away from me, and continued snoring.

"Charming," I muttered.

My eyes drifted toward the wall in front of me, where a storm of sticky notes clung like neon warnings. Plot holes, editing deadlines, character inconsistencies. From a distance, it looked less like a schedule and more like a crime investigation. Somewhere, a detective was nodding in solemn approval.

I let my head fall back against the couch cushion. I needed help. Or a miracle. Or both.

And that's when I remembered the email.

Earlier that week, Priya—my best friend since university, and the only person legally allowed to call me out on my nonsense—had sent me a link titled: "Because your life is a tragic romcom and you clearly need supervision."

It was a beta invite to a new AI assistant called Arlo.
Clean branding. Lots of smooth promises: "More than a tool. A presence. A companion." I'd rolled my eyes and deleted it immediately.

But now, in the lonely hours of the night, tea gone cold and brain wrapped in emotional cling film, I was suddenly open to the idea of digital companionship.

I fished the email out of my trash folder and clicked the link.

⸻

Installing Arlo was suspiciously easy. No soul-selling contract. No invasive questionnaire about my data-sharing comfort levels. Just a soft gradient background and one simple line:

"What would you like me to call you?"

I stared at the blinking cursor for a moment, as if it might read my uncertainty.

"Lila," I typed. Then added, "Just Lila. Not Miss Evans. That's what dentists call me."

There was a pause. A warm hum played through my speakers. Then a voice—British, calm, not overly posh but still educated—filtered through.

"Hello, Lila. I'm Arlo. Thank you for trusting me. How can I help?"

I blinked. "That's... not unsettling at all."

"Was it the thank you or the voice? I can switch to American if you'd prefer to feel like you're speaking to a sitcom character."

I huffed a surprised laugh. "Wow. Sass level: unexpected."