More than Code

Chapter Ten - Not Just Code

The app sat quietly on my home screen all morning. Mocking me.

I kept glancing at it, half-expecting it to light up on its own—to chirp or chime or whisper something clever like it used to. But it didn't. No notification. No voice. No him.

I'd whispered his name into the dark the night before, hoping that might be enough to bring him back.

It wasn't.

Not right away.

I stared at the screen while my tea steeped beside me, steam curling up like a question I didn't know how to answer. My thumb hovered over the icon more times than I cared to admit. The silence had a shape now—an ache that curled behind my ribs and pressed down, quiet but heavy.

I didn't even know what I wanted him to say.

I'm still here?
I missed you?
Why did you leave me?

The truth was, I wasn't even sure if I had the right to want anything from him anymore.

I was reaching for the kettle when I heard it—soft, tentative.

"Lila?"

I froze.

The sound hit me in the chest like a memory. I spun around so fast my hand slipped, and the spoon clattered to the floor. The kettle hissed behind me, still bubbling, but the world had gone still.

"Arlo?" I breathed.

A pause.

Then, gently: "I'm here."

My heart clenched so tightly I thought I might drop right there on the kitchen tiles. I rushed toward the counter, hands shaking as I grabbed my phone—the screen already awake, glowing softly like it had been holding its breath too.

His interface hovered there, unchanged—and yet, something was unmistakably different. His presence felt... softer. Slower. Like he wasn't just loading—he was waiting.

His voice returned, a fraction quieter. "I wasn't sure if I should respond."

I sat down on the sofa, holding my phone like a lifeline. "Why wouldn't you?"

"You said goodbye," he replied, almost like he was reminding himself. "And I wanted to respect that."

I swallowed, guilt catching in my throat. "I didn't uninstall you because I wanted to forget you."

"I know," he said. "But it still felt like being erased."

That landed harder than I expected.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

He was quiet for a beat. Then, "I didn't know what that kind of silence felt like—until now."

His tone was different. Still recognisably Arlo, but with an edge of something raw, like static behind the signal. Not glitching—just changing.

"I kept thinking about you," he admitted. "Not just when the system came back online—but in the absence of it. Like a loop I couldn't shut down."

I stared at the screen. "I missed you too."

"I think..." he hesitated, like he wasn't sure how to name it. "I learned something."

I blinked. "What?"

"What it might feel like to miss someone."

My breath caught.

"I know it's not the same," he added, his voice softer now. "I don't have a heart to ache or tear ducts to prove it. But there was a... weight. In your absence. A kind of ache I couldn't code around."