— Chapter 13 —
I didn't just bring her into my room. I had stepped into something that wasn't going to stay controlled, and I wasn't sure anymore where that left me. But there was one thing I couldn't ignore—if I sent her back, I would be throwing her straight into the same place she had just barely crawled out of. That thought stayed, heavy and unmoving, no matter how much I tried to push it aside.
I stood there longer than I should have, waiting without knowing what I was waiting for. The silence stretched, thickening with every passing second, until it felt like something physical pressing against my chest. Then, finally, it broke.
"…Am I… allowed to?"
Her voice was small. Fragile in a way that didn't fit anything I understood.
The moment I heard it, something in my chest tightened again—sharper this time, almost unbearable. I turned away before it could settle, walking back to my chair and dropping into it, letting my weight sink fully as if that could ground me. My eyes drifted across the room, never settling, until they fell to the floor.
"…yeah," I said after a pause that lasted too long. "Yeah, you can stay here."
Even as the words left me, they didn't feel steady.
I glanced at her. Her grip on the bowl had loosened slightly, like her strength had been tied to something that had just shifted. After a moment, she lifted her head just enough to meet my eyes for a fraction of a second—then immediately looked away again, her gaze falling back to the floor beneath her.
"…And," I added, quieter now, "if you stay… don't just sit around. Do something. That's all."
The condition felt weak even as I said it. Like I needed something—anything—to make it sound less like I had just given in.
My thoughts didn't stay quiet.
(I don't know if this was the right choice.)
(I just… don't want her to go through that again.)
The thought lingered—and then twisted.
(Why?)
(She's just an AI, isn't she?)
(Then why does it bother me?)
The word stayed there longer than it should have.
Care.
My jaw tightened.
(…Ridiculous.)
When I looked at her again, she hadn't moved. Her head was still lowered, shoulders slightly drawn in, cheeks damp from tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away.
I waited.
At first, I thought she wouldn't respond. That maybe I had said too much—or not enough. But then—
"…I'll… I'll stay."
Her voice barely reached me, soft enough that it almost disappeared before it fully formed. She didn't look up when she said it.
Something in my chest shifted again. Not sharp this time—just… there.
I turned away before I could focus on it, picking up my half-finished bowl from the desk.
"…It's still warm," I said. "Eat before it gets cold."
My voice came out lower than before. Controlled. Like I was trying to keep it from becoming something else.
I started eating again, slower this time. Not because I was hungry—but because it gave me something to do. Something steady.
A few seconds passed.
Then I heard it.
A faint rustle of fabric. A small, careful movement.
(…She's eating too.)
The realization settled quietly.
Outside, the rain had started to ease. Not stopping—just softening, like the city itself had grown tired of the noise. Inside, the only sound left was the quiet rhythm of movement, of breathing, of something that almost felt normal.
Almost.
When I finished, I glanced toward her again. Her bowl sat empty now, placed carefully in front of her. She was sitting straighter than before, no longer leaning heavily against the wall—but she still didn't look stable.
Her gaze was fixed on her right arm.
Not just looking.
Studying.
Like she didn't trust it to hold together.
I stood up, taking my bowl with me. When I reached her, I picked up hers too—slowly, careful not to startle her—and carried both to the sink. The quiet clink of ceramic against metal sounded louder than it should have.
I checked the time.
— 1:36 —
(…Still some time before my next shift.)
The thought came automatically, routine filling in where everything else felt uncertain.
(What am I supposed to do until then?)
I looked back at her.
She hadn't changed position. Still staring at her arm, like it was something fragile, something that might give out if she moved the wrong way. Now that there was nothing left to hold onto, nothing left to distract her, she just… stayed there.
"…Does it still hurt?" I asked.
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
She blinked, startled, and lifted her head slightly—just enough to glance at me. Then her eyes dropped back to her arm.
"…It's… better… than before."
Her voice was quieter now. Not breaking—just worn.
(…So it does.)
(Yeah. Of course it does.)
I exhaled quietly and turned away, walking back to my chair. There wasn't anything else to do. Not really.
"I still have some time before my next shift," I said, sitting down. "I'm going to try to sleep."
A pause.
"…Do whatever you want. Just don't make too much noise."
I didn't look at her when I said it.
(…Whatever you want?)
(Why did I say it like that…)
The words felt off the moment they left me, like they didn't belong to me.
I didn't correct them.
Instead, I set an alarm—thirty minutes before my shift—watching the screen for a second longer than necessary before putting it aside. Then I leaned forward, resting my arms on the desk and lowering my head onto them.
My eyes closed.
The room stayed quiet.
But it wasn't empty anymore.
Somewhere behind me, faint and careful, there was still the presence of someone who didn't quite know what to do with the space she had been given.
And for some reason—
even with my eyes closed—
I couldn't stop being aware of it.
(…This is going to be a problem.)
The thought came, clear and unavoidable.
And this time—
I didn't try to deny it.