Elias adjusted the neural-cuff on his wrist, the sterile white of the chamber reflecting in his tired eyes. His side hustle had, through some algorithmic miracle, become his main gig. He was a curator of feelings, a service for the emotionally destitute who had outsourced their own hearts.
A client sat opposite him, a woman with immaculate poise and the kind of aggressive main character energy that suggested deep, structural boredom. “I’m tired of the usual,” she said, her voice a flatline. “The wellness influencers are pushing somatic healing, but I just feel… nothing. My therapist says I’m dissociating. My AI life coach suggests a dopamine detox. Show me something real.”
Elias nodded, his own burnout a low hum beneath his skin. “Of course. We can start with something accessible. A 2022 Quiet Quitting, perhaps? It has a complex nose of performative nonchalance with lingering notes of late-stage capitalism.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Basic. I’ve been doomscrolling vintages like that for months. It’s giving… predictable.”
Elias’s professional rizz, usually so reliable, faltered. This was a difficult palate. “Alright,” he said, interfacing with the archive. The generative AI whirred, accessing petabytes of harvested melancholy. “I have something… bolder. A micro-batch from this year. We call it ‘The Ghosting.’ It’s a very raw, unprocessed vintage.”
He loaded the file. The protocol was for him to take the first sip, to guide the client through the experience. A wisp of digital data, a deepfake of pure memory, streamed into his consciousness.
First, the effervescence of a perfect first date. The shared laughter, the easy intimacy, the manifestation of a connection that felt almost cosmic. It was intoxicating. Then, the algorithm introduced the turn. The abrupt silence. The unanswered texts, glowing blue with accusation. The slow-dawning horror, the self-gaslighting. *Did I imagine it all? Was I being delulu?* The vintage flooded his senses with the phantom limb of a concluded situationship. He could taste the cheap coffee from the cafe where he—no, where the memory’s originator—last saw them. He felt the specific, hollow ache of refreshing an empty inbox.
He gasped, pulling the cuff from his wrist. A single, genuine tear traced a path down his cheek. He was shaking.
The client leaned forward, her eyes wide. For the first time, a flicker of something disturbed her polished facade. She wasn’t looking at the glowing interface between them. She was looking at him.
“I’ll take it,” she whispered, not with a desire to experience the vintage, but with the awe of someone who had just witnessed an authentic human emotion.
She transferred the payment and left without another word. Elias was left alone in the white room, the ghost of a stranger’s heartbreak clinging to him like a shroud. The platform pinged, asking him to rate the experience. He ignored it. The cost of living had gone up, and tonight, he paid for it with a piece of his own soul. He could still feel the sorrow, no longer a curated product, but a raw material that had stained him permanently. It was his now.
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