It was my seventh breakup. By now, I expected fireworks—thunder, rain, maybe a tragic soundtrack. Mine had none of that. Just a polite "You're impossible," a folded tote bag, and her hand on the strap like she'd already decided.
She stood there for a moment, eyes tired. "You don't even look sad."
I looked at my drink and shrugged, a familiar hollowness settling in. What was the point of feigning sorrow? "Would that help?"
She sighed, turned, and walked out. The café door chimed when she left—that tiny sound hurt more than her words. Seven relationships. Seven goodbyes that felt like muted reruns. After the fourth, the sting faded. After the sixth, it felt like a chore, a meaningless obligation.
People don't fall in love anymore. They pair up out of boredom, loneliness, or habit. It's maintenance, not magic.
I stepped outside, the cool air doing little to calm the storm in my head. I started talking to the street like it had personally betrayed me. "Everyone keeps dating the same way and calling it love. You get bored, you text someone new, you post cute pictures, then you both pretend it's fate. Half of it's attention, the other half's loneliness—package deal." I laughed under my breath, a bitter sound. "Call it what it is: a two-player coping mechanism."
A couple walked by, giggling under a single umbrella, their laughter a stark contrast to my monologue. My chest gave that small, familiar ache that never quite made it to heartbreak. "You want the truth?" I muttered. "People don't fall in love anymore. They just find someone to fill the quiet."
I gave a humorless laugh. "Call it comfort. Call it chemistry. It's the same recycled feeling with new faces." It wasn't cathartic. Just noise—me arguing with air because no one else cared enough to listen.
I kept walking. Campus was dressed for Love Week—pink streamers, sparkling lights, and a banner that read: SMILE. PAIR UP. FIND YOUR MATCH. Hearts everywhere. I stared at it for a long second, then laughed under my breath. "Yeah… nothing says 'true love' like a sponsored event."
The banner flapped mockingly in the wind. A thought popped into my head—tiny, stupid, and irresistible. Destroy it.
No one was around. Perfect.
I grabbed the banner's edge and pulled. It didn't budge. I pulled harder. Still nothing. My shoulder cracked in protest.
Then—a creak. A metallic groan from somewhere above. I froze mid-pull. The banner's frame trembled, bolts twitching like they were trying to decide whether to hold or give up. Ping. A small, red spark dropped onto my shoe, sizzling faintly.
"...That's bad," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. "That's really bad."
The sound grew sharper—metal protesting, joints cracking in rhythm, a high-pitched whine growing louder. I stepped back, finally realizing this wasn't a metaphor. "Okay. Easy. Just—"
SNAP.
The pole gave way.
I looked up just in time to see the whole LOVE WEEK frame tilt toward me like divine irony made physical. "Oh, come on—"
CRASH.
Pink confetti. Screams of tearing fabric. A blinding flash.
Silence.
So this is how it ends.
"So love is finally worth something…" A breath. A grin. "…and it's my life. What a joke."
Darkness. A profound, disorienting void.
Then—
\[Initializing... Affection.exe\]
"Oh, great," I muttered into the void. "Can't even die without pop-ups."
A sound like a heartbeat mixed with digital static filled the dark, growing steadily.
\[System calibration complete.\]
\[Welcome to the world of Daten.\]
"…Wait. What world?"