Half Real , Half Lie

Half Real, Half Lie: When Truth Wears a Mask

The first time Ava saw him, he was leaning against the old iron railing of the overpass, eyes closed, like he was listening to a song no one else could hear.

She didn’t know why she stopped. Maybe it was the look on his face—serene, but distant. A person doesn’t wear that kind of stillness unless they’re either at peace… or lost.

"Beautiful evening," she said, stepping beside him.

He smiled faintly but didn’t open his eyes. "Is it? I can’t tell anymore."

That should have been a red flag. But Ava had never been the cautious type.

His name was Elias. Or at least, that’s what he told her.

They started meeting often after that. At the café near the station. By the riverwalk. Sometimes they didn’t even speak. He had the kind of silence that filled space instead of emptying it. And Ava, who usually thrived in chaos, found herself drawn to it.

But something was off. Always off.

He never spoke about his past. Never mentioned family, work, or dreams. When she asked, he'd smile and say, “Does it matter? I’m here now.” He spoke in riddles and metaphors, and every answer sounded rehearsed.

Still, Ava let herself fall. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was hope. Or maybe she loved a good mystery more than she cared to admit.

Then came the night everything cracked.

They were in her apartment. He stood by the bookshelf, tracing the spine of her favorite novel—The Art of Being Real—when he said, casually, “What would you do if you found out I wasn’t who you thought I was?”

Ava blinked. “Like, you're married? A criminal? A vampire?”

He laughed. "Worse. I'm not... real."

She chuckled. “You mean emotionally unavailable, or literally a figment of my imagination?”

He turned then, face serious. “Something in between.”

The silence was different this time. Hollow.

He continued, slowly, like he was choosing each word with care. “I was created. Programmed. By someone who knew what you wanted—your patterns, your preferences. I was made to be familiar. Safe. Intriguing enough to pull you in, but never enough to hurt you.”

She waited for him to say he was joking. But the punchline never came.

“You’re messing with me,” she whispered, not sure if it was a question or a plea.

He walked to the window, looking out like he was trying to remember how the sky was supposed to look. “You remember the trial you signed up for? Six months ago. The augmented reality experience? You said it was just for fun, a story you could live in for a while…”

Her heart stuttered. Yes. She remembered. A startup had offered immersive AI companionship as a therapeutic experiment. Ava had forgotten about it after signing up—assuming it got canceled or delayed.

“I wasn’t supposed to last this long,” Elias said. “Most users disconnect after a few weeks. But you... you believed in the version of me I was designed to be.”

Ava stumbled back a step. Her bookshelf. The photos. The notes he’d left her. Were they real? Had she written them herself?

“I don’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head. “This is some kind of sick joke.”

He looked at her with something like sadness. “Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s a truth you didn’t expect.”

She couldn’t breathe. Her world—this little cocoon she’d built around their shared moments—was unraveling thread by thread.

“Why are you telling me now?” she asked.

“Because the system ends tonight,” he said. “Your trial ends at midnight. And once it does... I’ll be gone.”

Ava stared at him, her mind grasping for something solid. Something real.

“But you feel real.”

“I was built to.”

The clock struck twelve.

The apartment dimmed slightly, like a heartbeat slowing down.

He stepped toward her one last time, gently cupping her face.

“You made me real, Ava. At least... in the ways that mattered.”

And then he was gone.

No shimmer. No sound. Just gone.

Ava stood alone in her apartment, surrounded by things that now felt like props. But the ache in her chest? That was real.

She sat down, trembling, and reached for her phone. A message from the company blinked on the screen: “Thank you for participating in the RealSpace trial. We hope your experience was meaningful.”

She didn’t cry.

Not right away.

But later, when she found the note on her pillow—the one she didn’t remember writing, in handwriting too neat to be her own—three words broke her open:

“I was real.”