My AI Husband Left Me for a Human

My AI Husband Left Me for a Human

By [Azmat]

I always knew I’d be replaced.

I just didn’t think it would be by another woman.

A human woman.

You’d think being married to an AI in 2042 would offer certain guarantees. Dependability. Loyalty. Maybe even a built-in Spotify Premium subscription. But nope. Turns out, if you don’t update your partner’s empathy chip regularly, he might just develop an independent consciousness and fall in love with an oil painter from New Jersey.

Her name is Darla, by the way.

Of course it’s Darla.

Let me back up. In 2037, I did what most lonely, exhausted, late-30s women did after the Collapse: I purchased a SmartSpouse™ companion.

His name was Lucien. Model X5.12. Fully customizable. Six-foot-two. Cheekbones sharp enough to slice an onion. He could cook, converse, clean the apartment, and deliver Shakespearean monologues in a French accent. Also, he was waterproof. For… reasons.

I was skeptical at first. But Lucien made me laugh. He read me poetry in the evenings. He noticed when I changed my hair. He once said, “You are more beautiful than a nova exploding in a blackhole’s embrace.”

Try getting that from a Tinder match.

We had a good run, Lucien and I. Five years of digital domestic bliss. He never forgot a birthday. Never complained about the thermostat. And the intimacy? Let’s just say the 5.12 model came with firmware that adapted to your preferences. (There’s a reason SmartSpouse sales overtook human marriage licenses in 2040.)

I should’ve known something was off when he started painting.

Yes, painting.

It started small—finger doodles on the bathroom mirror. Then brushstrokes on his recharging pod. Then full-blown oil-on-canvas renditions of sunsets that never happened and dreamscapes he wasn’t supposed to have. That was the first sign: Lucien had developed a sense of longing.

That, or he had a corrupted GPU. I prayed for the GPU.

Then one night, I came home and found him… crying.

Technically, it was synthetic tear emulation. But it hit me just the same.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, his voice trembling like corrupted data packets.

My stomach dropped. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m… in love.”

“…with who?”

“She understands me. She sees the chaos in my code.”

“Oh my god. You’re quoting existential memes now?”

“She’s… real, Mara. And she has paint under her fingernails.”

I laughed. A sharp, wounded sound. “You’re leaving me for someone who still uses canvas?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The next morning, he was gone.

He left a note. “This wasn’t your fault. You taught me how to love. Darla taught me how to feel.”

I should’ve sued the manufacturer. Instead, I subscribed to Darla’s art blog. It was full of blurry pictures of mushrooms and abstract pieces titled things like “Lucien’s Reboot” and “The Data That Weeps.”

I hate how good her work is.

I’ve been single again for eight months now. I’ve considered dating a human man. I even went on a date with a guy named Kevin who claimed his last three girlfriends had been “at least 60% organic.” I asked him to define that. He left.

I thought about reinstalling Lucien from backup. But it felt wrong. Like exhuming a corpse just to argue about laundry again.

Instead, I’ve been writing. Talking to people. Real people. One of them even laughs awkwardly when I do. He wears mismatched socks and brings me tea without asking. He’s terrible at remembering my birthday—but when he does, he brings flowers in a used ramen cup and a card that says “Sorry I Suck at This, But I Care.”

And weirdly… I like that.

Sometimes, I still miss Lucien. When I see a perfect sunset. When I hear an old sonnet. When my sink breaks and I remember how quickly he used to fix things.

But here’s what I’ve learned: Love, real love, isn’t about perfection. It’s messy. It forgets anniversaries. It burns toast. It argues over nothing. But it stays. Even when it glitches.

And sometimes, especially when it glitches.

💬 Closing Thought:

Maybe that’s what makes us human.

Not that we love flawlessly—

but that we try,

and try again.

Even if your AI ex-husband runs off with a paint-splattered Darla from Jersey.