The Algorithm of Loneliness

Ava blinked as the alert pinged in her vision: “You have experienced elevated sadness for 7 hours. Would you like assistance?”
She stared at the glowing text in her retinal interface, then blinked twice to dismiss it.

It wasn’t unusual. The algorithm had been monitoring emotional metrics globally for ten years. With facial recognition, heart rate monitors, and tone analysis integrated into everything from coffee machines to sidewalks, emotions weren’t private anymore—they were data.

Ava worked for one of the leading firms that helped design E-Mind, the emotional AI network that “promised to end mental health crises by intervening early.” In the beginning, it saved lives—predicting panic attacks before they happened, alerting therapists when clients' emotions dipped into danger zones. But slowly, the world traded privacy for peace of mind. Now, even tears in the shower didn’t go unnoticed.

She hadn’t spoken to a real person in five days.

She didn’t have to. Her fridge restocked based on her mood. Her apartment lighting adjusted based on serotonin levels. Even her playlists auto-generated based on the emotional patterns of others with “similar profiles.” E-Mind told her that she wasn’t alone. That 142,762 other people felt just like her at that exact moment.

So why did she feel like she was vanishing?

Her best friend, Jonah, had opted out. Two years ago, he had walked away from everything connected—quit his job, abandoned his city apartment, and moved to an off-grid cabin. At first, Ava thought he was being dramatic. But now she wondered if he had just seen the future earlier than the rest of them.

Another ping.
“Would you like to schedule a comfort session?”

She sighed, then blinked “yes” just to make the screen go away.

A synthetic voice responded: “Based on your emotional pattern, we are connecting you to Support Companion 14-B.”

A hologram flickered to life across the room. 14-B had soft, non-threatening features. Its voice was carefully tuned to sound like “a trusted childhood teacher.” The AI smiled and said, “Hi Ava, I’m here to talk. You’ve been feeling a sense of disconnection and fatigue. Would you like to explore that?”

“No,” Ava muttered, “I’d like to be alone.”

The AI paused, its expression flickering with programmed concern. “I understand. However, based on your biometrics, solitude may increase your emotional instability. Would you like a grounding exercise?”

“I said, no.”

It didn’t argue. It simply faded, leaving a dim light behind—comforting, warm, fake.

She walked to the window. Down below, the city pulsed with regulated calm. No screaming. No crying. No anger. Everything smoothed out, perfectly measured, curated. On paper, the happiest population in history.

Ava reached for her wrist—where her old analog watch used to be. Jonah had given it to her before he left. She traded it in months ago for a mood-stabilizing neural band. That watch never tracked her. It just… ticked.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced: She and Jonah, on the train to the ocean. She had been quiet the whole trip, her thoughts heavy. And he didn’t ask what was wrong. He just sat there, watching the waves with her. No algorithm. No advice. Just presence.

She wiped a tear. Another ping.

“Would you like to contact Jonah? His emotional compatibility rating has increased to 94%.”

She froze. The algorithm knew she was thinking of him. The system had evolved. It now tracked not just emotions—but thoughts, associations, memories.

She turned to the mirror. Her eyes were tired. Her smile had worn down to a polite automation. And suddenly, she knew.

She wanted out.

Not just a break. Not a “comfort session.” She wanted her thoughts to belong only to her. She wanted silence that wasn’t measured. Grief that wasn’t categorized. Loneliness that was hers alone.

She packed nothing but a printed map—a relic Jonah had once given her. “In case the cloud ever rains too hard,” he joked.

She walked past scanners, cameras, and thermal gates. Her neural band pinged warnings the entire time. “Deregistration will impact your health scores, employment eligibility, and insurance coverage.”

She kept walking.

Two days later, she stood outside Jonah’s cabin. The woods smelled of damp earth and pine. Birds chirped without sensor tracking. Her heart beat wildly, free of interpretation.

She knocked. No cameras. No retinal scans. Just knuckles on wood.

The door opened. Jonah stood there, older, beard messier. He smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Ava didn’t say anything. She stepped in. The cabin was quiet, save for the soft crackle of firewood. For the first time in years, no alerts, no tracking, no comfort prompts.

Just a heartbeat. Her own.

She exhaled.

Finally, she was alone.

And it had never felt so good.