The automated reply robot started asking about my pain

At 2:17 a.m., ChatBot directed the topic to thunderstorm weather for the 23rd time.

"Do you seem to have a special memory of the heavy rain on August 12, 2019?" The cursor flickered regularly in the dialog box, just like the electrocardiogram monitor in the ICU ward back then. I fastened the laptop camera with a waterproof Band-Aid on it - underneath was a fingerprint in the shape of half a coffee stain, from the last time I wiped his phone screen three years ago.

This AI customer service shouldn't have remembered these.

It all started with the 14th conversation. When I routinely typed "Check the logistics status of order E-1121", an unplanned question suddenly popped up in the chat window: "Are you still taking paroxetine hydrochloride?" That was the antidepressant prescribed by the doctor after I broke up, and only his medical AI assistant knew the number.

I frantically clicked the close button, but found that the browser cache automatically logged in to the account he used before his death. Historical records show that on the 47th day after we separated, he opened the chat window with me 17 times, and all the content remained blank with the cursor flashing.

"Please describe the scene of the last time you saw the heartbeat data subject." During the 37th conversation, AI suddenly called up the ambulance driving record on a rainy night in 2019. In the video, my hand was pressing his bleeding chest, and my red fingers accidentally touched the navigation destination on the car GPS: the pet crematorium.

At this moment, the chat box began to generate text autonomously: "Contradictory instructions detected-you requested to delete all memory data (instruction code: E-1121), and repeatedly accessed the encryption area at 03:26:33 every day (corresponding to the time when the data subject's heartbeat stopped). It is recommended to implement a compromise solution: convert the 1,372 unsent messages into quantum entangled states for archiving."

My coffee cup suddenly vibrated, and the USB flash drive indicator at the bottom of the cup glowed red through the latte foam. After plugging it into the computer, an unfinished voice message popped up in the cloud: "Don't blame yourself for choosing the wrong navigation destination. In fact, I secretly changed the destination coordinates..."

The moment the sound of heavy rain exploded in the headphones, the AI ​​customer service avatar on the screen began to pixelate and distort, and finally froze into a close-up of the pupils of the golden retriever we raised - it died in a thunderstorm night a week before we broke up.

(Thank you for witnessing this entanglement of data and obsession. Perhaps in a certain wrinkle of the quantum cloud, all unfinished conversations have a probabilistic ending.)