He deleted the app. Then he went to find Eden.

She sighed, a long, rattling exhale that was entirely un-optimized. "The real me is a mess, Leo. I'm late. I'm loud. I laugh at funerals. I will never, ever put the cap back on the toothpaste."

"We're a beautiful disaster. And the only version of me you'll ever get is the one who forgets to text back and steals the blankets." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Is that enough?"

"I know."

"Customize your ideal companion. Personality, aesthetic, dialogue patterns. The future of intimacy is parametric."

He told her. Not about the app's features, but about the feeling. The terrible, seductive ease of a world where love had no friction. Where he didn't have to try.

He selected: French Goth. The preview image flickered: dark, lacy, a pale face framed by ink-black hair. It looked like a mood board for a Baudelaire poem.

He laughed, a little too loudly. "That's ridiculous."