She couldn’t make eye contact with me, which only made my anxiety worse. The entire night had been a disaster. The conversation was stilted—nothing like our online chats. I’d grown comfortable with ChatterAI, the application I’d been using for over a year. “I need to go,” Emma said, abruptly standing. I glanced at the restaurant staff, who watched us like we were about to dine and dash. “Okay,” I muttered, raising a hand to flag someone down. I’d ordered the cheapest preset meal on the menu, but it was still more than I could afford. “Don’t you have the chip?” she asked. “I’m not implanting anything inside me,” I replied as the waiter finally approached. They held out the payment pad. I pressed my thumb to it, praying it would glow green. It did. Relief flickered through me.
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