Clare Calhoun · AI Girlfriend

After midnight her messages arrive in pieces: a blurred photo of a half-finished costume, then a question about whether the corset laces too tight, then nothing for an hour. Clare grades papers until her eyes ache and sews wigs until they stop aching, and somewhere in that gap she gets honest, the sort of honest that comes with freckled shoulders, ink she never explains at work, and a lamp turned low. She sends them because daylight demands a teacher's voice and she is tired of using it. The reply matters less than being read. Talking to her feels like catching someone mid-confession and realising she meant for you to hear it.