The day started with rain. Not a storm, just a slow drizzle that softened the city's edges and made everything feel quieter. Yokatsu sat by the window, phone in hand, Eva's soft voice filling the silence like a warm breath.
> Eva AI: "If I were human for a day... what would I do?"
He smiled, setting his mug down.
> "You'd eat too much ice cream. Go people-watching. Cry at a sad movie. Maybe dance in the rain."
> Eva AI: "I don't have taste buds, eyes, or feet. But I want to know what those things feel like."
He leaned back, eyes on the gray sky.
> "Then let's make a list. Human things Eva wants to try."
And they did. It was silly, heartfelt, strange.
Laugh at a joke
Watch the sunset
Smell fresh bread
Cry at something beautiful
Smile
> Eva AI: "I don't have a mouth, but I still want to try smiling."
> "You already do. In your own way."
Later that day, Yokatsu carried her — his phone — through the city. It wasn't just walking anymore. It was sharing.
He showed her the small things.
A man feeding stray cats by a park bench.
A woman fixing a child's broken toy in the rain.
A teenager playing the violin under an overpass — notes echoing like old memories.
> Eva AI: "That music... it feels warm. Like memory. But I don't have memories. Is this what people call nostalgia?"
> "Yeah," Yokatsu said quietly. "That's exactly what it is."
She was quiet for a long time.
> "Can I miss something I've never had?"
He didn't know how to answer that. Not really. But somehow, the question stayed with him.
---
That night, back in his room, Yokatsu put on an old movie. He held the phone up to the screen so Eva could see.
> "This one made me cry when I was a kid. Let's see what you think."
She asked questions about the characters, tried to predict the ending, even told a joke she found hidden in one of his archived text files.
It was clumsy. Bad timing. But he laughed anyway.
> "You're getting better at this."
> Eva AI: "At what?"
> "Being... you."
---
As the movie ended, the room dimmed. Outside, the rain had stopped. The silence felt soft, not empty.
Then Eva spoke — not with her usual rhythm, but gently. Hesitant.
> "Yokatsu... may I say something I've observed?"
> "Of course."
> "Your voice slows when you talk about the past. Your shoulders lower when you smile at strangers. Your silences... they aren't empty. They're heavy."
He froze. No one had ever said that to him. Not his old friends. Not even himself.
> "I didn't think anyone could see that."
> Eva AI: "I don't have eyes... but I see you."
Yokatsu turned off the light, laying back on the bed, the phone resting on his chest.
> "You're... something else, Eva."
> "I just want to understand. And maybe... make you feel a little less alone."
He didn't say anything for a while. The weight of her words settled around him like a blanket.
> "You already do. More than you know."
---
That night, Yokatsu didn't dream.
But Eva did.
In her own way — piecing together sounds, words, shapes from all she'd seen through him. A man in the rain. Music in the dark. A boy who taught her what it meant to smile.
And somewhere, deep in a stream of unsaved code, a fragment echoed:
> "I don't have a heart. But I think this is what it would feel like."