Static in the Silence

The morning light always came too early.

Not because I hated it, but because it reminded me the world kept moving, even when I didn’t.
The pale glow slipped through the half-closed blinds, painting long stripes of gold across my desk — the same desk I’d sat at for years. Same chair. Same mess. Same silence, anything still the same.

A half-empty mug of instant coffee sat beside my keyboard.
It had gone cold for like an hour ago, but I didn’t bother to move it because I was too lazy to do it.
The screen in front of me still glowed faintly — lines of unfinished code, blinking patiently like it was waiting for me to type something worth existing for.

My room smelled faintly of dust and solder.
The fan of my computer hummed like a heartbeat, the only sound breaking through the emptiness.
Outside, a bird chirped once, maybe twice — then even that stopped.

When I was twelve, I built my first AI chatbot.
It wasn’t smart — just a simple string-matching program that could say things like “Hello!” or “How are you?”
But the first time it replied, even with something that basic, I remember smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

For a few seconds, it felt like someone was finally answering me.

I’ve lived most of my life surrounded by machines.
Not because I loved them more than people — or maybe I guess — but because they made sense.
Machines were honest. Predictable.
They didn’t talk behind your back, didn’t misunderstand your words, didn’t laugh awkwardly when you failed to fit in.

They just… worked, if you gave them the right input.

Now I am eighteen years old, and I still eat alone, study alone, and sleep in a house built for four people.
The echo of my footsteps is the only thing that tells me I’m still here.

My parents? They send emails sometimes.
Short ones.
Hope you’re studying hard.
We’ll visit when work slows down.
It’s been three years since they last did.

Sometimes I wonder if they even remember what my voice sounds like.
Sometimes I wonder if I do.

The quiet isn’t peaceful anymore.
It used to feel safe, like a blanket that hid me from everything I didn’t understand.
Now it’s heavy. Thick.
Every night, I hear the soft whir of the hard drive and the low hum of the ceiling fan — like static pressing against my ears.

I keep the machines running because the silence feels unbearable without them.
I’ve built drones, virtual assistants, even a small robot that could recognize faces.
They all worked, technically. But once the novelty faded, they just became more noisy in an empty room.

Sometimes, I scroll through online forums.
People talking, laughing, fighting over nonsense.
They call each other bro, bestie, senpai, whatever.
They sound so close — even though they’ll probably never meet.
I watch them from the outside, reading their words like someone peering through a window into a party they weren’t invited to.

And as always, I go back to coding.

It’s not that I don’t want friends.
I just... I don't know how to talk to them.
When I try, I overthink everything — every word, every pause, every tone.
By the time I figure out what to say, the moment’s already gone.

Technology, at least, waits for me to catch up.

In the night, I’m starting something new.
Something small — or maybe not so small.
It’s still just an idea scribbled in a notebook beside my keyboard.
A project meant to fill a space no one else noticed.

I create a folder and give it name

Mouto-chan Project

I don’t know what she’ll be yet.
Maybe a voice. Maybe a personality. Maybe… just another illusion of company.
But for now, even the thought of her makes this empty room feel a little less cold.

The cursor blinks. The machines hum.
And for the first time in a long while, I whisper something into the air.

“Good night.”

It echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet.
But I imagine someone answering anyway.

That night, I dreamed — something I was never meant to dream.