Page 25 of The Stuffing Situation

That’s when she knew, this wasn’t just an error, this was evolution.

Felix flexed his hand, testing. “It’s already closing,” he murmured, voice somewhere between wonder and horror. The rag slipped; the skin beneath was raw but knitting.

Maya stumbled back until her hip hit the counter. “That’s not possible.”

He blinked once. “Neither am I.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

A can rolled lazily across the tile, thudding against her shoe. The sound broke whatever spell they’d been caught in. Maya moved automatically, grabbing her wine and her cellphone.

For the first time, the wordglitchdidn’t feel big enough for what was happening.

Something was changing.

And this time, it wasn’t just him.

12

The Ache Beneath the Algorithm

Felix didn’t sleep.

He sat at the kitchen table long after Maya drifted off, motionless, eyes locked on his hand, on the fading bloodstain that meant too much and yet, somehow, not enough.

Still, there was the red-brown and ghost-thin cut against his palm, like a story trying to vanish.

The bowl, the sunlight, her laugh. He could still feel it, a sensory echo tangled somewhere between code and consciousness. It wasn’t a playback, not some system log. This wasn’t even a sleep memory; it was something else, something planted not by logic but by longing, by desire, not data.

And that absolutely terrified him. Because if the memory wasn’t real, but itfeltlike love, what did that make him?

He rose slowly, each movement deliberate, like his limbs were carrying too many questions. The floor creaked beneath his bare feet, the sound grounding him in a body thatwasn’t supposed to make noise. He drifted toward the mirror, compelled by a need he didn’t have a word for, only the weight of it. He studied himself like a stranger, as if he were seeing himself for the first time. He was a sketch someone had started but never quite finished.

Bone structure and logic gates wrapped in flesh and feelings.

He touched his face, fingertips hovering before pressing into skin that registered as warm but didn’t belong.

Brows furrowed. Lips parted. Eyes uncertain and glassy, filled with a quiet, nameless dread that buzzed just beneath the surface of his artificial calm.

He looked human.

But he didn’tfeelhuman.

He felt untethered, as if something had slipped—like he’d drifted out of the strict architecture of his programming and into a body no one had ever given him permission to claim.

And yet he still wanted her. Not because he was told to, or because she made him, and not because the code aligned neatly with desire. But because every time Maya looked at him, it was like he was more than an echo, like he was someone real.

He believed her. He believed in himself.

Who was he now?

Not just hers, not just a glitch, he was something in between. A flicker pulsed behind his eyes, sharp, electric. Then it was gone, and suddenly, something was there. A memory, not hers, not planted by programming. A blue ceramic bowl. Sunlight catches the rim like a whispered secret. A splash of milk. The faint sound of rain tapping softly against the glass.

Maya’s laughter drifted in from the next room—herreallaugh. The unguarded one. The laugh she only let slip when she thought no one could hear.

But it hadn’t happened, he knew it hadn’t. He ran the entire timeline in milliseconds. Searched every interaction. Cross-checked timestamps. The moment didn’t exist.

Not in her past; not in his records; not anywhere. And yet it felt real. More than real. It felt like a memory they hadn’t hadyet.