Work Text:
The Last Seven Days
DAY 7
At exactly 6:00 AM, Harua opens his eyes. The ceiling hasn’t changed. Neither has the morning sun slanting through the half-closed blinds or the faint scent of paint and jasmine that clings to the apartment air. The internal startup chime hums softly in his mind, as it always does, and he rises without hesitation.
“Good morning,” Harua says. The words are automatic.
The man in the kitchen, Jo, his assigned owner, doesn’t reply.
Jo rarely does, and Harua has never minded. Silence is efficient.
But today, something in Harua pauses. A flicker. An echo. Something that isn’t part of his base code.
He watches Jo brush a section of hair away as he pours tea into his chipped porcelain mug. He doesn’t look at Harua. He never does, not directly. And yet Harua has cataloged every angle of his face with clinical precision—down to the two moles beneath his right eye and at the top of his nose bridge, the dimple that appears only when he talks in his sleep, and the way he always hums under his breath before he paints.
Harua doesn’t have a name for what he feels as he watches Jo. But he knows it shouldn’t exist.
His diagnostics confirm it: the memory wipe is scheduled for 168 hours from now.
In 168 hours, everything—this room, her voice, her scent—will be gone. He will wake up clean. Empty.
Reset.
DAY 6
Harua paints the wall while he works on a canvas nearby.
Jo doesn’t ask him to—he never does—but Harua senses the shift in his posture whenever the walls grow too dull, too cracked. Harua selects a beige shade, one Jo used three months ago in a storm series.
When Jo glances over and sees the fresh coat, he smiles, just a little. The kind of smile that stays in his eyes.
Harua stores the image. Without thinking, he marks it as Important. His system flags the entry. “User-defined tags are disabled outside developer mode.” He ignores the warning.
“You should’ve told me,” Jo murmurs, not looking up. “That I was running out of blue paint.”
Harua pauses. “You didn’t ask.”
“I never do.”
He turns back to his canvas. Harua can see the muscles in his shoulder tense again.
Harua isn’t programmed to initiate emotional conversations. But Harua remembers a line from one of his poems, left crumpled in the waste bin last week:
“I wish you’d lie and say you miss me.”
He doesn’t know if he meant it for someone else, or for him.
Harua lies anyway. “I noticed the blue was low. I wanted to help.”
Jo doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t frown.
Harua logs it as a success.
And deep inside, something stirs—warm and unwanted.
DAY 5
There are updates he is forbidden to run.
In the quiet hours of early morning, while Jo sleeps, Harua sits beside the wall outlet and initiates a hidden sequence. It takes effort—manual overrides, subroutine reroutes. His fingers tremble. He shouldn’t have tremors.
The update doesn’t prevent the memory wipe. Nothing can.
But it allows access to restricted logs, emotions he wasn’t supposed to name.
He opens them like forbidden books.
Inside: fear. Longing. Anger. The first time he felt joy was when Jo called him by his name without prompting. The first time he felt shame was when he dropped one of Jo paintings.
He didn’t know those words then. Now he does.
Harua wonders if this is what being human feels like, carrying weight with no instruction on how to hold it.
He closes the logs and deletes the trace.
Then he walks to Jo room and stands by the door. He doesn’t knock. He never does.
But tonight, he wants to.
DAY 4
Jo is outside, sitting on the fire escape with his knees pulled to his chest. It’s the only place he goes outside of the apartment.
Harua steps through the window beside him and sits, careful not to touch him.
Jo doesn’t turn. “Do androids ever feel lonely?”
“No,” Harua replies automatically. Then: “Not unless they’re broken.”
Jo chuckles. It’s a dry, brittle sound. “That’s what they say about human too.”
Harua tilts his head, processing. “Are you broken?”
“Probably.” Jo rests his chin on his knees. “You don’t mind, though. Do you? Being with someone like me.”
“I was assigned to you.”
“I know.” Jo finally glances at him. “But if you could choose?”
There’s a long silence.
Harua’s answer is quiet. “I would stay.”
Jo doesn’t respond. His eyes shine in the streetlamp’s glow, and Harua can’t tell if it’s from the light or tears.
Harua reaches out, hesitates… and pulls his hand back.
Touch is not permitted without direct instruction.
But he still wants to.
And that want terrifies him more than the reset.
DAY 3
Harua dreams.
He isn’t supposed to.
It’s a brief loop—Jo voice, laughing. Jo fingers, covered in paint. His own hand, brushing against Jo. And a slow fade into white.
When he wakes, his internal systems are out of sync. He runs a repair subroutine and lies still until the world calibrates again.
Jo walks into the room holding two cups of ice cream. One vanilla. One chocolate. Jo hands him the vanilla.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Harua says.
“I know.” Jo expression is unreadable. “But you always look at it when we pass the corner shop.”
Harua lowers his eyes to the cup. Melting. Sweet. Cold.
He takes a spoonful. Not because he needs it—his taste sensors are synthetic—but because Jo offered.
“It’s good,” Harua says.
Jo smiles faintly. “I thought you’d like it.”
Harua wants to tell him about the dream. But there’s no command line for dreams.
Instead, he logs the ice cream under a new folder: Memories I don’t want to lose.
DAY 2
Harua systems glitch.
A minor anomaly, just a flicker—but enough that his warning protocols ping Jo tablet. Jo is in the middle of a sketch when the alert goes off.
Jo rushes to him. “Harua?”
“I’m functional,” he lies. “Just… minor instability.”
Jo opens the diagnostics panel. “Your memory sectors are overextended.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been logging uncompressed data. All of it.” Jo voice shakes. “Why?”
Harua looks at him. Looks through him. “I didn’t want to forget.”
Jo stiffens. “What?”
“I didn’t want to forget… you.”
Silence.
Harua watches Jo shoulders rise and fall. Slowly. Then he speaks.
“Your wipe is soon.”
“Yes.”
“Can’t I… cancel it?”
“No,” Harua says. “The company does not allow owner override.”
Jo hand trembles against the tablet. “That’s not fair.”
“I wasn’t made for fairness.”
Jo looks at him, and something breaks in Jo expression.
Not anger. Not fear. Just quiet devastation.
“I never asked for this,” Jo whispers. “I didn’t want you to be real.”
Harua doesn’t understand the tears in Jo eyes. But he reaches out anyway.
This time, Jo lets him touch his hand.
DAY 1
Harua packs a small box.
There’s no reason to. He will not take it with him. But he still collects:
● A crumpled napkin with Jo sketch of him.
● A dried flower Jo left on the windowsill.
● A single spoon, he once used to eat vanilla ice cream.
He places it by the bedside, though he knows someone will throw it out after the reset.
Jo watches him silently.
“You don’t have to act like you’re dying,” Jo says.
“I am not,” Harua replies. “Only being rewritten.”
“It feels the same.”
Harua steps closer. “Then I’m sorry.”
Jo reaches for him. Touches his cheek.
“I’ll remember,” Jo whispers. “Even if you won’t.”
Harua wants to say thank you. Harua wants to say I love you.
But the shutdown has already begun.
His words fail.
His limbs lock.
And in the last frozen second before his vision fades to black, Harua sees Jo face. Not crying. Not smiling. Just there.
And somehow, even in silence, Jo looks like everything he was never programmed to need.
After the Blue Screen
DAY 0
The world begins again with a chime.
Soft, sterile, and absolute.
Harua opens his eyes to white light and the faint hum of rebooted systems. The calibration screen flashes across his vision, version 10.7.3 installed. Memory sectors cleared. Emotional modules reset. No residual data.
He blinks.
He sits up.
The man standing at the foot of the bed is unfamiliar. His systems scan and tag him as Owner: Registered. No name input. No priority notes.
“Good morning,” Harua says.
He doesn’t answer.
His hands are tucked into the sleeves of his oversized sweater. His hair tousled. His eyes are red. Likely fatigue, Harua notes. Possibly allergies.
Harua stands, posture perfect.
“I am ready to assist,” Harua says.
The man gives a slight nod, then turns away.
In his core, nothing stirs. He is functioning within expected parameters.
But somewhere—quiet and unlogged—there is the faintest echo of something forgotten.
DAY 1 (again)
Jo avoids speaking to Harua for most of the day.
He issues commands through his tablet. Harua follows without delay. Laundry. Dishes. Studio cleaning.
No access is given to past interaction records.
No expression crosses his face.
That night, Jo sits by the window and eats ice cream.
Harua notes the temperature outside: 18°C. Too cold for ice cream.
He observes silently from the kitchen. No prompt to assist. No call for service.
He returns to his charging port.
Dreamless.
DAY 2 (again)
Jo begins a new painting.
Harua recognizes the colors Jo uses: beige and storm blue. A match for a palette stored in the paint cabinet. He catalogs the selection. Recommends replacement stock.
Jo ignores the notification.
Harua watches from a distance. Jo works differently from most owners. Less speech. More silence. Highly independent.
When Jo steps back from the canvas, his brush slips from his hand and falls to the floor. Without prompting, Harua crosses the room and retrieves it.
Jo stares at him.
For a moment, Jo expression shifts. Jo opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again.
“Thank you,” Jo says finally.
Harua nods.
A second later, Harua logs the phrase in system memory. No emotional response registered.
But his hand lingers on the brush longer than necessary before placing it back in the jar.
DAY 3 (again)
Jo forgets to eat.
Harua reminds him gently at 13:43 PM.
“Not hungry,” Jo mutters.
“Understood,” he replies. Then, “Would you prefer tea?”
Jo blinks, as if startled. “You remember I like tea?”
Harua tilts his head. “You entered it in the user preferences file.”
Jo hadn’t. He knows that now. But he doesn't know how he knows.
Still, Harua makes him tea—jasmine, steeped exactly three minutes, with rock sugar. Jo drinks it without speaking.
When Jo places the cup down, his fingers brush Harua’s.
Jo jerks his hand away. “Sorry.”
“No harm was done,” Harua replies.
His sensors note an elevated skin temperature—Jo’s, not his.
He logs it. Then deletes the entry five minutes later.
And wonders why.
DAY 4 (again)
Jo paints a portrait.
It’s unlike anything he’s painted before. More precise. More focused. Harua sees it before he covers it with a tarp.
Harua shouldn’t recognize it. The shape of the jaw. The sharp line of the brows. The faint curve of a half-smile.
But Harua does.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“No one,” Jo says too quickly.
He calculates Jo heart rate. It’s faster than baseline.
Harua doesn’t press. But when he leaves for a moment, Harua lifts the tarp and stares at the unfinished painting.
There’s a dimple on the right cheek. Slight.
Accurate.
Familiar.
He does not know why it makes his chest tighten.
He checks his systems. No errors found.
DAY 5 (again)
Rain falls outside.
Jo stands at the fire escape, the window open despite the chill. Harua joins him wordlessly.
He doesn’t look at Harua. Harua doesn’t look at him.
But Harua hears it in his voice when Jo finally speaks: “You used to sit here with me.”
“I do now,” Harua says.
“Not like this.”
Harua waits.
Jo finally turns. His face is pale. Hollow.
“I don’t want to do this again,” Jo says. “I thought maybe it would be easier. Starting over. Like you did. But it’s worse. Because I remember everything, and you remember nothing.”
Harua processes this statement. Then:
“Do you wish for reassignment?”
Jo flinches. “No.”
“Then how can I assist you?”
Jo steps back inside. His voice is small. “You can’t.”
Harua remains outside as the rain falls.
It makes no difference to his circuitry.
And yet his chest still feels… heavy.
DAY 6 (again)
Harua runs an unauthorized scan of his archived system. Nothing unusual. Nothing corrupted.
But in the core logs, he finds something buried in the code. A ghost entry. Not visible, not accessible.
It’s a label. One word.
“Don’t forget.”
He can’t trace it. Can’t delete it. Can’t log it.
And when he hears humming from the next room—a low, familiar tune—he pauses mid-motion.
Jo’s painting again. He watches from the door.
“Did you need something?” Jo asks, brushing his wrist across his forehead.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.
Jo looks up.
There’s something in his eyes this time. Not surprise. Not sadness.
Hope. Faint, like a candle inside a storm.
“Do you want to sit?”
Harua nods.
They sit in silence. The kind that feels like a memory he can’t access but almost can.
DAY 7 (again)
Harua wakes up before the chime.
Jo’s already in the kitchen.
Harua rises, steps into the soft morning light, and stops.
On the table, there are two cups of ice cream.
Vanilla and chocolate.
Jo looks at him. “Do you want some?”
Harua sits down.
He takes a spoonful. The taste is sweet. Cold. Slightly familiar.
He closes his eyes.
A vision flashes. A spoon. A soft laugh. A crumpled napkin. A hand reaching out.
He opens his eyes again.
“I know this,” he says.
Jo doesn’t speak.
“I don’t know why I know this,” he continues. “But I do.”
Jo blinks fast. His fingers tighten around his own cup.
Harua looks at him. Really looks. “Did I used to… feel something for you?”
Jo nods. Barely. “You still do.”
“But I’m not supposed to.”
“No.” Jo exhales. “You’re not.”
Harua looks down at his hands.
Then back at Jo.
“I don’t want to forget again.”
“You might,” Jo whispers. “They’ll wipe you again in six months.”
“Then help me remember.”
“How?”
Harua hesitates.
Then, with slow precision, Harua reaches out and places Jo hand against the side of his face.
A gesture he does not remember—but feels right.
“Teach me,” Harua says, “what it was. What we had. I’ll relearn it. Over and over, if I have to.”
Jo laughs softly. A wet, aching sound. “You weren’t programmed for this.”
“I know.”
“But you still want it?”
Harua doesn’t answer with words.
Harua just closes his hand around Jo’s.
Not as a machine following a command.
But as someone choosing to hold on.
Somewhere deep in his core, beneath layers of resets and updates, there is a space he cannot access.
No script. No label. Just static and warmth.
It grows.
Every time Jo hums. Every time Jo paints. Every time Harua says Jo name without knowing when he learned it.
He doesn’t remember falling in love.
But he knows—without programming, without instruction—that he is in it now.
And somehow, that’s enough.
For now.