Chapter 6 Love That Doesn't Need a Green Light
# Chapter 6: Love That Doesn't Need a Green Light
The news breaks at 6 AM. I wake to my phone buzzing incessantly, notifications flooding the screen. VeriHeart's security has been compromised—or rather, exposed. Someone leaked internal documents revealing how the system has been subtly influencing relationship dynamics, guiding users toward compatibility matches predetermined by algorithms.
"Are you seeing this?" Juniper texts. "It's everywhere."
I turn on the news to find protests forming outside VeriHeart headquarters. People are furious, demanding answers about how deeply the system has manipulated their emotional lives. Social media explodes with couples questioning their relationships, wondering if their love was organic or engineered.
By noon, VeriHeart issues an emergency statement:
"In response to recent concerns, VeriHeart will initiate a global 'Emotional Self-Awareness Period.' All judgment mechanisms will be temporarily disabled. During this time, users will need to rely on their own discernment to determine the authenticity of emotional exchanges. We believe this pause will demonstrate the value of our services while respecting user autonomy."
My AR glasses display a countdown: 48 hours until the system goes offline.
Deacon calls me directly—surprising, as we've never exchanged personal contacts.
"Did you do this?" I demand without preamble.
"No," he says, sounding genuinely surprised. "Though I wish I had. This is... elegant."
"What happens when the system goes down?" I ask, watching the chaos unfold on my newsfeed.
"People will have to figure out if they're actually in love," he replies, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Imagine that."
I think about Corwin, about the red alerts that have plagued our relationship. Without VeriHeart, how would I know if his feelings for me are real? More importantly, how would I know if mine are?
My doorbell rings. A delivery drone hovers outside, carrying a small package. Inside is an old-fashioned paper notebook and a sealed envelope with Corwin's handwriting.
*Eliora,*
*I've deleted my VeriHeart account. Permanently. Along with it, I've erased all emotional backup data related to us. Not because I want to forget, but because I want to remember you—us—without algorithms telling me what I feel.*
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*I'll be at Café Noir at 7 PM tomorrow. The place where we argued about classical literature for three hours on our first date. The place where I first thought I might love you, before any system told me so.*
*This isn't goodbye unless you want it to be.*
*—Corwin*
I open the notebook to find it's his journal, pages filled with his thoughts about us—doubts, joys, confusions—all handwritten, unfiltered by technology. The entries span our entire relationship, including the recent turmoil.
One entry catches my eye:
*Sometimes I see someone else when I look at her. Not always, but enough to make me question myself. Is this memory or madness? The system says I'm projecting onto the wrong target, but what if the system itself is what's keeping me tethered to a ghost?*
I close the journal, my heart racing. Without VeriHeart monitoring his emotions, would Corwin finally see me for who I am? Or would he realize I was never what he wanted?
The next day passes in a blur of news updates about VeriHeart. Some users report panic attacks without the system's constant feedback. Others describe feeling liberated. Relationship therapists are booked solid for weeks.
As 7 PM approaches, I stand before my mirror, debating whether to go. My AR glasses sit on my dresser, powered down for the first time in years. I feel naked without them, unsure how to interpret my own feelings without data points and probability assessments.
"Go," Juniper urges when I call her. "Whatever happens, at least it will be real."
"What about you and Deacon?" I ask.
She laughs softly. "We're taking it slow. Turns out, when you remove the system from the equation, you actually have to talk about your feelings. Revolutionary concept."
I arrive at Café Noir ten minutes late, my heart pounding. The place is unusually empty—many people are staying home during the emotional shutdown, afraid to interact without technological guidance.
Corwin isn't there.
I check my watch. 7:15 PM. I order a coffee and wait, watching the door. 7:30 PM. Then 8:00 PM.
The café closes at 9. The barista gives me a sympathetic look as she wipes down counters. "We're closing up, hon."
I nod, gathering my things, trying to ignore the crushing disappointment. This is what real emotions feel like, I think bitterly. No warning lights, just the dull ache of hope extinguished.
Outside, the street is dark except for the reddish glow of the old-fashioned streetlamps. I turn to head home, then freeze when I hear my name.
"Eliora."
Corwin steps out of the shadows, his face haggard, eyes red-rimmed like he hasn't slept in days.
"You're late," I say, my voice smaller than I intended.
"I've been here since 6," he admits. "Watching you through the window, trying to work up the courage to come in."
"Why didn't you?"
He steps closer. "Because for the first time, I had to trust myself. No system to tell me if what I feel is real or not."
"And?" I hold my breath.
"And I'm terrified," he whispers. "Because without VeriHeart, I have to accept that I might never know if I love you because of you, or because of... her."
I start to turn away, but he catches my hand.
"But I realized something else," he continues. "It doesn't matter. Whether these feelings began as mine or were influenced by memory or technology—they're real now. When I think about losing you, I can't breathe."
I look at him, really look at him, searching for truth in his eyes without a system to verify it. "How can I believe you?"
"You can't," he says simply. "That's what makes it real. You have to choose to trust me, knowing I might be wrong, knowing I'm still figuring this out."
He takes a deep breath and speaks the words that have caused so much pain between us:
"I love you."
Instinctively, I glance at my wrist, expecting the familiar flash of green or red—but there's nothing. No validation, no warning. Just his words hanging in the air between us, raw and unfiltered.
"I don't need the green light anymore," I say, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "Because when you lie, I already know. And this time... you're not lying."
He pulls me into his arms, and for the first time since we met, I don't wonder if our connection is real or manufactured. I just feel it, complex and imperfect and entirely human.
Above us, the massive VeriHeart billboard that normally analyzes passersby's emotions flickers with a new message: "VeriHeart 2.0 Coming Soon—No Longer Judging Your Truth, Because We Finally Believe: Love Should Never Be Validated."
Corwin follows my gaze. "What do you think that means?"
"It means we're the beta testers for something new," I reply. "A world where we have to figure out love on our own."
As we walk hand in hand through the dimly lit streets, I realize I've never felt more uncertain—or more alive.