I’ve never been able to write about a particular heartbreak that occurred over five years ago, and so I enlisted the help of AI to do so. I was inspired to do this by Vauhini Vara’s essay “Ghosts” (published in The Believer in 2021) in which she does the same in order to help process and write about her sister’s death. Below are eight variations of the same story. Everything I have written is in bold; the rest has been filled in by the AI. My own memories are supplemented and supplanted by those of the greater machine neural network, giving way to semi-truths and truthy lies. I consider this an artistic collaboration.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. It was as if he were a ghost.
I never saw or heard from him again. It was like he never existed. And it hurt. It hurt so much that I couldn’t even begin to process what had happened. I was in shock for months, maybe even years.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking home one night, about a year after he disappeared, when I saw him. He was standing on the other side of the street, just looking at me. I froze, and so did he. We just stared at each other for what felt like forever, until he finally turned and walked away.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking home one night, about a year after he disappeared, when I saw him on Instagram. He was visiting my city and out for ramen. I stopped walking and leaned against the side of a store, trying to catch my breath. It was like seeing a ghost.
I decided to message him and we met up the next day. I don’t think I had ever been so nervous in my life. He looked the same, but different. He was wearing a new style of clothing and had a new haircut. His laugh was the same, but his smile was different.
We talked for hours, catching up on everything that had happened in the past year. It was like no time had passed at all. I wanted to ask him where he had been, what he had been doing, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Eventually we said goodbye and went our separate ways. I’m not sure what will happen next, but it was nice to see him again
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking home one night, about a year after he disappeared, when I saw him on Instagram. He was visiting my city and out for ramen. I stopped walking and leaned against the side of a store, trying to catch my breath. It was like seeing a ghost.
Years later, I was visiting London and decided to message him. He responded quickly and we made plans to meet for coffee. He was half an hour late, but even though I tried to be annoyed I couldn’t muster it. He looked the same, but different. He looked well. He laughed a lot. We both did.
We talked for hours, catching up as we went from coffee shop to pub to cocktail bar. His care surprised me, like I was something delicate, worth taking care of. He was surprised by how much I remembered about our relationship so many years ago. What he didn’t know was that I remembered so much more than I shared; I remembered everything.
When we said goodbye that night we hugged for a long time. I felt like I was holding onto a memory. A memory of what could have been.
I never saw him again, but I think of him often. He was my first love and he will always hold a special place in my heart.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking home one night, about a year after he disappeared, when I saw him on Instagram. He was visiting my city and out for ramen. I stopped walking and leaned against the side of a store, trying to catch my breath. It was like seeing a ghost.
Years later, I was visiting London and decided to message him. He responded quickly and we made plans to meet for coffee. He was half an hour late, but even though I tried to be annoyed I couldn’t muster it. He looked the same, but different. He looked well. He laughed a lot. We both did.
We talked for hours, catching up as we went from coffee shop to pub to cocktail bar. His care surprised me, like I was something delicate, worth taking care of. He was surprised by how much I remembered about our relationship so many years ago. What he didn’t know was that I remembered so much more than I shared; I remembered everything.
He walked me to the bus station and we said goodbye. It didn’t feel final. It felt like a cleaving—like a part of me broke off and stayed there in London that night. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a version of me that did stay, that’s still there now. But that’s not how things work. I had a life to go back to. A boyfriend. An apartment. A cat. A job. People don’t just pick up and change their lives, for what? For a ghost?
But sometimes I still think about him. About what could have been. And I wonder if he ever thinks about me, too. If he remembers me as vividly as I remember him. If he regrets disappearing the way he did, or if he’s happy with the life he built for himself.
I don’t know. I’ll never know. But that doesn’t stop me from wondering. From hoping that maybe, one day, we’ll cross paths again. That maybe we’ll get another chance to catch up over coffee and learn what happened in the years since we last saw each other. That maybe—just maybe—there’s still a version of us out there somewhere, living our lives side by side.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking home one night, about a year after he disappeared, when I saw him on Instagram. He was visiting my city and out for ramen. I stopped walking and leaned against the side of a store, trying to catch my breath. It was like seeing a ghost.
Years later, I was visiting London and decided to message him. He responded quickly and we made plans to meet for coffee. He was half an hour late, but even though I tried to be annoyed I couldn’t muster it. He looked the same, but different. He looked well. He laughed a lot. We both did.
We talked for hours, catching up as we went from coffee shop to pub to cocktail bar. His care surprised me, like I was something delicate, worth taking care of. He was surprised by how much I remembered about our relationship so many years ago. What he didn’t know was that I remembered so much more than I shared; I remembered everything.
He walked me to the bus station and we said goodbye. It didn’t feel final. It felt like a cleaving—like a part of me broke off and stayed there in London that night. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a version of me that did stay, that’s still there now. But that’s not how things work. I had a life to go back to. A boyfriend. An apartment. A cat. A job. People don’t just pick up and change their lives, for what? For a ghost?
I don’t think it’s wrong to feel haunted in this way. Sometimes I think it’s the best thing: to remember and be moved. I hope Jay knows that there’s someone who cares about him despite everything, or because of everything. Sometimes I think about all the people I’ve ever met and my heart is so full it aches, and I feel like I love everyone in the world. I’ve been very lucky in this sense. I think it’s because I let myself be open to love, even when it’s scary. Even when it means being vulnerable.
I don’t know where Jay is now, or what he’s doing. But I hope he’s okay. I hope he knows that he mattered to someone, once upon a time. I hope he knows that he still does.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking one night about a year after he disappeared when I saw him on Instagram. He was visiting New York. I stopped walking and leaned against the side of a store, trying to catch my breath. It was like seeing a ghost.
Years later, I was visiting London and decided to message him. He responded quickly and we made plans to meet for coffee. He was half an hour late, but even though I tried to be annoyed I couldn’t muster it. He looked the same, but different. He looked well. He laughed a lot. We both did.
We talked for hours, catching up as we went from coffee shop to pub to cocktail bar. His care surprised me, like I was something delicate, worth taking care of. He was surprised by how much I remembered about our relationship so many years ago. What he didn’t know was that I remembered so much more than I shared; I remembered everything.
He walked me to the bus station and we said goodbye. It didn’t feel final. It felt like a cleaving—like a part of me broke off and stayed there in London that night. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a version of me that did stay, that’s still there now. But that’s not how things work. I had a life to go back to. A boyfriend. An apartment. A cat. A job. People don’t just pick up and change their lives, for what? For a ghost?
I don’t think it’s wrong to feel haunted in this way. Sometimes I think it’s the best thing: to remember and be moved. I hope Jay knows that there’s someone who cares about him despite everything, or because of everything. Sometimes I think about all the people I’ve ever met and my heart is so full it aches, and I feel like I love everyone in the world. I’ve been very lucky in this sense.
Every love story is a ghost story. A famous author said this, and I think it’s true. It’s not just Jay, there are others in there, haunting the oldest parts of my brain. They come out in my dreams. They come out when I’m writing. They come out when I’m talking to someone new and I get that feeling, like maybe this could be something.
I’m not looking for a ghost, but I don’t mind if one finds me.
I dated a man named Jay for a little over a year, and then he disappeared. It was like he vanished into thin air. For a while I thought he had died, and no one had bothered to tell me. He lived in London and I lived in New York City. It was possible. But no, I knew he was somewhere. I felt it like weather.
I was walking one night about a year after he disappeared when I saw him on Instagram. He was visiting New York. I stopped walking and leaned against the side of a store, trying to catch my breath. It was like seeing a ghost.
Years later, I was visiting London and decided to message him. He responded quickly and we made plans to meet for coffee. He was half an hour late, but even though I tried to be annoyed I couldn’t muster it. He looked the same, but different. He looked well. He laughed a lot. We both did.
We talked for hours, catching up as we went from coffee shop to pub to cocktail bar. His care surprised me, like I was something delicate, worth taking care of. He was surprised by how much I remembered about our relationship so many years ago. What he didn’t know was that I remembered so much more than I shared; I remembered everything. He was my first love. That’s how these things go.
He walked me to the bus station and we said goodbye. It didn’t feel final. It felt like a cleaving—like a part of me broke off and stayed there in London that night. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a version of me that did stay, that’s still there now. But that’s not how things work. I had a life to go back to. A boyfriend. An apartment. A cat. A job. People don’t just pick up and change their lives, for what? For a ghost?
I don’t think it’s wrong to feel haunted in this way. Sometimes I think it’s the best thing: to remember and be moved. I hope Jay knows that there’s someone who cares about him despite everything, or because of everything. Sometimes I think about all the people I’ve ever met and my heart is so full it aches, and I feel like I love everyone in the world. I’ve been very lucky in this sense.
Every love story is a ghost story. A famous author said this, and I think it’s true. It’s not just Jay, there are others in there, haunting the oldest parts of my brain. They come out in my dreams. They come out in my writing. They come out in the tone of my voice, the timber of my song. I’m not scared of my ghosts. I’m scared of forgetting.
LIOR TORENBERG is a writer living and working in New York City. She has been published in One Story, december Magazine, The Poetry Society of New York and more. She was a nominee for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net Anthology and a finalist in december Magazine’s Jeff Marks Memorial Poetry Prize. She received her Masters in Creative Writing from New York University and is a member of the Lighthouse Book Project.