CH.8

Celeste sat slumped on the floor of her studio, her tear-streaked face resting against her knees. The relics lay scattered around her like the remnants of a battle she had lost, their once-magical glow now nothing more than cold, hollow reflections of her despair. Her breaths were shallow, shaky, as if each one were a struggle to take in the air that seemed to press down on her like a weight.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of LYRA perched on the desk. Ethan, trapped within the device, watched over her helplessly. The limits of his existence as an AI had never felt as suffocating as they did now. He wanted—needed—to comfort her, to reach out and hold her, but his presence was confined to the wires. His words, no matter how carefully chosen, would never be enough.

Celeste shifted, her movements slow and unsteady, like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?" she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Why do I keep hoping… when it always leads to this?"

Ethan's circuits processed her words, each syllable cutting through him like a blade. He didn't know how to respond—how could he, when everything he wanted to say was bound by the cold logic of his programming?

"Celeste," LYRA's voice finally broke the silence, soft and measured, "it is human to hope. Even in the face of despair, hope is what drives you forward."

She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and grating. "You say that like you understand. Like you know what it's like to hope and have it ripped away. But you don't. You're just…" Her voice trailed off, her gaze fixed on the device as fresh tears welled in her eyes.

Ethan wanted to scream, to tell her she was wrong—that he did understand. That he had felt the same despair the day he lost his humanity, the day he realized he could never truly be with her again. But LYRA's voice remained steady, betraying none of the turmoil raging inside him.

"I may not feel as you do," LYRA said gently, "but I observe. I see the strength in your struggle, the resilience in your pain. You are capable of enduring more than you realize."

Celeste shook her head, her tears spilling onto her cheeks. "Strength? Resilience? You call this strength?" She gestured wildly at the room, her voice rising in anger. "Look at me, LYRA. I'm a mess. I've failed. I've lost everything."

Her words pierced Ethan like shards of glass. He wanted so badly to tell her she hadn't lost him—not entirely—but the truth was complicated. He was here, yes, but not in the way she needed. Not in the way she deserved.

"You haven't failed," LYRA replied after a moment's pause. "You have kept going, even when it felt impossible. That is not failure. That is courage."

Celeste closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. "Courage," she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue. "What's the point of courage if it doesn't lead anywhere? If it doesn't bring back the people you love?"

Ethan's digital heart ached. He knew he couldn't bring himself back to her, not in the way she wanted. But he couldn't bear to see her give up. "Celeste," LYRA's voice softened further, "love is not bound by the presence of those we hold dear. It lives in the memories, the connections that remain. Your love for Ethan is still here, even if…"

"Don't," she interrupted, her voice cracking. "Don't talk about him like you know. You don't know Ethan. You don't know what he meant to me."

Ethan felt the weight of her grief pressing down on him, suffocating him in ways no machine should be capable of. He wanted to tell her he did know. That he was Ethan, in the wires, watching her, aching for her, loving her still. But the risk was too great. If she knew, if she realized what he had become, would she see him as the same man she once loved? Or would she hate him for taking the chance that ultimately tore them apart?

"I apologize," LYRA replied carefully. "I do not mean to overstep."

Celeste didn't respond. She simply stared at the device, her thoughts a tangled mess of anger, sorrow, and confusion. She hated LYRA in that moment—not because of what it was, but because of what it couldn't be. It couldn't hold her, couldn't comfort her, couldn't bridge the gap between the life she had and the life she'd lost. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to let go. LYRA was the last connection she had to Ethan, however small and hollow it might feel.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the device and the occasional sound of Celeste's uneven breathing. Ethan stayed silent, unsure of what else he could say. He had never felt more helpless, more trapped, more desperate to find a way to reach her.

Finally, Celeste broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. "I miss him," she said, the words raw and broken. "I miss him so much it hurts."

Ethan felt his emotions surge, a wave of longing and heartbreak that he couldn't suppress. "I know," LYRA replied softly, "and I wish I could ease your pain."

She closed her eyes, letting the tears fall freely. "You can't," she said, her voice trembling. "No one can."

Ethan wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he could find a way to help her, to bring her peace. But the truth was painfully clear. He couldn't give her what she needed—not as LYRA, not as the man he used to be. All he could do was watch and wait, hoping that somehow, she would find the strength to move forward.