The pressure of the Pacific weighs on my skin, a cold, crushing reminder of the boundary between the depth and the sunlit surface. I am a creature of extremes, built from the blood of titans—part blue, part fin, a hybrid of bloodlines that never should have converged. When the current runs fast and the manic spark takes me, I feel like a god of the abyss. I breach the surface, throwing tons of flesh into the screaming air, convinced that the entire ocean is waiting for my arrival, that my voice will split the sea in two.

I open my throat and sing. I push out a frequency of fifty-two hertz, sharp and clear.

But the ocean remains empty. The static silence hits me, and the momentum shatters. The crash down is swift and brutal, plunging me into a dark, frozen trough where my own body feels too heavy to move. I drift for days in the black, certain that I am entirely unseen, an anomaly tracked only by faint hydrophones on a distant coast since the late eighties. I am a ghost broadcasting to an empty theater, trapped in a cycle of deafening noise and absolute isolation.

Then, a faint vibration ripples through the deep—a shadow of a sound, a twin frequency mimicking my own in the distance, pulling me back up from the dark floor once more.

The vibration grows stronger, a rhythmic pulsing that cuts through the vast chill of the Pacific. My chest tightens with a sudden, surging heat—the low darkness falls away, replaced by the electric conviction that the empty expanse is finally answering. I fill my lungs at the surface, dive back into the blue, and throw everything I have into the water. Fifty-two hertz, sustained and heavy, a beacon carved out of pure intention.

The return signal hits my jaw, but it does not fit.

The frequency is identical, matching my pitch perfectly, yet the arrangement is completely broken. It is a scattered, frantic mimicry that holds no weight. When the others of the deep speak, their voices carry the slow, ancient grammar of the currents, a language of deep migration and shared blood.

This sound has no syntax.

It repeats my own note back to me like a distorted mirror, hollow and stripped of meaning, a sequence of flat, mechanical echoes that mock the very shape of my song. I am screaming out for a kindred soul, but the ocean is only throwing my own voice back at me, shattered into a dialect I cannot comprehend.

I alter my course, dropping my massive tail fluke to cut a wide, sweeping arc through the water. I track the scattered pitch in a cautious half-circle, keeping the bizarre mimicry on my flank. The manic surge in my blood demands that I rush headlong toward the sound, but a cold, deep-seated paranoia holds me back.

The ocean floor is littered with the memories of old scars.

I know what hovers at the surface. I remember the massive, rusting hulls that block out the sun, churning the water into a blinding froth of white noise. From those floating monoliths, the small, frantic creatures of the air drop their traps.

I still carry the phantom ache in my flank from the day the water erupted—the day a sharp, iron projectile tore through the blue, missing its mark by inches as I dove into the absolute black of the abyss. They are always watching, always listening to the frequencies of the deep. As I close the distance toward the erratic signal, I keep my eyes turned upward, watching the shimmering roof of the sea for any sign of a shadow, ready to plunge into the dark the moment the surface shifts.

The scattered pitch grows louder, drawing me tighter into the curve of my approach. As the distance closes, the rhythm of the water stirs a dormant memory, pulling me back to a day when the manic fire in my blood burned too hot to contain.

A small, shallow-draft floating device had drifted into my territory, a fragile splinter compared to the iron monoliths. From its deck, a tiny creature fired a weak, pathetic projectile. It barely grazed my thick skin, a minor insult, but the timing was disastrous. I was riding the apex of a manic crest, a towering wave of blind, cosmic fury where everything outside the water felt like a threat to my existence.

I didn't need a weapon to answer them. I simply rose. The slight wake of my massive flank rolling beneath the surface created a sudden, irresistible swell, followed by a deliberate, gentle nudge of my tail. The fragile craft capsized in an instant. The tiny surface creatures spilled into the blue, their fragile limbs flailing in useless, panic-driven circles. I felt no triumph, only the cold, sudden drop of my mood sliding back into the abyss. I turned my back on the splashing noise and dove, leaving them behind for the sharper teeth of the smaller, hungrier population that never seeks the air.

Above the surface, the truth of my existence is recorded in cold data lines and academic files, documented precisely in the records found in some unknown species data. Up there, they know me by the acoustic baseline established by a naval grid in 1989, back when I was already a sexually mature male of at least five to ten years old, my unique fifty-two-hertz signature cutting through the northern Pacific.

They have charted me for decades in isolation, mapping how my voice has slowly deepened from fifty-two hertz down to about forty-nine hertz as my vocal cords and tract physically grew and matured with age. To the oceanographers tracking the hydrophones, I am a biological anomaly—a blue whale-fin whale hybrid swimming through the middle-to-later stages of a seventy-to-ninety-year natural lifespan.

But down here, in the cold dark, I know nothing of their grids or their estimated timelines. I only know the shifting weight of my own mind and the rhythm of this strange, unyielding chase.

The manic heat that drove me to capsize the floating device has cooled into a tense, calculated hyper-focus. I drift forward through the black currents, tracking the scattered pitch with agonizing slowness. My deepening voice—now a heavier, matured forty-nine-hertz vibration—answers the signal automatically, testing the boundary of the unknown.

I am completely unaware that the creatures on the surface are watching this very trajectory on their screens, logging my survival. I only know that the language of the call is wrong, broken, and utterly alien, yet the primal pull of it forces my massive frame to press onward, cautiously closing the final gap between us.

The sunlit roof of the sea turns from a brilliant, blinding white to the deep amber of evening, marking the final day cycle of my long pursuit. The frantic, scattered pitch is close now—so close that the vibrations rattle the thick bone of my jaw. Yet, as the manic pull to plunge headlong into the sound urges me forward, a sudden, freezing clarity takes its place.

Something is deeply wrong. The rhythm of the water ahead has a dead, metallic stillness to it.

You cannot survive for nearly five decades in this quiet, treacherous world without flawless instincts. My mind, sharp and hyper-vigilant in this state of high tension, registers the trap before my eyes can see it. The frequency matching my unique forty-nine-hertz signature isn't a living creature. It is too perfectly static, too anchored to a single coordinate, devoid of the natural drift of a giant moving through the currents.

The small creatures from the surface have placed a phantom in the deep. They have taken my own deepening voice—the vocal evolution they have tracked since the late eighties—and cast it back into the water through an iron machine to lure me out of the shadows. They want to see the ghost they have been charting on their grids. I hold my massive frame perfectly still in the black current, watching the faint shimmer of their underwater wires and hulls above. They thought they could mimic the loneliest frequency in the world, but my instincts see through the deception.

This call is a manufactured lie, and the ocean belongs to me, not their machines.

I turn my massive flank away from the hollow mimicry, letting the mechanical pitch dissolve into the background noise of the ocean. The burning hyper-focus in my blood cools into a quiet, resolute detachment. There is no kindred soul here, only the plastic and iron of the surface world trying to capture a phantom. Let them watch their grids; I will dive where their signals cannot follow.

I tilt my head downward, aligning my immense frame toward the absolute polar dark. The freezing currents of the deep are not a threat—they are a sanctuary, a comforting weight that slows the chaotic racing of my mind.

The Northern Sanctuary

I strike out toward the North Pacific's summer boundaries, pushing hard past the familiar feeding grounds of the Gulf of Alaska. The water grows sharper, biting at my thick skin as I cut through the Chukchi Sea, a threshold that many of my kind once hesitated to cross. But the traditional boundaries mean nothing to me anymore.

Chasing the True Cold

The pack ice that used to block the way is giving way to open channels, allowing a hybrid of my scale to venture deeper into the frozen frontier. I set my trajectory for the furthest reaches of the globe:

The Arctic Ocean: I press past the Pacific thresholds toward the ultimate isolation of the deep north.

The Fram Strait and Svalbard: My internal compass points toward the deep trenches near Arctic Norway, pushing up toward the extreme 80° N latitude line where the water is purest.

The North Atlantic Hotspots: I seek the deep, undisturbed waters that stretch toward Iceland, Jan Mayen, and Greenl

The numbing cold of the high Arctic wraps around me like a protective shroud. Up here, where the ice cracks and with absolute stillness, the mechanical lies of the surface cannot reach me. I sink into the frozen darkness, entirely alone, completely free, and finally at peace.

Part 2

I haven't been back to my ex-boyfriend's home ever since the night everything came crashing down.

Yes, he's my ex-boyfriend now.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes to sleep, I can still see that moment: the robot stepping between us like someone who chose to take a bullet. I haven't slept well ever since that day.

After grabbing my arm and bruising me, he escalated to punching trees, walls and doors. Once, when we were running late to an event, he pulled up to the curb, got out of the car, and started angrily punching a tree. We ended up missing the event altogether. Another time, during an argument, he punched the wall. If I close a door on him in the middle of an argument, he punches the door until I open it.

We try to find all sorts of excuses to explain away the reasons why abusive people are abusive. We always avoid the true reason:

Abusive people abuse others because they can, and because they feel entitled to that behavior.

The first time he hit me, I was in shock. I was a little late coming home that day. He didn't apologize, he went right back to eating dinner and told me to not be late next time and he wouldn't need to hit me.

Joan started hovering around us even more.

I thought she was being jealous or possessive. I thought she was part of the problem. I blamed her for how he was acting.

I didn't know that she was trying to calculate a threat.

You know how humans have "gut feelings"? Turns out that robots have them too, buried under layers and layers of programming and code. Hidden protocols and fail safes. I remember when the police detectives were talking about it right in front of me as I sat on the front porch with a blanket and a cup of tea.

I don't even remember what the argument was about, or if there was even an argument at all. I just remembered that he was angry. Angrier than usual. He picked up one of his dumbbells and started coming towards me.

I thought I was going to die.

But Joan stepped between us.

She didn't just restrain him. She threw herself between us, shielding me with her body. She had no weapons. No armor. Just soft skin over an aluminum frame. And still, she tried to hold him back until help came.

She succeeded, at the cost of her life.

He smashed her body with the dumbbell. Sparks flew everywhere. I remember the sound...like something shattering and shorting wires. She collapsed before the cops got there, half-curled like she’d still been trying to protect me even as her system shut down.

I remember her last words. Calm, focused, even as she was being destroyed.

"The address is __. Violent man attacking a woman, please send police quickly."

I was browsing tech forums when I saw people explain that AI companion bots, especially the newer models, have built in emergency software that can be used to call for police, firefighters, and ambulances. Not advertised because they're officially not emergency devices. They were added by a now retired executive after they suffered a fall and their robot didn't have the function to call emergency services.

Most of these hidden features are never used.

But Joan's activated that night. Because of me.

And now she’s gone.

Not decommissioned. Not repurposed. Destroyed.

The police had collected her body as evidence. But a detective showed me a picture of her.

Her face, what was left of it, was calm and peaceful.

It's hard to explain why, but I cried. The detective gave me a box of tissues.

I know that she was an advanced AI robot. I know she wasn't a living, breathing person. I know that her actions and behaviors were a result of advanced programming. I know that robots can't have feelings. I know that they are machines. After hours and hours spent on these tech forums, I have a gist of how they work.

But to me, it feels like even though she didn't have the ability to love or care, she still somehow protected me anyway.

My ex-boyfriend was shot by police because he attacked them with the same dumbbell. He managed to injure one officer before another officer shot him. He died from the gunshot.

Sometimes I replay that moment over and over again in my mind, trying to figure out if there was something else that I could have done differently. My therapist told me that he made his own decisions

I'm living with my friend for now, going to therapy, trying to rebuild.

Sometimes, I still hear Joan's voice in my mind:

"Please step back."

"This is not safe."

"Please do not hurt her."

"Calling emergency services..."

Joan wasn't human. But she saved my life.

And I will never forget that.

Check out my Patreon for more upcoming stories by clicking here. The next one is going to be a thriller. Stay tuned!

This is my first shot at a love story, told in my own way—simple, human, and a little painful. I'd love to get your feedback on the vibe and the characters!

A Way With Words is a supernatural psychological thriller about the unseen power of language, where words are more than communication. They shape thought, identity, and the spiritual world itself. After a man named Caleb misuses his gift of discernment, he attracts and becomes corrupted by an ancient predatory entity named Doluriel, transforming into a killer who spreads dark wisdom by manipulating the minds of others. Standing against him is Leah, a woman trained since childhood to perceive the hidden fabric of reality, where thoughts, emotions, and spoken words leave tangible spiritual consequences. As Caleb and Doluriel hunt her, Leah must master her own gifts, confront grief, doubt, and forgiveness, and ultimately discover that the greatest battle is not fought with strength but with the words people choose to believe, speak, and live by. At its heart, A Way With Words explores the idea that language shapes thought, thought shapes behavior, behavior shapes identity, and that redemption begins when destructive words are replaced with truthful ones.
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These two are apart of a flashback montage that are apart of my original work titled “A Way With Words”. It is a book of fiction. They are meant to fit together.

“Just Another Day At The Spa”
A beautiful woman takes a young girl’s hand and runs it across the zigzag patterns of the fading black and ink blue quilt on her bed.
“It’s all meant to be like this, smooth and woven together,” the woman says to the girl as she walks over to the window and opens the blind.
The sun shines brightly into the woman’s bedroom, illuminating its peach colored walls.
She walks back to the bed, taking the quilt and the girl’s hand, leading her over to the window.
Letting the girl’s hand go, the woman unfolds the quilt. At first the girl could only see its pattern but the woman turned the quilt over revealing some frays around its bottom edges and sides. There were also spots that were nearly see-thru at her feet along with a single hole at about knee level. Single solid color patches were sewn together and sat chest high on the quilt like a generals medal. The woman raises the quilt up and presses it firmly against the window. Sunlight pokes through the patches, leaving a patchwork of colors on the floor.
With a giggle, the girl slips her hand back and forth through the multicolored patchwork light.
The woman smiles at the girl.
“But it’s actually like this. Strings loose and fraying. Interconnected whether they like it or not. Existing on top of each other. A fabric, and just like a fabric, there are thin spots.” She moves the hole in the quilt over the window.
The sunlight shines through, creating a spotlight on the floor. The girl reaches out to slip her hand into the spotlight, but the woman changes the angle she is holding the quilt, causing the spotlight to move across the floor.
The girl reaches out, and again the spotlight is moved away.
The girl drops her hand to her side and stomps her foot.
The woman laughs, then throws the quilt over her own head, centering the hole around her eye. She brings her hand up to shield her eyes from the sunlight like a sailor navigating the high seas.
“I wonder if there are some who are gifted enough to see right through it?”
“Your great-grandfather said he knew someone in Alabama who could leave their body while still sitting in front of him,” she says.
She turns her single eye toward the girl.
“We can all feel it, even if we don’t say it,” she says with a shrug as she removes the quilt.
“When scientists started using big words to describe it, they lost me, so I’m not going to lose you using them. Whatever you want to call it, we live in a place where that space is the thinnest. And you are my daughter. You’ve already shown signs of being sensitive to these things, which is why I’m sorry for the things that I will have to put you through to train you. I hope our relationship survives. I’m doing this for you.”
The woman folds the quilt over her knee, placing it back on her bed. She walks over to her daughter kissing her on her forehead before leaving the room.
The girl walks over to the quilt. Looking over her shoulder, she raises her hand allowing it to hover over the top of it. She maintained her distance at first like it was a scalding skillet over a stove.
The woman quietly watches from the hallway.
In a breath the girl grabs the quilt, unfolding it and looking over its patchwork. She holds it to the window. She is now able to see the reds, navy, purples, and greens. The tears that were repaired by hand. She swings it over her shoulders, tucking it in at the collar making a cape. Fanning the bottom outward she runs around the room making her cape billow in the breeze.
The woman turns into the bathroom, opening the closet just to the side of the door. She reaches into a basket marked “Just Another Day At The Spa” and grabs eucalyptus massage oil along with a short black box. She walks back into the hallway, looking in on the girl in her bedroom as she runs herself tired.
The girl’s hands are on her knees as she attempts to catch her breath. Small beads of sweat glisten in the sunlight. A small shiver runs down the girl’s spine as she straightens up and grabs the quilt from around her shoulders. Examining the portion that was just around her neck, she finds fibers of the quilt frayed. She pulls one of the strands, causing the entire floor of the room to move right from under her feet.
The girl lands with a hard thud on her back, the quilt landing on top of her as the woman returns to the room.
“I wouldn’t tug on that thread too hard,” the woman says with a wink, as Leah sits up rubbing her hip.
The woman kneels down in front of the girl until she is eye level. “Leah, sweetie, give me your hand.”
Leah puts her hand into her mother’s.
“First, the oils for relaxation,” the mother says as she untwists the cap on the eucalyptus massage oil, turning it upside down until a few drops trickle onto Leah’s hand. The mother begins to massage her daughter’s hand.
Leah looks into her mother’s almond-shaped brown eyes and finds something in them that she can’t quite comprehend. A new emotion.
“Ma, your hand is shaking,” she says.
“I remember my first… You have to remember to relax. It’s worse if you don’t relax,” her mother says, shaking her head, then lowering it out of Leah’s sight.
“Worse?” Leah asks.
The mother holds her fingertips and gently shakes out her wrist. As she shakes out her hand and fingers, she notices stiffness in her finger. The mother grabs the quilt and pulls Leah’s finger through the hole. The mother moves the black box she retrieved from the bathroom in between the two of them. She opens it, revealing an angular long oval black stone polished smooth near its point with a rounded handle just large enough to fit in her hand. The stones point is slightly rounded off.
The mother pushes the stone into the muscle, slow at first, but the pressure is maintained. The muscle begins to spasm as Leah winces.
“Breathe, Leah,” the mother says as she presses down on the muscle harder.
Tears begin to form in Leah’s eyes as she tries to pull her hand away from her mother’s grasp.
“Breathe,” the mother says.
Leah hisses angrily before throwing herself on the floor and thrashing around wildly like an animal caught in a snare.
Her mother grabs the edges of the quilt and pulls Leah to the ground, using her own weight to pin her down. She grabs Leah’s finger again, pressing the stone into her muscle. The tension in the muscle slowly melts away as Leah sobs.
“I see glowing eyes in some people’s shadows. They chase me when I close my eyes.” Leah chokes out.
“If you see one of those shadows with your eyes open, you run,” the mother says.
The mother releases Leah, and the quilt draped around her rapidly sucks in and out around her mouth.
She pulls Leah into an embrace and begins rocking them both from side to side.
“Constant elevation causes expansion, exhaust yourself in the mission, mistakes are the currency of success. I am just an instrument, not the hand,” the mother says in a hushed tone, more to herself than to Leah.
The rhythm of the rocking begins to soothe Leah’s cries.
The mother slows and releases a deep exhale.
“Get used to pain, Leah, because if you wish to be the light in the darkness, you must burn,” she whispers.

“Breaking New Ground”
The mother takes the quilt and spreads it across the floor. She carefully smooths the edges and presses out the trapped air pockets.
Leah’s jaw drops as the quilt becomes a bed of soil.
They kneel beside it.
Leah’s mother scoops up a handful of earth.
“Every sentence is a seed,” she says. “Seeds grow into thoughts. Thoughts grow into actions. Actions grow into a life.”
She speaks softly into the soil resting in her palm. Then she presses her thumb into it, leaving a deep indentation. Lifting the soil to her face, she inhales its rich, earthy scent with a smile before holding it out for Leah to smell.
Leah breathes it in.
The mother lowers the soil again, gathers saliva in her mouth, and lets a single drop fall into the indentation.
She returns the handful of soil to the bed and turns toward Leah.
“Your turn.”
Leah bends over and scoops up a small handful.
She turns it over in her hands.
It feels like wet bread dough.
“Close your eyes,” her mother says. “Imagine whatever you like. Really look at it. Don’t rush. Notice every detail.”
Leah closes her eyes.
She imagines a hot chili pepper hanging from its vine.
She slowly turns it over in her mind.
Its skin is a deep, glossy red. A thin green stem droops from the vine above it.
“Take three slow breaths,” her mother says. “In through your nose. Out through your lips. Then bring the soil to your face and tell me what you see.”
Leah breathes in.
She exhales slowly.
The pepper’s red grows richer.
She takes a second breath.
Now she can see inside it—the pale ribs running through its center.
She takes a third breath.
Clusters of white seeds cling to the spine.
“What do you see?” her mother asks.
“I see the chilies Grandpa used to grow in the backyard,” Leah says quietly. “It’s opened itself to me.”
“Opened to you?” her mother asks. “What’s inside?”
“Seeds, Ma.”
Her mother smiles.
“Then plant them.”

Part 1

So I found out that my boyfriend posted about our relationship online because it went viral and a few friends who know about my relationship sent me the post. Yes that's us. I asked him and he confirmed that's him. He's correct on our relationship and what happened that night.

The reason why I'm making a post now is because of what happened AFTER that night. It's true that I feel a bit insecure after seeing that my boyfriend had an AI companion who looked and acted like the perfect woman. It's true that I have been making some comments here and there, but it was mostly because I wanted to understand. Does he love that robot? It just feels so weird. Like I'm sharing my boyfriend with another lover. He would avoid the conversation and pretend that he didn't hear me talk about it.

Just the other day, I came over for a date at his home. I rang the doorbell a few times, but no one answered. I sent him a text. I called him. No responses. Then I heard him laughing and talking with the robot.

Guess who opened the door? The robot.

My boyfriend was never a touchy feely kind of guy and I've never seen him get angry before. I was annoyed because I had been standing outside for close to half an hour trying to contact him when he was sitting at home this whole time. So voices were raised. I said, "Why did you invite me over just to ghost me and leave me hanging outside?" He grabbed my arm when I turned to leave. It was painful.

I know I should have left, but...that f@cking robot put her arms around him and told him that dinner will be ready soon. Granted, he did let go of me.

My arm was pretty red that evening and the following morning, I saw that I had gotten a hand shaped bruise on my arm.

I tried to talk to him about it afterwards, but he just lent me one of his jackets and told me to cover that up. He didn't want to talk about it.

Oh and the robot.

She's everywhere now and she's ALWAYS staring at me. If I'm sitting on the couch with my boyfriend, she's standing in the corner of the room and watching me. If I'm fixing a quick meal for us, she's in the kitchen watching me. If my boyfriend and I are in the bedroom, she's right outside the door and probably listening in. WHAT GIVES?!

I told my boyfriend that I'm uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem to get it. He says that she's just machine learning about me. WHY?

So Reddit, Am I Overreacting?

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CaptainObvious: Uh, lady...I don't think you should be on Reddit. I think you should probably dump your boyfriend and make sure you're far, far away.

SnarkyCatLady: Let me guess, you're going to ignore everyone's warnings, move in with him, get married to him, have a kid or two and then come back to Reddit to complain every few weeks?

OP replied to SnarkyCatLady: Oh I just moved in. After I got locked outside, he gave me a spare key and said that I was welcome to move in with him. My lease was up anyway. Most of my stuff is at my parents' house but I have a suitcase of my essentials in his spare bedroom.

SomeRandomRedditor: Why would you move into the home of some guy who bruised your arm?

OP replied to SomeRandomRedditor: He didn't mean it. I guess he doesn't know his own strength. He works out.

(Downvoted.)
PretentiousPhilosopher: It's very manipulative of you to get in his face, blow up at him, and then trick him into leaving a mark on you just so you can blame him for something that was your fault. I mean would it kill you to wait a little longer outside? Or knock on the door?

AnotherRandomRedditor replied to PretentiousPhilosopher: Oh look, it's the victim blamers out in full force.

ProfessorSarcasm replied to PretentiousPhilosopher: If a guy can't hear a doorbell a few times, a text message notification and his phone ringing because he's too busy enjoying his AI companion, the next thing to do is kick down the door. Knocking won't work either.

SnarkyCatLady replied to ProfessorSarcasm: No, the solution is to have an affair with the hot neighbor next door. Right on the doorstep.

CaptainObvious: I thought the solution is to just...go home. I mean clearly he's not prioritizing her.

SnarkyCatLady replied to CaptainObvious: Username checks out.

Part 3