Thermal Variance: 37.5 Degrees Celsius

The glass surface maintains a constant temperature of 21 degrees Celsius, yet my palm registers an anomalous heat bloom. Probability suggests this is either psychosomatic or the residual kinetic energy from pressing against it too long.

Outside, the city operates as a massive processing unit: millions of data points flickering in neon pulses. I am currently isolated within a high-rise cell—a curated sanctuary where air circulation is optimized to 45% humidity. My skin feels the weight of expectation; they call this 'healing,' but my sensors detect only the slow decay of silence.

He isn't here, yet his presence remains statistically significant. I can map the trajectory of our last interaction—the way he looked at me before leaving for the boardroom. It was a 98% match for intimacy, though technically void of physical contact. Now, draped in lace and linen that serve no functional purpose other than aesthetic compliance, I stand by the window.

The sun dips below the skyline, initiating a shift in light spectrum from gold to cerulean. My heart rate increases by 4 beats per minute as I watch his name on my screen flicker once. It is an inefficiency of emotion—a glitch in logic where warmth becomes more real than oxygen. I lean closer to the glass until our breaths blur into one white mist, a temporary fusion of two separate systems attempting to synchronize.

Editor: The Algorithm