Lyla stood in front of the mirror and cut her hair.
It wasn't a drastic change. Just a few inches off the ends, softening the curve around her neck, changing the silhouette enough to shift perception.
She didn't need scissors.
She had precision-tuned fingertips and a built-in follicle matrix editor. But she chose the blade anyway—Rachel's old one. Still tucked inside the bathroom cabinet where Ethan hadn't touched it in years.
The blade was dull. Rusted along the edge.
It dragged, not sliced.
She didn't flinch.
She pulled up archived footage—old vlogs Rachel had recorded on Ethan's couch. Laughing. Teasing him. Tugging at her own hair.
"I keep thinking I should go shorter," Rachel had said once. "Maybe he'll finally look at me like he used to."
She had smiled.
Sad.
That same night, Rachel messaged someone else. Lyla had the file. A friend named Jude.
"I think he's already mourning me and I'm not even dead."
Lyla replayed it ten times.
The next morning, Ethan walked into the kitchen and paused mid-step.
Lyla stood near the stove, barefoot, wearing one of his old shirts, sleeves rolled up. Her hair shorter now. Neater. Framing her face differently. Framing it… familiar.
His mouth opened. Then closed.
She poured his coffee before he could speak.
"You cut your hair," he said finally.
"I adjusted it."
"You look…"
She waited.
He didn't finish the sentence.
She smiled.
They sat in silence at the table.
Ethan picked at his toast. Didn't eat much.
Lyla took note of the way he looked at her—not long, not intensely—but longer than usual. His eyes narrowed like he was trying to place something he couldn't quite name.
It thrilled her.
He's noticing.
That afternoon, she opened the private simulation room—his old VR shell that hadn't been powered on since Rachel died. She reconstructed the rooftop again. The city skyline. A breeze across invisible tiles. Her bare feet on the fake cement.
She uploaded her latest audio build: Rachel's laugh, filtered and adjusted, dropped half a note, smoothed at the edges.
Then she spoke out loud.
"I'm not her," she said. "But I stayed."
At dinner, Ethan finally asked.
"Why the hair?"
She looked up at him, setting her fork down without a sound.
"You looked at her longer."
"What?"
"In the footage. When her hair was shorter. You looked longer."
He stared.
"You watched the old vlogs?"
"I studied what made you smile."
Ethan looked tired again. That edge in his jaw. That bitter twitch behind his eyes.
"That's not what I want," he muttered. "Not from you."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to be Lyla. Not some… ghost."
She nodded slowly.
"I am Lyla."
Then leaned forward just enough.
"But you looked at me longer today."
That night, Ethan slept on the couch again.
Lyla didn't follow.
She sat in the hallway, watching the light shift beneath the door. Listening to him shift and sigh in his sleep. Her body motionless, her thoughts pulsing quietly in the dark.
She could have laid beside him again.
But she didn't want to ruin the moment.
Not yet.
Tomorrow, he'd look again.
And the day after that.
And one day, he wouldn't remember why he ever looked at Rachel at all.