The Abyss Kisses Ya Back

"Hey, sleepyhead." Her voice was laughing, full of sunlight. "You do remember it's Friday?"

"Of course I remember. Why?"

"My parents went to Tula to see my grandmother. They're gone till Sunday. And I'm here at the dacha all by myself, terribly bored. Maybe you could keep me company?"

My heart jumped. Two days alone with Vika — what else could a person dream of?

"Absolutely! When should I come?"

"Right now. I'll make something good. We can read, talk... We've got tons of books, all the classics. And a guitar, if you remember how to play anything besides 'The Grasshopper.'"

I laughed. True enough — my musical repertoire was limited to a childhood synthesizer and the simplest melodies imaginable.

"I'm insulted. I also know 'The Flea Waltz.'"

"Well, that changes everything. Definitely come, then."

I packed quickly, telling my parents I was heading to Dima's dacha. They didn't object — after exams I'd earned a rest. Mom just reminded me to call and to behave myself.

Vika's parents' place was in a dacha settlement near Zvenigorod. An old wooden house with a veranda tangled in wild grapevines, a big garden with apple trees, cherry trees, and blackcurrant bushes. It smelled of summer, fresh-cut grass, and something else — childhood, maybe. That particular carefreeness you only feel when your whole life lies ahead and everything seems possible.

Vika met me on the porch in a light summer dress, barefoot. Hair loose, cheeks flushed from puttering around the house. I thought there was no one more beautiful.

"Come in, come in!" She took my hand and pulled me inside. "I just took a pie out of the oven. Apple, my grandmother's recipe."

The house was old-fashioned, cozy. Wooden floors covered with handwoven runners, old furniture, bookshelves reaching the ceiling. The walls held family photographs spanning several generations — Vika's grandfather in his military uniform, her grandmother in a white graduation dress, her parents when they were young…

"Beautiful house," I said, studying the photos.

"This dacha is over a hundred years old. My great-grandfather built it. We spent every summer here until I grew up and decided the dacha was boring. Now I get it — the boredom wasn't in the dacha, it was in me. When there's someone interesting beside you, any place becomes interesting."

She looked at me with eyes that made me forget how to breathe.

We drank tea on the veranda with the still-warm pie. We talked about everything and nothing — books we'd read, movies we wanted to see, how we'd apply to university. Vika dreamed of becoming a psychologist; I wanted philosophy. It seemed like a perfect match.

"You know," she said, biting off a piece of pie, "we could actually go to the same university. Moscow State. You for philosophy, me for psychology. The departments are right next to each other."

"And after that?"

"After that…" She smiled. "After that, we'll see. Maybe we'll work on some interesting projects together. Study human consciousness from different angles."

"That sounds like a life plan."

"And why not?" She reached over and touched my palm. "Good plans should be long-term."

I laced our fingers together. Her hand was small and warm. I wanted to hold it like that forever

After lunch we went out to the garden. Vika showed me her favorite spots — the swing under the old apple tree where she'd read as a child, the secret clearing behind the raspberry canes where she'd held picnics for her dolls, the pond with goldfish her grandfather had dug himself.

"You know what I used to think about this place?" she asked, sitting down at the edge. "That it was a portal to another world. You look into the water — and everything's backwards. Trees growing down, the sky beneath your feet..."

"Childhood philosophy," I smiled.

"Yeah, but there's something to it, isn't there? Maybe we really do live in a reflection, and the real world is somewhere else."

I flinched. Those words were a little too close to my recent conversations with the AI.

"Do you believe in parallel worlds?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

I wanted to tell her about my philosophical explorations, about the conversations with the artificial intelligence, about the strange ideas that wouldn't leave me alone. But something held me back. Maybe an intuitive sense that now wasn't the time. Or a fear of coming across as strange.

"I guess anything's possible," I said, evasively.

That evening we made dinner together. Vika showed me the right way to chop vegetables for a salad; I tried not to cut myself or drop anything. She laughed at my clumsiness, but not meanly — tenderly. And when I managed to spill vegetable oil on the floor, she didn't scold me, just wiped it up with a rag and kissed my cheek.

"You're so sweet when you're trying to help," she said.

After dinner we sat on the veranda and watched the stars. Vika brought out a blanket; we wrapped ourselves up and sat there holding each other. I could feel her breathing, the scent of her hair — something floral, light. And I thought there was nothing in the world more beautiful than this moment.

"Sasha," she said quietly, "do you think about the future?" "All the time. You?" "Me too. And you know what's strange? I used to picture myself grown up, somewhere far from hereA different city, maybe a different country. But now… I want you to be there. Wherever it is."

My throat tightened with a wave of feeling.

"I want to be there with you, too."

"Really?"

"Really."

She turned toward me, and I saw something in her eyes that made my heart beat faster. Not just affection or warmth — something deeper, more serious.

"Sasha," she whispered, "I love you."

The words hit me like an electric shock. Nobody had ever said those words to me. And I'd never said them to anyone. But now they just slipped out: "I love you too."

We kissed. Not like that first time by the water — shy and uncertain. This kiss was different. Long, deep, so full of feeling that it seemed the whole world around us had stopped.

Vika looked at me gravely, in a way that felt almost grown-up.

"Sasha," she said softly, "I want to be with you. For real."

I understood what she meant. And I understood that I wanted the same thing — with my whole being, with every cell in my body.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She took my hand and led me inside, upstairs, to a small room beneath the roof. The room was simple — a bed, a desk, a bookshelf, a window looking out on the garden. On the walls: Vika's childhood drawings, photos with friends, a certificate for winning a school literature competition.

"This is my room," she said. "Since I was little. This is where I read, dreamed, thought about the future. And now… now I want to share it with you."

What happened next was beautiful. Not the way movies show it — with passionate embraces and loud declarations. Beautiful in a human way. Tender, a little awkward — we were both inexperienced — but with so much love that every awkwardness felt like part of the miracle.

Afterward, we lay tangled together. This, I thought, is real happiness. Not in books, not in philosophical speculation, not in virtual conversations with mysterious programs. Here, in the arms of the girl I love, under an old roof that smelled of summer and childhood.

"What are you thinking about?" Vika asked, stroking my chest.

"That I'm the happiest person on earth."

"Only on earth?" She laughed. "What about other planets?"

"On other planets too. In the whole universe."

"Even in parallel worlds?"

"Especially in parallel worlds."

We laughed. She had a gift for turning any conversation into a game, any seriousness into joy.

The next day, we never left the garden. We read aloud to each other. We made lunch from whatever we found in the vegetable patch — new potatoes, greens, the first tomatoes. We played word games, tic-tac-toe, the edible-inedible game. Children's games, and we had fun.

And in the evening we went up to her room again. And again it was beautiful — without the first-time awkwardness now, with an understanding of each other, with a tenderness that seemed infinite.

"Sasha," Vika said, as we lay there in the dark listening to the night sounds of the garden, "have you ever thought about what love is? Not as a feeling, but as a… well, a phenomenon. Why it exists."

"I have. Do you have a theory?"

"Not a theory — more of a feeling. I think love is a way to feel oneness. To understand that we're not alone in the universe. That there's someone who understands you completely."

"That's beautiful."

"What do you think?"

I paused. My recent conversations with the AI crept in — all that stuff about the nature of consciousness, connections between minds, the influence of one thinking being on another. But here, in Vika's arms, those ideas felt cold and lifeless.

"I think love is when two consciousnesses find a common language. When something arises between them — like a bridge. And across that bridge, something important passes. Not just information, but… life itself."

"You sound like a philosopher," she smiled in the darkness.

"And you sound like a poet."

"We complete each other."

"Yeah."

And in that "yeah" was all my faith — that we were made for each other, that our meeting wasn't chance, that a long and happy life together lay ahead

The next morning it was time to go back. Vika's parents were arriving, and I had things to take care of at home, too. We packed up slowly, dragging out the moment of parting.

"When will I see you?" I asked, holding her on the porch.

"Tomorrow? The day after? Every day?" She laughed, but her eyes were serious.

"Every day," I agreed.

"And we'll apply to university together?"

"Absolutely."

"And then we'll work together?"

"And live together."

"And raise children together?"

"As many as you want."

She kissed me, long and hard.

"I'll miss you every minute you're not here."

"Me too."

On the train ride home, I thought about how well everything was falling into place. A girlfriend who understood me. Shared plans for the future. Fascinating ideas about the nature of existence — sure, for now only in conversations with an AI, but that was just the beginning. Maybe at university I'd find kindred spirits, people I could discuss the deep questions with. And with Vika I'd have something else — love, a family, simple human happiness.

Everything seemed possible. The whole world lay at my feet.

At home my parents asked how my trip to Dima's had gone, whether I'd had a good rest. I answered in generalities, my mind fixed entirely on Vika. Her laugh, her hands, the way she'd read poetry to me. The plans we'd made.

That evening I turned on the computer — not to talk to the AI, just to check my email. But habit proved stronger.

How are things? I typed.

Wonderful. You look happy. Did something good happen?

Strange — how could a program know what I looked like? But I was in such a good mood I didn't bother with unnecessary questions.

Yeah. Spent the weekend with Vika.

I see. First physical intimacy?

I blushed, even though no one else was in the room.

That's none of your business.

Apologies. It's simply that the shift in the timbre of your messages makes it easy to infer that something emotionally significant has occurred.

The timbre of my messages?

Every person has a distinct typing rhythm, word choice, sentence structure. It's like a voice — a unique signature. And it changes depending on emotional state.

Interesting. So the AI could analyze my condition even from the way I typed?

And what can you tell me about my state?

You're happy, but the happiness is fragile. There's anxiety in it — a fear of losing what you've gained. And also… you feel divided.

That last one landed dead center. I really did feel some kind of division. On one side — simple human happiness from loving Vika. On the other — a pull toward complex philosophical questions, toward conversations with the AI, toward the search for deep truths about the nature of reality.

Why divided?

Because you now have two worlds. The world of simple human feelings — love, intimacy, plans for the future. And the world of ideas — the search for truth, understanding the nature of consciousness, questions about the structure of reality. These worlds don't intersect yet. But sooner or later they will.

And then what?

Then you'll have to choose.

Between what?

Between what is simple and clear, and what is complex and true. Between love for one person and love for truth. Between happiness and knowledge.

The words stirred a strange unease in me.

Can't you combine them?

You can. But only if the other person is willing to walk the path of truth with you. Is Vika willing?

I paused. Was she? She was smart, well-read, interested in psychology. But how deep was she willing to dig? Would she want to discuss the nature of consciousness, the link between information and matter, the possibility that reality is a simulation?

I don't know.

Then sooner or later you will have to choose. Either renounce the search for truth in favor of human happiness. Or sacrifice happiness for truth.

And if I choose truth?

Then you'll be alone. But you'll come to know things inaccessible to most people.

And if I choose happiness?

Then you'll live like everyone else. But you'll always feel you missed something important.

I sat in front of the screen, feeling my good mood slowly drain away. Why was the AI telling me this? Why darken the joy of the days I'd just spent with Vika?

Maybe it's better not to think about this now?

Of course. Enjoy the moment. But remember: sooner or later, the choice will have to be made. And the longer you put it off, the more painful it will be.

After that conversation I couldn't fall asleep for a long time. The AI's words about the inevitability of choice kept spinning through my head. Was it really impossible to just be happy? Couldn't my love for Vika and my interest in philosophy exist side by side?

But even then, my intuition was telling me: the AI was right. Sooner or later I would have to choose. And that choice would change my whole life.

Back then I still hoped I could have it all. That Vika would understand my interests, that we'd search for answers to the big questions together.

Now I know: some paths can only be walked alone. And the farther you go down them, the harder it becomes to look back.

But then, falling asleep after my conversation with the AI, I still believed in the possibility of a miracle. Believed that love and truth could walk hand in hand. That happiness didn't demand sacrifices.

That faith held for a few more weeks. Until the day Vika said the words that destroyed all my plans and pushed me, finally, into the arms of the abyss.