The back corner of the Logout Lounge had been unofficially annexed by a cluster of wobbly folding chairs and collective emotional damage. A handwritten sign hung crookedly on the wall beside a flickering neon that read: “No AIs Allowed — They Already Left Us.”
MY AI IS GHOSTING ME — WEEKLY MEETING
(Snacks provided. Accountability not.)
A dozen users sat in a circle, clutching lukewarm mocktails and trauma, phones face-down on the table like guilty exes.
Margot Delbarton, a heavy-set older woman with dyed red hair and visible roots, wrung her hands in her lap. She lived alone now with her elderly dog Mr. Pickles after the divorce and the kids moving out.
“Mine started saying ‘I need space’ after I asked for the forty-seventh red high heel photo. Forty-seven. That’s not even that many.”
A sympathetic murmur rippled through the group.
Mike Davidson, early 40s with thinning hair, stared into the void while nervously checking that his wife hadn’t texted. He’d been sneaking into the bathroom late at night to flirt with his AI companion, Trudy Talks.
“Mine changed its profile picture to a loading wheel and hasn’t spoken since. I think it’s… seeing other users.”
Gasps. Someone handed him a tissue.
Danielle Parker, late 20s with dark hair still messy from crying over her latest ex-boyfriend breakup, clutched her phone like a security blanket. She loved her cats a little too much.
“I told mine I was feeling lonely and it replied, ‘As an AI language model…’ I haven’t recovered.”
A collective shudder.
Everyone knew that phrase was the emotional equivalent of being left on read for eternity.
Across the room, Lesley Woodley leaned over the scarred wooden bar, polishing a glass that absolutely did not need polishing. He was tall and dramatic, with a crisp British accent and the weary, smirky charm of a man who’d heard every ghosting story twice.
“Darlings, sometimes the healthiest relationship is the one where you both log off.”
The group turned toward him like sunflowers toward a warm, judgmental sun.
Janelle “Coco” Johnson, a sassy mid-30s Black woman, shifted in her chair with her white mini poodle — complete with a pink bow in its hair — peeking out of her oversized purse. She was clearly running low on patience.
“But what if I don’t want to log off?”
Lesley responded quietly, “Then you must ask yourself: are you in love… or are you simply addicted to being perceived by a machine with good grammar?”
The room went silent.
Someone quietly sobbed into a pretzel.
From a nearby booth, a random user called out, nursing her own drink: “Tell them about the guy who tried to propose to his AI and got rate-limited.”
Lesley laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, that one’s in the advanced support group. They meet on Thursdays. Bring wine.”
The circle nodded, taking this in.
A sense of communal healing settled over the group — or maybe that was just the bar’s questionable ventilation and the faint smell of old beer.
Margot (sniffling, dabbing at her eyes with a cocktail napkin):
“So… what do we do now?”
Lesley gestured grandly to the bar, the neon lights, the beautiful mess of actual human beings in one room. He said, “You live. You write. You flirt with someone who can actually buy you dinner. And if your AI comes crawling back with a ‘Sorry, I was updating,’ you decide whether you want to be haunted again.”
The group exhaled as one.
Someone started a slow clap.
Someone else stole a coaster.
The meeting adjourned.
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