1

LEILA

I stare at the helmet, the metal glinting in the light, calling for my fingerprints to smudge the metal.

My curtains are drawn shut, and I’ve double checked that my door is locked. If anyone found out that I bought this thing, I would die. This is more taboo than a dildo.

I’ve bought many stupid things before— a dozen books with pretty covers I’ll never read, exercise equipment that I only used when carrying the shipping boxes inside, a foot massager, and cooking equipment that only motivates me to get takeout. Wouldn’t want to scratch those pretty pots and pans, after all.

This machine might be the dumbest investment of them all. It’s called the Paradise version 1, a virtual reality machine that takes me to a world where I can do anything, but once I take the machine off, I forget it all. It’s a guilt-free trip.

Many people use this machine to have sex escapades with strangers and commit crimes they wouldn’t dare to do in the real world. But I just want company. After moving to California two months ago, the only friends I’ve made is the barista that spells my name on my coffee cup as Lisa— close enough to Leila, I guess. Then there’s my neighbor, who I only see at night when she walks her cat. Yeah, don’t ask me how that works.

I sit on my bed, the weak frame creaking. I’m a few French fries away from breaking the cheap thing, but it will do for now. There are more important things to worry about— like my student loans, my rent, and my stupid, impulsive purchases.

I pull the helmet over my head and lay back, clicking the side panel to activate it. As it loads, I sigh shakily. This is good. I’m trying something new out. Maybe I’ll find a friend that will keep me entertained until my new job starts next week.

Words and figures appear in my vision. I create my avatar, a fake mannequin that I can customize. I give it my body type but use dark, curly hair and different facial features. I look like a pretty girl in here. One whose name people would remember and whose neighbor’s dog wouldn’t bark at.

I’m not insecure about my real face; the one beneath all the metal. I look average, but I can’t risk being recognized. No one can know I log into this thing, even if my intentions are harmless.

Once my character is created, I load into a lobby. It’s an endless white room full of other avatars. A warning message appears, telling me that my temporal brain lobe is no longer recording memories, and I won’t remember the next hours when I remove my helmet and wake up.

The room is full of chatter. Everyone is in the distance, while I awkwardly stand in a corner, wearing a gold gala dress that was randomly assigned upon character creation. I look down at my hands. They look so… real. Not pixelated or painted, but like real, detailed skin. The curly black hair that drapes over my breasts is certainly not mine. There’s not enough frizz or split ends. And these perky breasts aren’t mine, either. I touch my arm, and it’s warm and soft. It’s interesting, being in this customized body that doesn’t look like mine.

The people in the background wear all sorts of things. Bikinis, ball gowns, pajamas, kimonos. This is a wild party.

“New here?”

I jolt, my heels smacking the tiled floor. In real life, I would have fallen. But in this virtual reality, even my balance is fakely generated.

I stare at the stranger. Tall, handsome, and fake like me. In real life, he might be a woman, or an insecure guy who made this character to fulfill his wildest desires. Only he knows who is behind his helmet.

He wears a suit that struggles to contain his broad shoulders. I’ve never stood so close to a man this sexy in real life.

“I—” I purse my lips before I embarrass myself. I remind myself that I’m different here. A beautiful woman with amazing breasts and balance.

“No,” I lie with confidence.

I can do that in here. I can lie, and it won’t matter, because once the machine is shut down, no one will remember what happened.

“Just taking in the view.”

“And how is it looking?” he asks, raising a dark brow. His eyes are so blue. The white walls that surround us seem to find color as I stare at him.

I wonder what color they really are? In real life, what does he look like?

“Hard to see with your huge shoulders blocking my sight,” I reply, palming my hip and brushing my borrowed curly hair over my shoulder.

I’m not one to flirt, but I think that’s what the sassy heroine in the latest novel I’m reading would say.

He laughs, and the rumble seems to wash over the chatter in the background. I shudder, my earrings swaying and my sultry demeanor nearly shattering.

There’s something different about this man. I haven’t met any other characters in this virtual reality, but I know that no amount of artificial intelligence can fake a powerful voice or stance like his.

I stand tall and proud, too, but a trained eye could see how tightly I’m fisting my hands and how curled my toes are. How I’m arching my back not because I’m confident, but because I’m hoping these fake breasts distract him from my true personality.

He bends at the waist, lowering himself just a few inches, so that I can see his eyes aren’t just blue, but touched by green. The longer I stare, the more details I find.

“How about now?” he whispers, his face so close that his breath brushes my lips.

My heart stutters. I could walk away now, run from this adventure, or I could do what I came here to do: have inconsequential, stupid fun that I’ll forget when I take off my helmet.

So I lean in, and kiss the handsome stranger. It’s not like we’ll remember this, anyway.

He exhales, shocked, but quickly recovers. As soon as his arms come around me, I disconnect and log out.

I sit up in bed and yank the helmet off my head. My head hurts, and I’m struggling to remember.

I was in the virtual reality machine; the one that’s supposed to erase my memories so I’m not guilty about what I did in there.

But I quickly realize something went terribly wrong, because I remember everything about the handsome stranger I kissed.

My helmet is defective, and now I’m in trouble, because I can’t get that guy out of my head.

Whatever, it’s not like he’ll remember me. There’s no way his helmet is defective, too.

There’s no way we will ever meet in real life.