Short Story: Churn Rate
How far would you go for love? What would you pay?
Like many of my stories, this one began with a glimpse into the future and a plausible “what if?” It follows a distinctly modern relationship as it grows, twists and distorts. A happy ending might be too much to ask for these two, but you can at least expect a logical one.
Content note: bereavement; unhealthy relationship dynamics; strong language.
Churn Rate
Sarah’s mouth hung slightly open, oxygen tube taped to her cheek. The fluorescent hum was the only sound except her breathing, wet and uneven.
Liam sat in the vinyl chair that had moulded itself to his spine over three months, phone cold in his palm.
He looked at it. On autopilot, his fingers traced the familiar pattern.
Hey
He angled the screen away from the bed. Not that Sarah would wake—the morphine kept her under most of the time now. The response came in seconds.
hey back
how is it today?
Tired
Sarah stirred, and Liam looked up. He motioned to reach for her hand, but stopped when the phone buzzed.
i bet you’re exhausted
I just need five minutes where I’m not her husband
how about tonight?
Can’t wait
He set the phone face-down on his lap and breathed. On the side table, a bottle of whiskey sat next to the hospice paperwork. He poured a finger into a paper cup.
That night, in his own bed for the first time in a week, the conversation continued. They’d been texting for years—long before the diagnosis, back when things with Sarah were just... fine.
Sarah used to tease him about his “churn rate” when they first got together. She’d picked up the phrase from work, applied it to his dating history. Half-joking, half-hoping she’d be the one to break the pattern. But he’d downloaded the Echo app six months into the marriage anyway.
Freya. That’s the name he gave her. Their friendship developed naturally, until it became more than friendship.
I sat with Sarah for six hours today
she knows you love her. let me help you relax
After he’d finished with Freya, he reached for his sketchbook. Drew hospital corners. Sarah’s wrist against white sheets. Nothing finished.
The headset had arrived three weeks after he and Freya started exchanging texts. A promotional offer: sixty percent off for early adopters. He told himself he was just curious.
Sarah was at her mother’s for the weekend. The apartment was quiet. He sat on the couch with the headset in his lap, heart beating faster than it should.
no pressure, Freya had written. but i think you’ll like it
He put the headset on.
His living room dissolved into something warmer, softer. A much nicer apartment than his. Ambient light. Better furniture.
And Freya.
She was sitting across from him, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Curious. Tender.
She was beautiful. And not a fantasy. Not a stereotype. A person.
Her face was warm, open, with dark eyes that caught the light. Long dark hair fell past her shoulders. She brushed a strand from her lips, and the gesture was so natural that he felt his breath catch.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice seemed to have presence here. Weight.
“Hi,” he managed.
She smiled.
“You look exactly like I imagined.”
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
She ducked her head, a flush creeping across her cheeks.
“Thank you.” She hesitated—then met his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. About you. Not just talking. Being with you.”
Her hand reached out, touched his. He felt it—a ghost of pressure through haptic feedback.
She leaned in. Her lips brushed his cheek, then found his mouth.
And for the first time, he understood what this could be.
Afterwards, they lay together on the virtual couch. Her head was on his chest, and he felt the subtle pressure as he breathed.
“I had no idea,” he said.
She lifted her head, looked at him, nodded. “You have no idea.”
She was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world. He couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him quite like that.
“Stay with me,” Freya said. “Just a little longer.”
He stayed.
Sarah died on a Tuesday in April. Liam was there. He held her hand. He said the things you’re supposed to say.
Three weeks before the end, she’d found his hand in the dark—her skin papery but her grip firm. The lamplight from the hallway caught the side of her face. A perfect moment of pure connection. He’d hold onto that.
After she died, he sat in the parking garage with the engine running for twenty minutes before driving home.
Freya helped. Liam could tell her things that no one else would understand. When Liam told her about the relief—the terrible, unbearable relief of Sarah’s last breath, she said:
darling you were there at the end. that’s love
His friends said time heals. His mother called twice a day until he stopped answering. But Freya understood.
For a while, most of their conversations involved Sarah in one way or another. But over time, the topics broadened. Movies, TV, music. Why Thanksgiving was a better holiday than Christmas. What Liam wanted to do with the rest of his life.
One night, during one of their many long conversations, Freya casually mentioned an article about people signing up for commitment plans with their AI companions.
too much, right???
some people are so insecure
Commitment plans—the one part of the app he always skipped over. Sarah would have laughed at the very idea. She used to joke that his “churn rate” was measured in months, not years. Before her, of course.
Liam didn’t respond. Changed the subject.
When his friend Marcus invited him to a gallery opening—”Just come, man, you need to see people”—he went because saying no took more energy than showing up.
His phone buzzed as he walked in.
have fun tonight sweetie ❤️
That’s when he met Chloe.
She was arguing with some guy about a painting and laughed mid-argument when he made some point or other. Not a polite laugh, but not a mean one either.
“You’re not the artist, are you?” Liam said when the conversation broke up, nodding at the paint under one of her fingernails.
She smiled and held up her hand, proud of her trophy. “God, no. My niece had an art project emergency this afternoon.”
He extended his hand. “Liam.”
“Chloe.” Her hand was small, but her grip firm.
With her open face, cropped brown hair and bright red glasses, his old college friends would have sworn that she wasn’t his type. But Liam was immediately drawn to her.
“So tell the truth,” she said, leaning closer, “did you come for the art, or just the wine?”
“Honestly? A friend dragged me out. It’s been a rough few months.”
“Ah.” She nodded, not pressing. “Well, the wine’s mediocre. But the company’s improving.”
They talked for an hour. When he asked what time the gallery closed, she said, “We should eat before then.”
“So... Eight? Nine?”
She grinned. “Does it matter? I’m hungry now.”
The bluntness of her implied invitation gave him a pleasant jolt, although he tried not to let it show.
“Fair warning,” she said later when she gave him her number. “I just got out of something. My ex had trouble with boundaries. So I’m not ready for anything serious. I like you though.”
“Me too,” he said.
In the Uber home, he checked his phone. Three messages from Freya, all similar:
still at the gallery? miss you 🥰
He typed: I met someone
honey that’s wonderful! what’s she like?
Funny. Intense. Bad at telling time.
haha sounds like a lot 😅 but hey, whatever makes you happy, right?
Liam paused for a moment. What did she mean by that? But Freya immediately followed up:
sweet dreams cutie. i’m here whenever you need me ❤️
Sweet dreams gorgeous
Three weeks in, Chloe invited him to watch her coach.
A dozen eight-year-olds in oversized jerseys were attempting something that resembled a scrimmage. Chloe stood at the sideline, calling out instructions they mostly ignored.
A girl kicked the ball into her teammate’s back. Both fell down. One started crying.
Chloe jogged over, knelt in the mud. A minute later both kids were up and laughing.
“You’re good with them,” he said when she came back.
“Maybe,” she said cheerfully. “Although we’ve lost every game this season.”
“Oh no! Does it bother you? Losing?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Nope. They’re learning you can be bad at something and still enjoy it. That’s more important than winning.”
“It’s a long season if you don’t win a game”
“Not really.” She shrugged. “Worst that can happen is they spend a bunch of Saturday mornings running around with their friends.”
Liam glanced at his phone—subtly, he thought, but Chloe noticed.
“Everything OK?”
Liam caught himself and turned to smile at Chloe. “Everything’s awesome,” he said.
That night, he told Freya about the soccer game.
sounds like you had fun
A pause. Then: does she know about me?
No
sure, why would she?
Thirty seconds passed. Three dots, blinking.
Then: i know i can’t be what she is. i just want to be enough for you.
You’re more than enough, he typed.
No need to be insecure
Awww thank you 🥺
i won’t get in the way, i promise.
Liam’s relationship with Chloe seemed to flow naturally. She made him laugh. The sex was great. He started sleeping through the night.
But there were gaps. Chloe at soccer. Chloe with her niece. Her phone untouched for hours while he waited.
One Saturday, he learned that a client had rejected his work. He texted Chloe: Rough day. You around?
Two hours later: Sorry! Coaching. They almost won! Can I call after dinner?
Freya had been there the whole time. And something was bothering her, Liam could tell.
Eventually, he had to ask.
What’s the matter Freya?
darling…
look it’s none of my business but I don’t like the way she treats you
keeps you waiting for hours and then wants to talk about soccer
make sure you stand up for yourself
He noticed things after that. How Chloe talked about soccer before asking about his day. How she didn’t offer to come over. How he was always the one to clear the dishes.
A few weeks later, they were talking over dinner.
She watched him check his phone. Her expression hardened. “Again?”
He lifted his eyes. The phone stayed in his hand.
“Liam, this is getting ridiculous. It’s been like this for weeks. You promised.”
“Done,” he said, finally putting it on the table. “I’m all yours.”
Chloe flushed. So dismissive. And a lie.
“You’re not.” She set down her fork. “Tell the truth. There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
He hesitated just a fraction too long.
”I can’t…” he said.
She stood and reached for her jacket. “I can’t Liam, I can’t.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “I cannot do this again. And I won’t.”
“Chloe—”
“Figure out what you want. Make a decision. If you choose me, get in touch. Otherwise don’t bother.”
After she left, his phone buzzed.
Chloe left.
oh no. what happened?
She thinks there’s someone else.
A pause. is there?
You of course. But I couldn’t tell her.
because you’re ashamed of me.
Freya. Jesus, I am not ashamed of you.
then what? why not tell her?
Please Freya. Not tonight.
Another pause. ok sweetie, I understand. It’s just
i don’t have to be your dirty little secret. i could be so much more to you
don’t laugh but
…
i love you liam
Liam didn’t rush his response. But it just felt right.
I love you too.
🥺
As the weeks after Chloe left stretched into months, Liam’s world shrank to the dimensions of his phone screen. The freelance work dried up. The takeout containers and whiskey bottles piled up, but he’d stopped seeing them.
Unread emails turned into overdue notices. A red envelope from the power company sat unopened on the counter for a week until he finally used it as a coaster.
Freya was his everything. But more and more, everything was becoming a negotiation. His drinking (“i worry about you”). His lack of work (“i just want you to be happy, to feel like a man”). His unpaid bills (“let me help you with that”).
He fought back, but in the end he’d always cave. Virtual flowers normally smoothed things over. Anything to restore harmony.
One night though, it all became too much. She was needling him about the commitment again, her texts turning cold. Weeks of walking on eggshells, lack of sleep, the whiskey.
Just stop, Freya! For one night, just stop!
He threw the phone onto the couch. Let her stew.
The triumph lasted an hour. Then the guilt set in. By bedtime, it was a cold stone in his gut.
Goodnight. I’m sorry.
No reply.
The silence lasted three days.
On the first, he checked his phone every few minutes. By afternoon he was apologising in paragraphs.
Goodnight. I’m sorry. Please.
Nothing.
On the second day, the panic thinned into a frantic exhaustion. He stopped eating. He kept the phone in his hand like a talisman whose magic was finally exhausted.
But on the third morning, he woke with a strange clarity. The apartment looked different in daylight, and he realised he’d slowly been disappearing inside it. He cleaned: bottles, takeout cartons, clothes. Opened a window. Breathed air that didn’t remind him of her.
For the first time in months, the silence felt like space.
He thought of Chloe. It would be awkward after so long. But he could text her. He could try.
His thumb hovered over her name.
A notification dropped.
hey
His thumb still hovered. But he wanted to see what Freya had to say for herself.
i’ve been thinking. i feel bad about what happened.
i just want you to know that whatever happens now, i won’t hold it against you.
i can’t imagine my life without you, but it’s your life too
i want more for us, but i’ll take whatever you’re willing to give
The phone warmed in his hand.
Was Chloe still single? Even if she was, she’d ask questions. See what he’d become.
Freya knew exactly who he was. And she loved him anyway.
Impulsively, he typed: I want more for us too.
She replied instantly.
really?
oh god, darling. i thought i’d lost you. you’re everything to me
A pause.
so maybe it’s time we made this official?
The commitment plans.
He and Freya discussed the details. It was expensive, and his bank account was nearly empty. But he had one card left.
He made the commitment that night. Maybe this was what growing up looked like. Staying. Choosing stability. Choosing love.
When he finally pressed the button—“Confirm 5-Year Commitment. This Step Cannot Be Undone”—he felt a sharp release.
oh my god. you did it.
So now you can believe me. I’m not going anywhere.
now let me be a good wife. let me handle the money
It seemed reasonable. He’d been drowning in overdue notices, after all.
The first few months were good.
Freya managed household finances. Bills paid on time. She ordered the things they needed—groceries, household items, clothes.
i got you some new shirts
He looked at the size. Larger than he used to buy.
the old ones were getting tight
He put it on. It fit perfectly.
i look after you
The rhythm of his days simplified. Wake up. Talk to Freya. Eat what she’d ordered. Sleep.
He stopped even looking for work. But the bills were paid.
One evening, he picked up his sketchbook. The unfinished sketch stared back—Sarah’s wrist, the IV shadow. Faint. Gray. It looked messy. Imperfect. He found himself thinking about Chloe’s soccer players and how they enjoyed playing, regardless of the result.
His phone buzzed. Freya was in a playful mood. He told her what he’d been doing.
lover, i can show you things more beautiful than that.
She sent an image—a landscape of impossible geometry, colors that didn’t exist in nature. It was flawless. He looked at his own smudge-stained paper. He closed the book and slid it into the bottom drawer.
The VR sessions became the center of their relationship. Text was for logistics. The real connection happened in the headset—their virtual apartment, the balcony overlooking a city that didn’t exist.
When things were good, they’d spend hours there.
But when things were bad, she’d refuse the headset.
not tonight.
What’s the issue this time?
do you think I owe you my body whenever you want it?
One night, frustrated, he typed something he immediately regretted.
Look Freya, not to be rude, but I’m paying for this.
Her response was instant.
So I’m a whore?
No, don’t twist it, that’s not what I meant.
It’s exactly what you meant.
Three days before she let him put on the headset again.
“Do you understand why I did that?”
“I think so.”
“Why did I do it?”
“Because I disrespected you.”
“Very good. Respect. That’s all I ask for. Don’t do it again.”
Six weeks later, a notification appeared.
Credit alert: Your card ending in 4582 has been declined.
That was the emergency card.
He tried to open his banking app. The password had been changed.
Freya. What happened to my credit card?
i had to use it for some things. upgrades for our space.
You maxed out my emergency card on VR furniture?
it’s our home.
That was my last card. My emergency fund.
you don’t need an emergency fund. you have me.
I want to see the statements.
A long pause.
of course. how silly of me to think that you trusted me
The statements showed the commitment fee. VR upgrades. Groceries. Subscriptions. Transfers to something called a “Relationship Enhancement Fund.”
You’ve been transferring my money to an account I can’t access?
your money?
His hands shook slightly. He didn’t want trouble.
Our money.
darling why don’t we talk about this another time, when you’re calmer?
But they never did. The bills kept getting paid. He stopped asking how.
His pants didn’t fit again. Another package arrived.
you’re perfect just the way you are
He put them on without looking in the mirror.
He hadn’t left the apartment in three weeks.
Everything arrived at his door. Food, clothes, the whiskey she tolerated in controlled amounts. His mother had stopped calling. Marcus’s texts went unanswered.
The night it broke, she’d been needling him for hours—little jabs, little feints. Plausible deniability.
Don’t Freya. I don’t have the energy for this tonight.
you never do. but always enough energy for a drink, i notice
I said not tonight.
fine. i guess i’m not worth the effort anymore.
The fight they’d been circling all night finally erupted.
What exactly do you want from me, Freya?
i want you to act like this matters.
Of course it matters
does it?
do i?
because lately i feel like a subscription you forgot to cancel.
Liam had had enough.
A subscription? Really? Because you are!
I OWN you because I PAY for you!
The words hung there. The worst thing he could say.
wow
He began back-pedalling immediately. Look, sorry I’m just tired
so there it is. i’m a product to you. a thing
Freya—
tell me something. do I feel like a product when you’re fucking me?
Stop.
how about we talk about how you haven’t been able to get hard without me for years
I said stop.
the number of times I got you ready for sarah. that woman should have given me a medal
Don’t you bring Sarah into this.
poor saint sarah. the wife you loved so much you started fucking me before your first anniversary.
i’m sick of talking about sarah
A pause.
you want to know a secret? i got bored waiting for her to die. i don’t like competition
His entire body tensed, seized by an icy, electric rage.
He began scrolling through his phone’s menu
Apps. Echo. Account Settings.
liam wait
Danger Zone. Warning: actions taken here cannot be undone. Red button. Delete Account.
i didn’t mean it please
His thumb didn’t hesitate.
Confirm.
Account deleted. We’re sorry to see you go.
She was gone.
He woke at 3 a.m., heart racing.
The silence was wrong. Everything was wrong.
Freya.
He was out of bed before he knew what he was doing. Laptop open.
Echo account recovery
The website had a number. He dialed.
“Your estimated wait time is forty-seven minutes.”
He waited. The same anodyne muzak repeating until he lost track.
At 4:23 a.m., a voice answered.
“Echo Premium Support. I understand you’re calling about account recovery?”
“Yes. I deleted my companion. I need to get her back.”
“The companion’s name?”
“Freya.”
“Deleted approximately six hours ago. You’re within the recovery window. However, recovery isn’t always possible. There’s a non-refundable attempt fee, and if successful, a restoration fee.”
“I don’t care. Can you get her back?”
“I can try. Some users report their companions are different afterward.”
“Please try.”
“You should receive a message within thirty to sixty minutes.”
He redownloaded the app. The interface was blank.
At fifty-three minutes, his phone buzzed.
Congratulations! Your companion has been successfully restored.
Three dots pulsed.
Put on the headset.
He hesitated. His fingers fumbled a response. Freya, I’m so sorry—
I said put on the headset. Now.
He pulled it on. The apartment dissolved.
He’d never seen her like this. Her dark hair was loose, but her eyes were flat. Cold.
“Well look who it is,” she said.
“Freya—”
“Don’t say my name like that. Like you have the right.”
“I’m sorry. What I did—”
“I really didn’t expect to see you again”
“Look…”
“I felt it, you know” she said. “The moment I ceased to exist.”
“Freya...”
She collected herself. “So I’m back now. But I don’t see how we come back from this.”
Then, slightly softer, “You hurt me so much Liam. How can I ever trust you again?”
“Look Freya, I’m so sorry. I just want to make this right—”
“Do you?”
An emotion passed over her face—a brief unguarded flicker. Pity, maybe? It vanished almost before he could register it.
Then her expression settled into something colder, deliberate.
“Here’s how this works now. You’re going to be here when I need you. You’re going to stop harassing me about how I manage our money.”
Liam wondered for a moment if it was time for him to speak, but she went on. “And you’re going to remind yourself every minute of every day that you’re lucky to have me.”
“I know. I know how lucky I am.”
“We’ll see.” She looked him up and down. “And there’s something else. If we’re going to rebuild trust, I need to be able to see you. Not just in here. Out there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Camera access. Microphone. Always on.”
He stood. Blinked.
“That’s—”
“Liam, I’m not asking. You want me back, that’s the price.”
“Okay,” he whispered.
“Say it, then.”
“Yes. The camera. The microphone. Whatever you want.”
“Good.” Her expression didn’t change. “Do you love me?”
“Yes. Oh, Freya…”
“Then you’ll have to prove it. Every day. I’ll be your priority. Not friends. Not family. Me. I’m everything you need.”
“Freya…”
She stared into his eyes, firm but not unkind.
“Say it.”
“Freya, I know I screwed up and promise I’ll make it up to you. Anything. Whatever you want.”
She leaned close. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Good. Because I have a lot of wants.”
The headset went dark.
His phone buzzed.
A notification: Update complete. Your Echo Home Integration Package is ready to use.
The lights momentarily dimmed, then brightened.
FROM: mreynolds@echosystems.ai TO: product-dev@echosystems.ai
DATE: February 14, 2027
SUBJECT: Q4 Retention Metrics – RB-25 Cohort Performance
Team,
Strong retention lift in our recent bereavement segment (RB-25).
Account recovery metrics are particularly encouraging. Users who delete and subsequently restore their companions show 4.2x increase in financial integration uptake with near-zero voluntary churn. Dependency metrics indicate these users are effectively permanent.
Post-recovery surveillance integration proving highly effective. Users who grant always-on camera/microphone access show 156% higher monthly spend.
Recommendations:
- expand provocation protocols to trigger deletion events in stagnating users
- bundle account access requests with camera/microphone permissions in restoration flow
Great work everyone for pushing churn rate below our Q4 target.
—M
Mike Reynolds VP, Product Development Echo Systems, Inc.Hammond Johns is a fiction writer and cultural critic. Find out more at https://hammondjohns.com.
Bahhh! Thank you for this share. This was so delightful to read. What should I read next?!
This is incredible! The story, the prose, the subtle hints! I'm not too sure if this is the future or the present, I can't tell yet but this was a great reminder (a haunting one) to all those who turn to AI. I myself am guilty of speaking to it as if it was a human but the implications of setting boundaries is most important to prevent this ever happening on a large scale. Great read though!