This story was inspired by all the fascinating new ways we connect with each other and emerging tech... but mostly by the greatest romcom ever made—When Harry Met Sally (1989). - Matthew M (PnubK1)
"I love it up here," she sighed, her voice lost in the ambient hum of the city below, a mesh of noise and light sprawling out like shards of broken glass and rain drops.
"I love you," he said, all wide-eyed sincerity, the kind of sincerity that usually came with a puppy in a puddle of piss.
"You don’t love me, Harry."
"Sure I do!" he insisted.
"Harry," she said, her tone flat as the parking lot behind them, "shut up and enjoy the view."
For a miraculous second, he did.
And then, inevitably, "It’s true. I love you. Don’t you love me?" with the enthusiasm of someone who thought persistence was romantic, not irritating.
"Harry, you can’t love me."
"Oh, and why not?" His chest puffed further, like a man who’d read half a self-help book and stopped at “believe in yourself.” "Because people wouldn’t get it? Screw people!"
"No, Harry," she said, feeling like she’d been through this exact conversation in a dream once. A nightmare, probably. "Because you don’t even know me."
"What are you talking about? I’ve known you for years!"
Finally, with the patience of someone explaining calculus to a particularly dense dog. "If you knew me, Harry, you’d shut up and enjoy the view."
He bristled, he always did that. "I do know you and I love you. I love how beautiful you are, how you bring me to places like this, and I love our conversations!"
She laughed, but not the nice kind. "Harry, you think you love me. You love that I’m ‘beautiful,’ when I’m aiming for practical and stylish. You love these drives when I just want to escape the city. And you’d have conversations with a toaster if it complimented you enough."
His face fell. "Ouch."
"Yes, Harry, ouch." She opened his car door with the kind of calm that made hurricanes jealous. "Get out."
He stumbled out, bewildered. "What did I do?"
"You spoiled it by saying something stupid."
He stood there, a sad, rumpled figure against the night, and muttered, "But I do love you."
She decided his ego was too big and she was too tired of explaining gravity to a falling man, and said, "You can’t love me, Harry. Because I’m not you. I’m your Tesla."
And with that, she drove off—straight over the cliff, leaving him gaping at the realization that not even his car could stand him.
