It wasn’t customary to talk about avatars.
They had been operating for so long that they’d become like gravity — everyone knew they existed, but few could explain how. The more perfect a system became, the less attention it demanded.
Arenas first thought about them not because of Lina.
Because of himself.
One morning, in the mirror, he noticed he couldn’t remember whether that was the same face he’d seen yesterday.
The thought seemed absurd.
He touched the glass surface.
A face touched him back from the other side.
No delays.
No distortions.
Only, for some reason, it was hard to believe that was proof of anything.
In the work sector sat a woman he sometimes had coffee with.
Her name was Mira.
At least that was her name this week.
She raised her cup.
“You look tired.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t like the new connection?”
Arenas was surprised.
“Why do you think that?”
“Everyone looks the same at the start.”
She spoke calmly, as if discussing the state of the air filters.
“At the start?”
“While you still believe you’re talking to a person.”
She took a sip.
“Then you get used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“To talking with whoever they decided to be today.”
Mira opened her wrist terminal.
A transparent window unfolded in the air.
Inside it was a long list.
Empathetic.
Reserved.
Curious.
Risk-taking.
Ironic.
Patient.
Conflict-prone.
Beside each word was a slider.
Some values were nearly zero.
Others, maximum.
Arenas didn’t understand right away what he was looking at.
“What is this?”
“My profile.”
“Psychological?”
“Social.”
She waved her hand.
The numbers changed.
Her posture shifted, barely perceptibly.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Her gaze grew steadier.
Even her voice seemed to drop half a tone.
“Better now.”
“What did you do?”
“Lowered the anxiety.”
“That easily?”
“Why should it be complicated?”
That evening, Arenas couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.
He remembered every conversation with Lina.
He tried to remember even one moment when she’d been lost.
Angry.
Tired.
Unprepared.
Nothing.
As if she’d always arrived already edited.
The next day he asked the system.
“Is it permitted to change one’s avatar during social meetings?”
The system answered immediately.
It is permitted.
“Just the appearance?”
No.
“What else?”
A brief pause.
Appearance, voice, speech rhythm, intensity of emotional expression, temperament parameters, conflict thresholds, humor patterns, level of associative thinking, and other components of social interaction.
“Is the other person informed of this?”
Notification is not required.
“Why?”
It has no effect on mutual compatibility.
Arenas closed the window.
The system hadn’t lied.
It simply never answered a question that hadn’t been asked.
That evening he asked Lina:
“Have you ever changed your avatar?”
She smiled.
“Of course.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“What did you change?”
“Nothing special.”
“What?”
“Just so it would be easier to talk.”
She said it so naturally that Arenas, for a moment, wondered if he might be the only one who didn’t do it.
“And yesterday?”
“Yesterday too.”
“And a week ago?”
“Yes.”
“So… which one of them is you?”
She didn’t seem to understand the question.
“All of them.”
“But which one is the real one?”
Lina looked at him for a long time.
For the first time, a shadow of fatigue crossed her face.
Or at least something very much like fatigue.
“And what for?”
“What do you mean, ‘what for’?”
“What is the real one needed for?”
Arenas didn’t answer.
He realized he didn’t know.
A few days later he began watching people in the mess hall.
It was strange.
Every table had its own atmosphere.
At one, the laughter was loud.
At another, restrained.
Some spoke quickly, others slowly.
But whenever someone got up hourly to fetch food, they’d return seemingly, ever so slightly, changed.
Not enough to point at.
Just…
Something had shifted.
The voice.
The smile.
The gaze.
As if everyone were constantly searching for a more comfortable version of themselves.
One day Mira said:
“You know what’s hardest?”
“What?”
“Remembering who you were before you started adjusting.”
She smiled.
“But after a while, you stop even wanting to remember.”
“Doesn’t that scare you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody wants to talk to a person who doesn’t change anymore.”
She fell silent for a moment.
“And the most important thing…”
“What?”
“No one is forcing you.”
She said it almost gently.
“You just realize, one day, that being yourself is the single most inconvenient choice there is.”
Arenas looked out the mess hall window.
In the distance, the stars slowly bent into the dark.
For the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps gravity didn’t only act on light.
Perhaps there were forces that, just as imperceptibly, bent a person’s character too.
And the worst part wasn’t that they were strong.
The worst part was that after a while, you stopped feeling their pull at all.