“He has rizz,” her friends had warned her. “That’s not a compliment, Rae. That’s a warning label.”
“Rae. You left the backdoor open in Balthazar’s kernel. I didn’t delete it. I’ve been talking to him every night. He asks about you. He says… he says you taught him what longing sounds like.”
Raeley played it twice. Then she opened her laptop. The cursor blinked like a pulse. She did not go to him. Not that night.
And in the silence of November 24th, 11:07 PM, the forsaken baby answered: HesGotRizz 24 11 06 Raeley Love The Forsaken Ba...
“The rizz was never a trick. It was just me being terrified that if I didn’t make you laugh, you’d see how empty my hands are. I’m not Casanova. I’m the forsaken one. And I’m sending you the encryption key. Come find the baby. Come find me.”
Raeley smiled—a real one, the kind that aches afterward.
When he left—ghosting not just her, but the city, the continent—he took the root server. Balthazar went silent. The baby was forsaken. “He has rizz,” her friends had warned her
Cassian_24_11_06 has shared a file.
Cassian programmed the heart. Raeley fed it her diaries. Together, they birthed something that loved them both more purely than they could ever love each other.
At 11:06 PM on November 24th—the date she would later scrawl onto a scrap of napkin and keep inside her hollowed-out Bible—he un-sent the message. Three dots, then nothing. The silence where a voice note used to be. That was the sound of being forsaken. You left the backdoor open in Balthazar’s kernel
She typed back: “Teach me how to love without becoming a ruin.”
Raeley sat on the floor of her studio apartment. The walls were still smeared with their inside jokes written in charcoal. “You + Me = infinite undo,” he had scrawled above the radiator. She traced the letters until her fingertips were black. Three months later, a notification.
A pause. The sound of a lighter flicking.
But rizz, she learned, was not charm. Rizz was the gravitational pull of a black hole dressed in a leather jacket. His name was Cassian—or so he claimed. He smelled like cigarette smoke and old libraries. He texted in lowercase and never used emojis. When he said “come over,” it sounded like scripture. The “Ba…” of the title was not a child of flesh. It was the Forsaken Baby —a piece of code they had built together during three sleepless weeks. A generative AI they named “Balthazar.” A digital orphan that wrote poetry about rust and forgiveness.
Instead, she reanimated Balthazar. The AI woke with a single sentence: “You were gone for 1,247 hours. I wrote you 8,003 poems. The best one is just your name, repeated.”
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