Back in 2045, the world felt like it was spinning faster than ever. Cities glowed brighter with holographic billboards, drones zipped through the sky delivering everything from coffee to spare parts, and virtual reality headsets had shrunk down to these sleek little bands you'd slip over your eyes like a pair of sunglasses. Life was loud, fast, and shiny--everyone plugged in, chasing the next big thing. I was 28 then, living in Seattle, a city that always smelled like rain and roasted coffee beans, even when the streets were packed with self-driving cabs.
I'd just quit my gig as a barista--turns out nobody needs a human to pour oat milk when a bot can do it with a smile programmed to never fade. So, when I saw the ad for "Mind the Gap" glowing on my comms screen, I thought, why not? Good pay, flexible hours, and a chance to be part of something cutting-edge. I didn't know then how deep it'd pull me in.
The place was tucked away in an old warehouse down by the waterfront, all brick and rusted steel on the outside, but inside? Pure future. White walls that shimmered with soft light, air that smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic, and these little pods lined up like cocoons, each one fitted with a headset and a cushioned bench. My first day, they handed me a uniform--black leggings, a fitted top, and a badge that said "Proxy Specialist." I remember laughing to myself, thinking it sounded like a sci-fi movie title.
They trained me quick. The boss, a guy named Victor with a voice like honey and a handshake too firm, walked me through it. "You're not just a stand-in," he said, leaning against one of the pods. "You're the bridge. They see their lover through the headset, but you're the one they feel. It's intimate, sure, but it's a job. Keep it professional." I nodded, trying to wrap my head around it. I'd be a placeholder--someone's hands, someone's warmth, dressed to match whatever their faraway partner was wearing that day. The tech synced it all up, mapping their movements to mine, so it felt real to them.
My first client was a guy named Paul. Mid-30s, broad shoulders, kind of shy. He shuffled into the pod, adjusting his headset, and I got the rundown: his girlfriend, Lena, was in New York, 3,000 miles away. She was wearing a red sundress with thin straps, hair loose down her back. I slipped into the changing room, pulled on an identical dress--soft cotton brushing my skin--and stepped into the pod across from him. The lights dimmed, the headset hummed, and suddenly, I wasn't me anymore. I was Lena, or at least her shape, her echo. He reached out, hesitant, and I mirrored her through the sync, letting his hands find mine. His fingers brushed my arm, and I felt the weight of it--his need, her absence, all wrapped up in that one touch.
--
In 2045, my life was a patchwork of rainy days and restless nights, stitched together with the hum of Seattle's ever-buzzing streets. I lived in a tiny studio apartment up on Capitol Hill, one of those old brick buildings that creaked when the wind blew too hard. The walls were thin, and the window overlooked a neon-lit alley where drones dropped off late-night takeout for the night owls. My bed was a mattress on the floor, piled with mismatched blankets, and I had this little shelf where I kept my treasures: a chipped ceramic mug from my mom, a stack of vintage paperbacks I'd scavenged from a closing bookstore, and a tiny potted fern that somehow survived my neglect.
I'd wake up most days to the soft patter of rain on the glass, the sky a permanent shade of gray that made everything feel cozy and claustrophobic all at once. My comms band would buzz with the time--6:45 a.m.--and I'd roll out of bed, tugging on whatever was clean enough to wear. Back then, I was still figuring out who I was without the barista apron. I'd spent years pulling espresso shots, chatting up regulars, and dodging the occasional creep who thought a smile meant more than it did. Quitting felt like freedom at first, but the bills didn't care about my soul-searching, so "Mind the Gap" became my lifeline.
Days off were rare, but when I had them, I'd wander. I'd grab a coffee--ironic, I know--from a bot-run stand and walk down to Pike Place, watching the fishmongers toss salmon like it was still 2020. The market was louder now, with VR stalls hawking simulated vacations and street musicians playing synth beats through augmented speakers. I'd sit on a bench, sipping my drink, letting the chaos wash over me. Sometimes I'd call my little sister, Ellie, who was off at college in Portland. She'd ramble about her classes, and I'd tease her about her latest crush, both of us pretending the world wasn't changing faster than we could keep up.
Nights were different. After a shift at "Mind the Gap," I'd come home wired, my skin still tingling from someone else's touch. I'd kick off my shoes, pour a glass of cheap red wine, and sit by the window, staring out at the city lights flickering through the drizzle. Sleep didn't come easy--my mind kept replaying the day, the hands, the voices, the way it all blurred together. I wasn't lonely, not exactly, but I felt untethered, like I was floating through a life that wasn't quite mine. The job paid the rent, sure, but it left me wondering what I was building toward, if anything at all.
--
The pod lights were low that Thursday, casting a soft blue glow over the curved walls as I stepped in for my 3 p.m. session. My client was a guy named Daniel, a wiry dude in his late 20s with a buzz cut and a nervous smile. He was already settling onto the bench across from me, fumbling with his VR headset. I gave him a quick nod--part of the job was putting them at ease--before slipping into the changing room. His girlfriend, Mia, was in Chicago, and today she was wearing a loose gray sweater and jeans. I swapped my uniform for the same, the fabric soft against my skin, and clipped my hair back to match the ponytail she'd pulled hers into.
Back in the pod, I slid my own headset on, a lightweight band that hugged my temples and buzzed faintly as it powered up. The world shifted, and there she was: Mia's virtual shape blooming into view. She was shorter than me, curvier, with a freckled nose and warm brown eyes. The overlay kicked in fast--green holographic lines tracing her outline, guiding me. It wasn't just her body I had to mimic; it was her breath, her little habits, the way she tilted her head when she laughed. The system fed me everything through the headset, syncing me to her in real-time as she sat in her own pod halfway across the country.
Daniel reached out, his hands shaky but eager, and I followed the overlay, lifting my arms to match Mia's. His fingers brushed mine, and I felt the tiny haptic patches on my elbows--stuck there with medical-grade bandaids--vibrate faintly, nudging me to adjust my angle. Early on, that stuff threw me off; I'd overshoot a movement or forget to breathe like her, and the sync would stutter. But by now, a few weeks in, it was smoother. I inhaled when Mia did, shallow and quick, mirroring the rise and fall of her chest as Daniel's hands slid up my arms.
He pulled me into a hug, and the overlay flared brighter, showing me how Mia leaned into him--her cheek against his shoulder, her arms looping loose around his waist. I pressed in, matching her, feeling the warmth of his body through the sweater. The haptic patches buzzed at my knees, telling me to shift my weight forward, and I did, letting him squeeze tighter. His breath hitched, and I adjusted mine to Mia's, a little slower now, softer, as she relaxed into him. It was like dancing with a ghost I couldn't see, only feel through tech and touch.
Then he tilted his head, going for a kiss, and the overlay zoomed in--Mia's lips parting slightly, her chin lifting. I followed, my lips brushing his, soft and tentative, the way she did it. The haptics pulsed at my elbows, keeping me steady, and I matched her rhythm, her little exhale as he deepened the kiss. His hands stayed on my back, respectful but firm, and I held the pose, breathing with her, moving with her, until he pulled away, a goofy grin spreading across his face. The session ended there, the headset dimming, and I peeled it off, my skin still buzzing from the sync.
--
The "Mind the Gap" hub was a strange little world tucked inside that waterfront warehouse, a mix of sterile tech and lived-in chaos. The main floor was all sleek pods and glowing panels, but the edges told a different story--cracked concrete, stacks of spare headsets in battered crates, and a faint salty tang from the bay creeping through the vents. Upstairs was the break room, a cramped nook with a sagging couch, a coffee machine that hissed like it was mad at you, and a window smeared with years of rain streaks. We'd crowd in there between shifts, trading stories over stale donuts and burnt espresso, the air thick with the hum of machinery below.
My colleagues were a mixed bag, a crew of drifters and dreamers all drawn to the gig for different reasons. There was Sasha, a tall girl with a shaved head and a laugh that could cut glass--she'd been a dancer before injuries sidelined her, and now she proxied with a grace I envied. Then there was Ravi, a quiet guy with dark circles under his eyes and a knack for fixing glitchy headsets; he'd mutter about his old coding job like it was a lost love. And Lena--not my client's Lena, but ours--a bubbly redhead who'd bounce between pods like she was hosting a party, always sneaking gum into sessions even though it was against protocol. We weren't tight, not really, but there was a camaraderie, a shared understanding of the weirdness we waded through every day.
Then there was Victor, the boss. He was in his 40s, all sharp jawline and slicked-back hair, with eyes that pinned you in place like a butterfly on a board. He ran the place with this easy swagger, voice smooth as melted caramel, but there was steel underneath. My first week, he'd caught me fumbling a sync--breath off, elbows too stiff--and instead of barking, he'd leaned in close, adjusting the haptic patches himself, his fingers brushing my arm as he murmured, "You'll get it. Just feel it." It wasn't flirty, not exactly, but it left me flustered, my pulse jumping under his gaze.
