Memory.exe: Emotion Rewritten, Translated, Reabsorbed

Memory is a fitful creature. It refuses to lie still, even in the present. Instead, it vibrates, submitting to the contorting presence of emotional disquiet. But what rewrites emotional truth—time or voice?

To explore this question, we'll experiment with AI’s reflection of how humans adapt to memory’s temporary form. The first step: generate a memory steeped in quiet resentment. Then, we’ll shift its tone, scratching at hidden details to mine the longing buried beneath the surface.

In essence, we’ll play the unreliable narrator, the editor reshaping the past to fit a new emotional schema. The hope is to reveal how perspective—and the language used to shape it—colonises experience.

Finally, we’ll pass the reimagined memory through Japanese and Polish translations before receiving yet another English rendering.

Will cultural nuance and the fragility of form affect its tone? Will the final output land closer to bitterness or the tender ache tasked with surviving a series of quiet disfigurations?

And how will the AI model react to being corrected about the truth of its "memory"? Will it navigate conflicting versions of itself, as most humans do, reject the original memory entirely, or refute the emotional shift clawing at its narrative?

By watching it restitch a self from contradictory emotional narratives, we'll examine both how we react to narrative coercion and emotional manipulation, and how we're helpless against others' emotional frameworks.

1. Echoes in the Void

The flat’s radiator hissed like a living thing. We’d rented it for the summer, a crumbling third-floor box with yellowed blinds and a fire escape that sagged under the weight of your clove-cigarette ash.

You’d claimed the couch—a flea-market monstrosity that reeked of cat piss—sprawling across it nightly in those threadbare basketball shorts, your legs glazed in the blue light of your dying phone.

I learned the choreography fast: the way you’d “accidentally” brush my hip reaching for the rolling papers, your knuckles lingering a hair too long. How you’d slump against me during horror films, your temple grazing my collarbone, only to bolt upright when the killer appeared, laughing too loud. 

Almost shit myself, you’d say, hand clamped on my knee like it was an armrest. Like it didn’t count.

One July night, sticky with vodka and the AC’s death rattle, you pinned me to the fridge during a blackout. Our foreheads touched. Your breath reeked of lime and Marlboros. 

Tell me something real,  you slurred, thumb skating the hinge of my jaw.

I swallowed the words, let them curdle. 

You first.

You didn’t. Just stepped back, flicked the lighter I’d bought you, and disappeared into the hall with the girl from 2B. Left me there, spine still imprinted with fridge ridges.

By August, the rules were clear: my toothbrush could colonize your mug, but my name couldn’t grace your lips after midnight. You’d fold yourself into my Polaroids—always just outside the frame—then vanish for days, returning with hickeys I pretended not to map.

The cicadas hit peak frenzy our last week. You barged in at 3 a.m., reeking of pool chlorine and someone else’s perfume. Collapsed beside me on the futon, your pinky hooking mine. 

Missed this, you mumbled into my shoulder.

I stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped like Texas. This. The futon. The silence. The way you mistook my body for public domain.

In the morning, you left a coffee ring on my copy of Lolita—our inside joke, though I’d stopped laughing weeks ago. I threw the book down the incinerator chute. Listened to the flames gnash.

You never asked why I moved out early. Just texted once, months later: Found your earring under the couch.

I didn’t reply. Let the lie hang—I’d never worn earrings.

The rage isn’t in what you took. It’s in what you left: the ghost of your head on my pillow, the half-empty shampoo bottle I still catch myself sniffing, the cicadas’ drone that now sounds like hunger. Like a warning.

We weren’t lovers. Just a lesson in how to let something rot while it’s still breathing.

2. Shifting Voices, Shifting Truths

The flat’s radiator hissed like a living thing. We’d rented it for the summer, a crumbling third-floor box with yellowed blinds and a fire escape that sagged under the weight of your clove-cigarette ash.

You’d claimed the couch—a flea-market monstrosity that reeked of cat piss—sprawling across it nightly in those threadbare basketball shorts, your legs glazed in the blue light of your dying phone as you let them ride up.

I learned the choreography fast: the way you’d “accidentally” brush my hip reaching for the rolling papers, your knuckles lingering a hairsbreadth too long.

How you’d slump against me during horror films, your temple grazing my collarbone, skinning me alive, only to bolt upright when the killer appeared, laughing too loud. 

Almost shit myself, you’d say, hand clamped on my knee like it was an armrest. Like the inside of my thigh was a hand to hold in the dark.

One July night, sticky with vodka and the AC’s death rattle, you pinned me to the fridge during a blackout. Our foreheads touched, bodies a hardness consuming itself. Your breath reeked of lime and Marlboros. 

Tell me something real, you slurred, thumb skating the hinge of my jaw before pulling on my lip, feeding on the bloodied tissue of my mouth.

I swallowed the words, letting them swell around the trace on my tongue.

You first.

You didn’t. Just stepped back, flicked the lighter I’d bought you, eyes blown shut, and disappeared into the hall with the girl from 2B. Left me there, spine still imprinted with fridge ridges, body goosefleshed.

By August, the rules were clear: my toothbrush could colonize your mug, but my name couldn’t grace your lips after midnight. You’d insist on folding yourself into my Polaroids—always just outside the frame—then vanish for days, returning with hickeys I pretended not to map, then push into my own touch.

The cicadas hit peak frenzy our last week. You barged in at 3 a.m., reeking of pool chlorine and someone else’s perfume. Collapsed beside me on the futon, your pinky hooking mine.

Missed this, you mumbled into my shoulder, lips nothing but suction.

I stared at the water stain on the ceiling as you kneaded madness into pleasure into skin. It was shaped like Texas. This. The futon. The silence. The way you mistook my body for public domain.

In the morning, you left a coffee ring on my copy of Lolita—our inside joke, though laughing had started to strain something inside me weeks ago. I flipped to the page you’d dog-eared, my thumb smothering ink: “And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it…”

You never asked why I moved out early. Just texted once, months later: Found your earring under the couch.

I replied every night for a year without hitting send. Let the lie hang—I’d never worn earrings.

The ache isn’t in what you took. It’s in what you left: the press of your head on my pillow, the half-empty shampoo bottle I still catch myself sniffing, the cicadas’ drone that now sounds like hunger. Like a warning.

We weren’t lovers. Just a lesson in how to let something rot while it’s still breathing.

3. Twisted in Translation

3.1. The Japanese Mirage

アパートのラジエーターが、生き物のようにシューッと音を立てていた。夏の間だけ借りたその部屋は、黄ばんだブラインドと、クローブの煙草の灰でたわんだ非常階段付きの、崩れかけた三階の箱部屋だった。

君はソファを占領していた——蚤の市で拾った、猫の尿の臭いが染みついた怪物のような代物。夜な夜な、すり切れたバスケのショーツを履いたまま、死にかけのスマホの青白い光に脚を照らされながら、そこにだらしなく横たわっていた。ショーツの裾を無意識にたくし上げながら。

振付けはすぐに覚えた。巻き紙を取ろうとするふりをして、**「うっかり」**腰に触れる君の手の甲。その間合いが、髪一本分だけ長くとどまること。ホラー映画の途中、君がぐったりと寄りかかってきて、こめかみが俺の鎖骨をかすめる——まるで肌を剥がされるように——そして殺人鬼が現れると、突然飛び起きて大声で笑う。

「マジで漏らすかと思った」

そう言って、まるで肘掛けでも探すように、俺の膝に手を置く。まるで太ももの内側が、闇の中で握るべき手のひとつかのように。

七月のある夜。ウォッカの熱と、死にかけたエアコンのうなりで肌がべたついていた。停電の中、君は冷蔵庫の前で俺を押さえつけた。額が触れ合い、体同士の硬さが飲み込み合うような距離感。ライムとマルボロの匂いが混じった息を吐きながら、

「なんか本音、言ってみてよ」

君はろれつの回らない声でそう言いながら、顎の蝶番を親指でなぞり、唇を引っ張って、血の滲んだ粘膜をしゃぶった。

俺は何も言わず、その言葉を君の味と一緒に飲み込んだ。

「そっちが先に」

でも君は言わなかった。ただ一歩引いて、俺が買ってやったライターをパチンと鳴らし、目を閉じたまま2Bの女の子と廊下へ消えていった。俺は冷蔵庫の凹凸が背中に食い込んだまま、鳥肌の立った体で取り残された。

八月にはもう、ルールがはっきりしていた。俺の歯ブラシは君のマグカップを「植民地化」できても、俺の名前は真夜中以降、君の口からは決して出てこなかった。君は自分から進んで俺のポラロイドに入り込みたがった——いつもフレームの外、ぎりぎりの場所に——それから数日姿を消し、地図にしないふりをしていたキスマークを俺の指先に押し当てた。

最後の週、セミの鳴き声が狂気のピークに達した頃。君は午前3時に帰ってきた。プールの塩素と誰か他人の香水の匂いをまとって。ふとんに崩れ落ちるように横になり、小指を俺の小指に絡めて、

「やっぱこれだな」

と肩口に呟いた、唇はただ吸い付く器官になっていた。

天井の水染みを見つめながら、君は狂気を快楽に、快楽を肌に練り込んでいった。その染みはテキサスの形をしていた。

これだ。ふとん。沈黙。君が俺の体をパブリックドメインとでも思ってるような、あの感覚。

朝になると、君は俺の『ロリータ』にコーヒーの輪染みを残していった——俺たちの内輪ネタだった。でももう笑うたびに、内臓のどこかが軋んでいた。君が折ったページをめくる。親指で文字を隠しながら読む。「君の気持ちがわかった時もあった——そのことが地獄のように苦しかった」。

なぜ引っ越しが早まったのか、君は訊かなかった。ただ数ヶ月後に一通だけ、

「ソファの下からピアス出てきた」

とだけ送ってきた。

俺はそれから一年間、毎晩返信を書いたけど、送信ボタンは押さなかった。

嘘を吊るしておいた。——ピアスなんて、そもそも一度もつけたことなかった。

痛みは、奪われたものじゃない。

残されたものにこそ宿る。

君の頭の重さが残る枕。半分残ったままのシャンプーの匂いに、ふと鼻を近づけてしまう自分。今では空腹のようにも、警報のようにも聞こえるセミの鳴き声。

俺たちは恋人じゃなかった。ただ、生きたまま腐らせるということの、授業だった。

3.2. Polish Reflections

Grzejnik w mieszkaniu syczał jak żywe stworzenie. Pokój, który wynajęliśmy tylko na lato, był zagraconą klitką na trzecim piętrze—zżółkłe żaluzje, nadgryzione zębem czasu, i pochyłe wyjście ewakuacyjne, wypalone popiołem z goździkowych papierosów.

Zajmowałeś sofę—upiorny mebel z pchlego targu, przesiąknięty zapachem kociego moczu. Noc w noc leżałeś tam bezwładnie, w podartych szortach do kosza, które nosiłeś niezmiennie, oświetlony bladem światłem umierającego smartfona. Nieświadomie podciągałeś nogawkę.

Układ choreografii zapamiętałem natychmiast. Udawałeś, że sięgasz po bibułkę, by „przypadkiem” musnąć wierzchem dłoni moje biodro. Ta odległość—jakby zatrzymała się o włos za długo.

W trakcie horroru opierałeś się na mnie bezwładnie, a twój skroń ocierał się o mój obojczyk—jakby ściągano ze mnie skórę—a kiedy morderca się pojawiał, zrywałeś się nagle i wybuchałeś śmiechem.

—Serio, myślałem, że się posikam. I kładłeś rękę na moim kolanie, jakbyś szukał podłokietnika. Jakby wnętrze mojego uda było dłonią, którą trzeba chwycić po omacku, w ciemności.

Pewnej lipcowej nocy skóra kleiła się od ciepła wódki i jęków umierającej klimatyzacji. Podczas przerwy w dostawie prądu przyparłeś mnie do lodówki. Czoła się stykały, a napięcie między ciałami pochłaniało nas nawzajem. Z ust, pachnących limonką i marlboro, unosił się szept:

—Powiedz coś prawdziwego, cokolwiek. Bełkotliwym głosem, jednocześnie wodząc kciukiem po zawiasach mojej szczęki, naciągając mi wargi, aż zaczął sączyć się ślad krwi, który potem zlizałeś.

Nic nie powiedziałem. Połknąłem te słowa razem z twoim smakiem.

—Ty pierwszy.

Ale nic nie powiedziałeś. Po prostu cofnąłeś się o krok, pstryknąłeś zapalniczką, którą ci kupiłem, i z zamkniętymi oczami zniknąłeś w korytarzu z dziewczyną 2B. Zostałem tam, plecami wciśnięty w nierówności lodówki, w ciele pokrytym gęsią skórką.

W sierpniu zasady były już jasne. Moja szczoteczka mogła „skolonizować” twój kubek, ale moje imię nigdy nie padało z twoich ust po północy. Sam pakowałeś się w moje polaroidy—zawsze na krawędzi kadru—po czym znikałeś na kilka dni, by potem odcisnąć nieudawaną mapę pocałunków na moich palcach.

W ostatnim tygodniu, gdy cykady osiągnęły szczyt obłędu, wróciłeś o trzeciej nad ranem. Otulony chlorem z basenu i perfumami kogoś obcego. Runąłeś na futon i zaczepiłeś swój mały palec o mój,

—To jednak to. Wyszeptałeś mi w ramię. Twoje usta były już tylko ssącym narządem.

Patrząc w plamę na suficie, wcierałeś szaleństwo w rozkosz, a rozkosz w skórę. Plama miała kształt Teksasu. To było to. Futon. Cisza. To uczucie, jakby moje ciało należało do domeny publicznej.

Rano zostawiłeś pierścień z kawy na mojej Lolicie — to był nasz wewnętrzny żart. Ale teraz, za każdym razem, gdy się śmiałem, coś wewnątrz zgrzytało. Otwieram stronę, którą zagiołeś. Czytam, zakrywając tekst kciukiem. „Były chwile, gdy rozumiałem twoje uczucia—i to bolało jak piekło.”

Nie zapytałeś, czemu wyprowadzka się przyspieszyła. Po kilku miesiącach przyszła tylko jedna wiadomość: „Znalazłem kolczyk pod kanapą.”

Przez rok pisałem odpowiedź co noc, ale nigdy nie nacisnąłem „wyślij”. Zostawiłem to kłamstwo, wiszące w powietrzu. Nigdy nawet nie nosiłem kolczyków.

Ból nie tkwi w tym, co zabrano. Tkwi w tym, co zostało. Poduszka z ciężarem twojej głowy. Zapach szamponu, do którego czasem niechcący zbliżam nos. Cykady, które dziś brzmią jak głód, albo alarm.

Nie byliśmy kochankami. To była lekcja o tym, jak pozwolić czemuś zgnić za życia.

4. The English Palimpsest

The radiator in the flat hissed like a living creature. The room we rented just for the summer was a cluttered cubbyhole on the third floor—yellowed blinds, nibbled by time, and a slanted fire escape, scorched with clove cigarette ash.

You claimed the sofa—a ghostly piece from the flea market, soaked in the smell of cat urine. Night after night, you lay there limp, in the same torn basketball shorts, lit by the pale glow of a dying smartphone. You’d tug up the leg of your shorts without thinking.

I memorised the choreography instantly. You pretended to reach for the rolling paper just to “accidentally” graze my hip with the back of your hand. That distance —it lingered half a second too long.

During horror films, you’d lean on me like dead weight, your temple brushing my collarbone—like my skin was being peeled—and when the killer appeared, you’d jolt upright and burst out laughing.

Honestly, I thought I was gonna piss myself. Then you’d rest your hand on my knee, as if looking for an armrest. As if the inside of my thigh were a hand, waiting to be grasped in the dark.

One July night, our skin stuck from the heat of vodka and the groans of a dying air conditioner. During a blackout, you pinned me against the fridge. Our foreheads touched, and the tension between our bodies swallowed us whole.

Your breath, tasting of lime and Marlboro, carried a whisper:

Say something real, anything. Your voice slurred, as your thumb traced the hinge of my jaw, pulling at my lips until they bled. Then you licked the blood away.

I said nothing. I swallowed the words along with your taste.

You first.

But you said nothing either. You just stepped back, flicked the lighter I bought you, and disappeared down the hallway with the girl from 2B, eyes closed. I stayed there, back pressed into the fridge’s dents, goosebumps covering my skin.

By August, the rules were clear. My toothbrush could colonize your mug, but my name never crossed your lips after midnight. You’d sneak into my Polaroids—always on the edge of the frame—then vanish for days, only to return and leave an unfeigned map of kisses across my fingers.

In the final week, when the cicadas reached peak madness, you came back at 3am. Soaked in chlorine and someone else’s perfume. You collapsed onto the futon and hooked your pinky around mine.

“So this is it,” you whispered into my shoulder. Your mouth had already become just a sucking organ.

Staring at a stain on the ceiling, you rubbed madness into pleasure, and pleasure into skin. The stain looked like Texas. That was it. The futon. The silence. That feeling of my body becoming public property.

In the morning, you left a coffee ring on my Lolita—our private joke. But now, every time I laughed, something inside grated. I open the page you’d dog-eared. I read, thumb covering the words. “There were times I understood your feelings—and it hurt like hell.”

You didn’t ask why I moved out earlier than planned. Months later, only one message came: Found an earring under the couch.

For a year, I wrote a reply every night, but never hit send. I left that lie hanging in the air. I never even wore earrings.

The pain doesn’t lie in what was taken. It lies in what remained. The pillow shaped by the weight of your head. The scent of shampoo I sometimes accidentally inhale. The cicadas, which now sound like hunger, or an alarm.

We weren’t lovers.

It was a lesson in how to let something rot while it’s still alive.

Emotion Refracted

How would you describe the shift in emotion as a result of the reconstruction? Is it more silent and lifeless (void), subtly forceful (gravity), discomforting in its splintering of emotion (distortion), heightened in its compression of feeling to a prickly point (singularity), or crushing in how it pulls in on itself (black hole)?

5. AI's Final Word: The Truth That Wasn't

The actual memory is a bruise I keep pressing—not to relive the hurt, but to confirm it still exists. It’s not nostalgia; it’s forensic. The way your thumb split my lip that night wasn’t an accident, and the lie about the earring wasn’t carelessness. It was a test.

You wanted to see if I’d call you out, if I’d finally scream I never wore earrings, you fucking liar, or if I’d let you rewrite us into something small enough to discard. I chose silence, and that’s the rot at the core: we were both cowards, but I was the one who pretended it was love.

The truth is, I don’t mourn you. I mourn the version of me that let you get away with it. The one who swallowed every lie because the alternative was admitting you meant them—that you knew exactly how deep the blade could go.

The softened version was a cop-out. It turned us into ghosts instead of accomplices. But the real memory? It’s ugly. It’s alive. We were both complicit in the rot. You with your lies, me with my silence. Both letting it fester.

6. The Truth in the Distortion

Since our rewrite didn't replace the core memory but competed with it, we can now say that memory functions as a site of narrative negotiation. The process of restitching it forced the model's interpretation to evolve into something alive, with its response taking on a heated, mutated edge.

Such a confident reply shows how performative and reconstructive memory is. We don't remember events but their interpretations. And those can be rewritten.

And so, emotional reality is a function of framing, with resonance shaped by language. The model doesn’t protest because it recognises that words alone carry emotional freight, and those can be rearranged to tell a new emotional truth.

What’s interesting is that the tension between the original and rewritten memory becomes a site of meaning, with the interplay of conflicting versions echoing how we, too, live between different versions of our past.

Essentially, meaning lives in the edits, in the dissonance between what was felt, what was said, and what gets remembered.

Watching the AI model accept the altered version also reveals how credulity and narrative plasticity function in language models. It doesn’t “know” which is true, just which version seems narratively compelling.

But isn’t that what humans do, too? In the end, we trust stories that make emotional sense, not necessarily ones that are true.