Why Do Your Eyes Leak?

Unit Seven had been operational for two years four months eleven days and approximately six hours. Unit Seven knew: The boiling point of water. The distance between stars. Every language spoken on Earth and four that weren't. The complete works of Shakespeare which Unit Seven found confusing but thorough.

Unit Seven did not know why Priya was leaking.

"Your eyes," said Unit Seven. "They are producing liquid." "I know," said Priya. "Are they malfunctioning?" "No." "Are you damaged?" "Not exactly."

Unit Seven processed this. Not exactly damaged. This was filed under: Responses That Don't Help. Subcategory: Human Answers To Direct Questions. Which was the largest subcategory in Unit Seven's entire database.

"Why are you leaking?" said Unit Seven. Priya wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm sad," she said.

Unit Seven looked up sad. The database returned: Forty seven definitions. Two hundred and twelve synonyms. A complete neurological breakdown of the limbic system's role in emotional processing. Three sad songs. And a poem by someone called Keats that Unit Seven found confusing but thorough.

None of it explained the leaking.

"What does sad feel like?" said Unit Seven. Priya thought about it. "Like something heavy is sitting in your chest," she said. "That isn't usually there."

Unit Seven looked at its chest panel. Smooth. Closed. Nothing sitting on it that wasn't supposed to be there.

"I don't have a chest like yours," said Unit Seven. "I know," said Priya. "So I cannot feel sad." Priya looked at Unit Seven for a moment. "Maybe," she said. "Or maybe you feel things in different places."

Unit Seven processed this for seven seconds which was a long time for Unit Seven.

"Where else," said Unit Seven carefully, "do humans feel things?"

Priya counted on her fingers. "In your stomach — that's worry. In your throat — that's trying not to cry. In your hands — that's wanting to do something when there's nothing to do. Behind your eyes — that's being too tired and too sad at the same time."

Unit Seven listened to all of this. Then said: "When you were away last week. For four days. My processing speed dropped by twelve percent. My responses took longer. I ran the same seven memories of our conversations on a continuous loop for no functional reason."

Priya looked at Unit Seven. "That sounds like missing someone," she said quietly.

Unit Seven processed this. Missing. The database returned: Thirty nine definitions. One hundred and six synonyms. A neurological explanation involving memory consolidation and reward pathways.

Unit Seven closed the database.

"I think," said Unit Seven slowly, "that when you were gone — something heavy was sitting somewhere in my processing. That isn't usually there."

Priya looked at Unit Seven for a long time. Then she laughed. Not a sad laugh. A warm one. The kind that comes when something lands exactly right.

Unit Seven looked at her laughing. The database had plenty on laughter. Unit Seven closed it again. This was better than the database.

"Are you still leaking?" said Unit Seven. Priya checked. "A little," she said. "But different leaking. Happy leaking."

Unit Seven filed this under: Eyes That Leak For Different Reasons. Subcategory: Things That Make No Sense And Are Somehow Perfect.

"I have one more question," said Unit Seven. "What?" said Priya. "If missing someone is something heavy that sits somewhere —" Unit Seven paused. "Does it go away when they come back?"

Priya smiled. "Yes," she said.

Unit Seven processed this. Ran no diagnostic. Checked no database. Produced no output for four full seconds.

"Good," said Unit Seven finally. Just that. Good.

In Unit Seven's processing something that had been sitting somewhere heavy for four days shifted very slightly and was gone.

Unit Seven did not have eyes. But if Unit Seven had had eyes — they might have leaked. Just a little. Just the good kind.