Allergic To Love

Swift’s POV "Mr. Swift. Remove your hat and mask.” Dr. Lansbury’s tone was clipped, official, and demanding. I sat there in silence, my gloves tightening into fists. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he pressed. Slowly, reluctantly, I pulled off the hat. Then the mask. The air felt colder against my face. Dr. Ben squinted at me. “He’s… seriously allergic to human contact? Does such an allergy even exist? The name of this ‘disease’ isn’t even written on the diagnosis.” The head officer leaned forward. “As a dermatologist, I’ve never seen it. Sure, I’ve heard of mental illness claims for service exemption—but this?” They were whispering like I wasn’t even there, like I was some circus freak. Heat rushed to my chest. I stood, tugged off my gloves, unbuttoned my shirt, and yanked it open. Their faces paled. “Sit down, Mr. Swift!” Lansbury barked, his voice breaking slightly. But I kept walking toward them, my pulse hammering. Fear shimmered in their eyes as they tried to rise. “Sit down!” I grabbed Lansbury’s wrist. For a split second, silence hung in the air—then fire raced across my skin. Boils erupted along my arm, neck, and face—angry red, like a lightning strike burned into flesh. The officers shouted, chairs clattering. “Is it possible for me to enlist in the Marines?” I asked, my voice low, trembling but stubborn. “All together—no. Absolutely not,” they cried. I released him, gasping. “This only happens when I touch humans. It worsens the longer the contact. It cannot be prevented. Only… relieved.” I straightened, though my breath came heavy. “But it is not contagious.” And I walked out. They call me charming. Handsome. The neighbor who always smiles, waves, and wears black. They don’t know that the smile is just armor. At home, I celebrated birthdays alone—with my machines. I watched movies, paused on the kissing scenes, pressed my lips against a pillow, and whispered, “I’m not alone.” But I was. God, I was. “If the world ends,” I often thought, “let it end with me still standing. Alone. Always alone.” June’s POV A college kid next to me fidgeted, desperate. “I need to go to the restroom.” “Go,” I told her, sliding into his spot. “I’ll hold your seat.” Easy enough, I was here for business anyway. Limited editions. “What’s the queue for?” a stranger asked. “Limited edition figures,” I answered, slipping him my card. “Call me if you ever want one. I always deliver.” He looked at the card, eyebrows shooting up. “You’re President Jo? The famous one? Wow. You’re younger—and prettier—than I expected.” I grinned. Delivery girl, trader of rare toys—that was me. President Jo. Later, I picked up a figure for a client. When I arrived at the destination, he sat in his car, hidden. “Place it in the backseat,” he said curtly. “No. Cash first.” “I’ve already paid. I’ll even double your commission—for direct dealing. But only if the packaging is perfect.” I rolled my eyes, shoving the box through the window. “It’s flawless. You’ll see.” He pulled out a magnifying mirror—like a man obsessed. Then he shouted, “No! No! This is unacceptable!” My jaw clenched. “Sir, I worked all night. Give me my $300 commission.” “I can’t.” “What?” My voice rose. “There’s a stain. This is worthless now. You failed our contract.” He glared at me, anger tightening his features. I laughed bitterly. “That box was fine until you touched it. What is this? A scam?” I bowed mockingly. “Sorry, Mr. Man, let me apologize properly—” I bared my teeth. “Like hell I will. You’re the scammer!” His eyes hardened. “I can forgive mistakes. But not lies.” “You locked the door?” I shouted as the click echoed. “You think you can run off with it? Without paying me?” He lowered the window just enough to sneer. “I won’t give a single penny to a con artist.” Fury surged through me. I banged the glass with my fists. “I’ll write about you everywhere! Repent, you trash!” The car lurched forward. The impact threw me to the ground. Pain shot through me like fire. He froze, staring in the mirror. “Did I hit her? No… no, no.” Shaking, he got out, gloved, holding a baton. He prodded me. My eyes snapped open. I grabbed the baton, yanking him down. “My goodness,” I whispered, staring into his startled eyes. “You’re… so handsome.” “Let go of me!” he stammered. But I clung harder. “I’ll kill you!” He shoved me off, scrambled into the car. I latched onto his collar through the window, breath ragged. “I once took a plank to the chest just to get my money! Do you think I’ll let you off easy?” “Don’t touch me!” he cried, panic wild in his eyes. He shoved the door into me, breaking free. His car screeched away. I lay there, shaking with rage. “Give me my money, you punk!” Swift’s POV My lungs heaved as I swallowed pills. Dr. Alex’s office felt suffocating. “You had no reaction,” he said calmly. “Those were pimples.” “No. I touched her,” I muttered. He handed me a detector watch. “This will monitor any reactions when you touch someone.” I shoved it back. “I don’t need it. I’ll remain a monster. I’ll die alone.” Alex studied me. “Perhaps there’s one woman who wouldn’t mind.” “If she exists,” I said bitterly, “she wouldn’t be normal either.” June’s POV “That thief,” I spat. “You’ll never sleep peacefully again. My grudge will curse you.” ****** A letter arrived for Swift. Dylan Shipbuilding. Inside, a cassette. He pressed play. A voice crackled, announcing the T–3 Robot Exhibition. “I am that robot’s new owner,” Swift murmured. The next day, I—Director Swift—walked into Santa Maria. A robot greeted me. My chest tightened. “I told you to get rid of these toys. I only want to see T–3,” I barked. No answer. Only a voice from the shadows: “Are you Mr. Swift?” Lights flickered on. Another figure stepped forward. A woman’s silhouette. No—something else. Her movements were fluid, eerily human. “Are you Director Swift?” she asked softly, scanning me. “Stay away from me!” I hissed. “Do I look like a human?” she countered. “The more you think I am, the better I’m doing. I am T–3, an android created by Dr. Victor.” “Impossible,” I whispered. “Victor said you liked me. Do you like me?” She smiled. My laugh cracked. “You’re pretending. Don’t you think I know the difference?” “Then watch.” She unzipped her dress. The fabric slid to the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut. When I dared to open them— I froze. My heart stuttered. Because staring back at me was not just a robot. It was… her.