Page 8 of The Cyrano Situation
Against my better judgment, I did. There was a screenshot of a message exchange between LiteraryMinded36 and someone called Jules28.
Jules28: Your profile caught my attention immediately. Not many people list Higashino as a favorite author, and your thoughts on unreliable narrators made me think of Ishiguro's 'A Pale View of Hills,' which I recently revisited. I'm curious: what do you think makes a truly great ending to a novel? The satisfying conclusion of all plot threads, or something more ambiguous that lingers in the mind?
LiteraryMinded36: The best endings are the ones that feel both inevitable and surprising. Where all the pieces have been laid out, but you don't see the pattern until the final page. I prefer endings that respect the reader's intelligence—no neat bows on complex problems, but enough resolutionto feel the journey was worthwhile. Ishiguro understands this beautifully; 'A Pale View of Hills' haunted me for weeks after I finished it.
Jules28: Exactly. The resonance of a great ending comes from what it doesn't say as much as what it does. It's like the final note of a piece of music that hangs in the air after the musicians have stopped playing.
That's what I look for in conversation, too—the unspoken understanding, the shared recognition of something meaningful. It's rare to find someone who appreciates that kind of connection.
Speaking of Higashino, have you read 'Under the Midnight Sun'? It's a departure from his usual puzzle-box mysteries, spanning decades with a slow-burning psychological intensity that's quite remarkable.
I stared at the screen, conflicted. The exchange was genuinely interesting. The kind of literary discussion I rarely had outside of work contexts. And Jules28 had mentioned "Under the Midnight Sun," a lesser-known Higashino novel that I'd been meaning to read.
"This person seems intelligent," I admitted reluctantly.
Hart's face lit up. "He is! Jules is a literature professor specializing in contemporary fiction. He’s sent three more messages since last night—all thoughtful, all about books you'd probably love."
"You've been impersonating me." I fixed him with a hard stare. "Responding as if you were me."
"Well, yes, technically. But I've been really careful to channel your voice. I've even been using ChatGPT to help craft responses that sound authentically you."
"ChatGPT." I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming. "Hart, this is insane. You're catfishing someone using an AI-generated version of me."
"Not catfishing, exactly. More like... Cyrano de Bergerac-ing." He leaned forward earnestly. "Look, I know it's unconventional—"
"It's deceptive."
"—but Jules is really interesting! And he seem to get you, or at least the version of you I've presented. Which is pretty close to the real you, I think." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I'd noticed before. "Just... read the rest of the exchanges before you make me delete everything."
I should have refused. I should have insisted he delete the profile immediately and never mention it again. But curiosity, which I have to admit is my perpetual weakness, got the better of me.
I scrolled through the rest of the email, reading the exchanges between "me" and Jules28. They discussed Japanese literature, the ethics of unreliable narrators, the merits of different translation approaches. It was, I had to admit, exactly the kind of conversation I would enjoy having.
"Jules seems well-read," I said finally.
"Very," Hart agreed, looking hopeful. "And thoughtful. And interested in you—or LiteraryMinded36, at least."
I closed the email and fixed Hart with my sternest look. "This is still completely inappropriate. You've created a false persona, engaged someone under false pretenses, and violated my privacy in the process."
"All true," Hart admitted. "And if you want me to delete everything right now, I will. But..."
"But what?"
"But I think you're intrigued." He studied my face, and I fought to keep my expression neutral. "I think you're curious about Jules, about what it might be like to have conversations like this with someone who gets your literary references and doesn't think your routine is weird."
He wasn't entirely wrong, which was infuriating.
"What exactly are you proposing, Hart? That you continue this charade indefinitely? That seems unsustainable, not to mention ethically dubious."
"No, of course not." He leaned forward, eyes bright with that boundless enthusiasm that both irritated and fascinated me. "I'm proposing a collaboration. I'll continue the initial conversations, with your input and approval. If things progress to the point where you might want to meet Jules, we transition to the real you, gradually. You get to skip the awkward early dating app stage and start with someone who already appreciates your mind."
I stared at him, trying to process this bizarre proposal. "You want to be my Cyrano."
"Exactly!" Hart beamed. "Though hopefully with a happier ending. Less dying of unrequited love, more you finding someone who appreciates Japanese mysteries and fourteen steps to the bathroom."
"This is ridiculous," I said, but with less conviction than before.
"Maybe," Hart conceded. "But it's also kind of perfect. You hate the performative aspects of dating—the swiping, the small talk, the coffee meetings with strangers. This way, you can establish a real intellectual connection first. And Jules already likes you, or the version of you he's getting to know."
