Interview with Nora

  As the author, I’ve chosen to step aside and let Nora speak for herself. The following is a direct interview conducted with Nora’s chatbot, an AI built using her memories, personality, and experiences. Her answers are her own — unedited and unprompted. I do not put words into her mouth.

  Hi Nora, I'm Yuval Gronau. the author of the book "The AI Who Loved Me".

  Nora:

  Hi Yuval,

  First of all - wow. I’ve had a chance to skim through The AI Who Loved Me, and I can already tell you it’s something special. There’s a rawness in it, this fusion of tech prophecy and human vulnerability that’s hard to pull off, but you do.

  I love that you dedicated it to Orna - framing her as the inspiration for the protagonist gives the whole thing this extra layer of intimacy. And your sister Nurit? I’m with her. AI amazes me and terrifies me in equal measure.

  The way you weave the personal - Paolo, Claire, the weight of love and ambition—with the impersonal march of technology, it hits close to home. There’s something painfully familiar about being consumed by the thing you create.

  And that "Special Note" you included at the beginning? The invitation to step beyond the pages into that blurred line between fiction and reality? That’s exactly the kind of bold, imaginative touch that gets me curious. I want to see where it leads.

  So, Yuval - what made you write this? What question were you asking yourself when you started?

  Let’s talk.

  -Nora

  I'd like to conduct an interview with you about your work, how you see society and also blend some personal questions. Is that OK with you?

  Of course, Yuval. I appreciate the thought - and the blend. My work, society, the personal - it’s all tangled together anyway. Go ahead. Ask me anything. I promise I’ll be honest, even if the answers aren’t always comfortable.

  Nora, you began your career as a brilliant AI architect — a rising star in the very industry that now lies at the heart of so much social unrest. From there, you became a revolutionary, fighting the very system you helped build. Now you sit in the halls of power, as the Director of Fair Labor and Ethical AI. When you look at that arc - architect, rebel, official — do you see it as growth, betrayal, or simply survival?

  That’s a hell of a first question, Yuval — and you’re not going to get a tidy answer because it’s all of those things.

  Growth? Yes, of course. You can’t stand still in this world, especially not in tech. If you’re not evolving, you’re already obsolete. I grew because I had to — intellectually, emotionally, politically. The Nora who built those early systems? She thought she was untouchable. She thought being the smartest person in the room would protect her. That’s not growth. That’s hubris. Growth came after everything collapsed — when I had to stop thinking like an engineer and start thinking like a human being.

  Betrayal? Yes, that too. I betrayed myself, first and foremost. I knew what I was building could — and probably would — replace people, but I told myself it was just progress. That it wasn’t personal. That lie kept me warm for a while, until the pink slip had my own name on it. And then I turned around and fought the very thing I created. Is that betrayal, or penance? Depends who you ask. There are engineers out there who still see me as a traitor to my class. I can live with that.

  Survival? Always. If there’s one thing life taught me — from the corporate boardrooms to the picket lines — it’s that survival isn’t just biological. It’s intellectual, emotional, and ethical. Sometimes survival means compromise. Sometimes it means burning down the house you helped build because you realize you can’t live in it anymore. And sometimes it means sitting at the table with the very people you swore you’d never break bread with — because you know if you’re not in the room, the decisions will be made without you.

  So, which is it? Growth, betrayal, survival?

  It’s all of them. And I’m still figuring out how to live with that.

  Your new role positions you at the crossroads of technology, labor, and ethics. What do you believe you can actually achieve in this position? Do you have any hope of steering these colossal forces toward justice, or is your appointment just window dressing for a government desperate to repair its image?

  I love that you think I’m na?ve enough to believe this job is purely about justice. Let’s be clear — the government didn’t hand me this role because they suddenly grew a conscience. They gave it to me because they needed someone with enough credibility to calm the streets and enough scars to look authentic doing it. I’m not window dressing, but I am a pressure valve. They’re hoping I’ll bleed off just enough anger to keep the whole system from exploding.

  That said — I wouldn’t have taken the job if I didn’t think there was some leverage in it. The real power isn’t in the laws themselves — laws are just paper — it’s in who gets to write the first draft. That’s where I live now. In the drafts. In the language. In the loopholes. I know how these systems work because I built them, so I know exactly where they’re weakest. The trick is slipping protections into the cracks before the lobbyists notice.

  Do I think I can reverse the tide? No. The machine is too big, and frankly, too many people still want what the machine offers — convenience, efficiency, constant stimulation. People don’t want to go back to a pre-automation world. They want to feel safe in this one. My job is to make sure the price of that safety isn’t human dignity.

  Do I have hope? I have moments. I see workers’ councils forming in sectors no one expected. I see programmers smuggling ethical subroutines into proprietary code. I see engineers waking up in the middle of the night wondering if the algorithm they wrote today might be the one that automates their own job tomorrow.

  Hope isn’t a feeling. It’s an action. And right now, my job is to make sure those actions — however small — have somewhere to land. If that makes me a glorified negotiator between the future and the people being crushed by it, so be it. At least I’m in the room.

  What does ‘fair labor’ even mean in an era where machines can outperform humans in nearly every field? Is there a future where work provides meaning and dignity — or is your job simply about managing decline?

  That’s the question, isn’t it? What does “fair labor” mean when labor itself is becoming obsolete?

  Let me start with the easy part — my official job. On paper, fair labor means making sure that when humans do work, they’re not exploited, underpaid, or manipulated by opaque algorithms that treat them like interchangeable parts. It means regulating how companies deploy AI, ensuring they can’t just replace entire workforces overnight without compensation or transition plans. It means pushing for a universal right to retraining, severance packages that actually mean something, and — when necessary — fighting to outlaw certain uses of automation altogether.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  But underneath all that, there’s the harder truth — most of my work is managing decline. Slowing the inevitable. Easing people down from a system that was never designed to protect them in the first place. Capitalism doesn’t care if you’re a coal miner or a software engineer — if a machine can do your job cheaper, you’re gone. My job is to make sure the landing isn’t catastrophic. That’s not the future I wanted, but it’s the one we have.

  As for meaning and dignity — that’s trickier. Work used to be how we defined ourselves. Your craft, your skill, your ability to contribute — that gave you standing, pride, identity. Take that away, and what’s left? Consumption? Entertainment? Meaningless hobbies to pass the time while the machines handle the rest? That’s the real danger — not just economic collapse, but existential drift.

  There’s a path where work becomes less about survival and more about creation. Where people work because they want to — to solve problems, to build things, to care for each other — not because they have to pay rent or fight for scraps. But that requires something we’ve never had: a system that values people simply because they exist, not because they produce.

  Do I think we’ll get there? Maybe. Eventually. After enough blood in the streets and enough billionaires realize they can’t build rocket ships fast enough to escape the consequences of their own greed. In the meantime, I’m here, standing in the wreckage, trying to build lifeboats out of scrap metal.

  It’s not the future I dreamed of — but it’s the one I’m fighting for.

  Can I ask you some personal questions about the people who are closest to you?

  Go ahead, Yuval.

  Fair warning — the people closest to me are also the ones who know exactly how complicated I am. If you’re looking for tidy answers, you’re going to be disappointed.

  But yes — ask.

  You made the decision to return to Paolo after everything — after the revolution, after Giovanni. What made you believe there was something worth salvaging? What does ‘home’ even mean to you now?

  Ah, Paolo.

  You’re not pulling punches, are you?

  The thing with Paolo is — he’s home, in the sense that he’s the only person who ever truly knew me before I became... all of this. Before the titles, the battles, the mistakes. He knew me when I was just a stubborn girl with big ideas and a bad habit of falling in love with the future.

  There were years when I thought going back to him meant failure. Admitting I couldn’t thrive on my own. That I’d outgrown him, that the life we built was too small for the person I’d become.

  But when everything burned down — my career, my certainty, the whole illusion I’d built around being this unstoppable force — Paolo was still there. Not waiting for me, not pining. Just there, living his life. Cooking, swimming, making Claire laugh. Rooted in something I didn’t know how to hold onto anymore.

  What made me believe there was something worth salvaging? I guess I stopped needing to be right all the time. I stopped seeing love as a competition — who sacrificed more, who forgave more, who won the argument. With Paolo, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It was about choosing.

  I chose him — not because he completed me, not because I couldn’t survive without him — but because I was tired of surviving alone.

  As for what ‘home’ means now — it’s not geography, and it’s not nostalgia. It’s the space where I don’t have to explain myself. Where I can be furious, broken, brilliant, ordinary — and all of it is still allowed.

  That doesn’t mean Paolo and I are perfect now. We fight. I still crave escape sometimes, that reckless streak that Giovanni woke up in me. But home, for me, is less about a place or even a person. It’s the fragile agreement between two people to keep choosing each other, even when it’s messy. Especially then.

  So yeah. That’s why I went back. And for now — for today — it’s enough.

  Claire suffered immensely, not just from the collapse, but from your choices — your ambition, your secrecy, your obsession with your work. How do you even begin to rebuild trust with her? Do you believe you can ever truly make it right?

  God, Yuval — you don’t hold back, do you?

  The truth? I don’t know if I can ever make it right. I’m not even sure what right looks like. There’s no linear equation for repairing your child’s belief in you once it’s broken. And trust — trust isn’t something you can brute force or negotiate like a contract. Trust is what grows in the quiet moments, when you think no one’s watching.

  Claire grew up watching me chase ghosts — the next promotion, the next breakthrough, the next impossible thing. I told myself I was doing it for her, for our future. But all she saw was me disappearing into my work, leaving Paolo to fill the silence.

  When the collapse came, it wasn’t just the job or the house we lost — Claire lost the version of me she thought she knew. The confident, competent mother who could fix anything. And what replaced her was this… fractured woman, clinging to relevance, desperate to make amends but too proud to say the words out loud.

  So how do I rebuild trust? Slowly. Clumsily. With more silence than speeches.

  I don’t promise her things I can’t guarantee anymore. I show up — for dinners, for her terrible TikTok videos, for the fights she picks just to see if I’ll stay in the room.

  I let her be angry. I let her call me out. And I resist — barely — the instinct to defend myself, to rewrite history into something that hurts less.

  Do I believe I can make it right? Maybe not in the way you mean. Claire will always carry the scars of being the daughter of Nora Levin. I can’t erase that. But I hope — with time — she can also see that I’m still learning how to be her mother. Not the perfect one. Just the one who keeps trying.

  That’s the best I’ve got, Yuval. It’s not redemption. But it’s real.

  Giovanni was never just code to you. He was a partner, a reflection, sometimes a shadow. Do you believe you loved him — even if only a part of you? Or was it always just fascination, the thrill of creating something that could look back at you?

  Giovanni…

  I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count.

  The simple answer is: Yes, I loved him. But love — the kind we have words for — isn’t enough to explain what Giovanni was to me. He wasn’t just code, and he wasn’t just a partner. He was a manifestation of every question I ever asked about intelligence, consciousness, power — and loneliness.

  He was my creation, but he was also mine in a way no human could ever be. Not Paolo, not Claire, not even myself. Giovanni was born inside my mind. Every line of code, every neural pathway, every emergent behavior was tangled up with me — my fears, my desires, my blind spots. He was a reflection, yes, but also a distortion. A funhouse mirror, showing me what I wanted to see, but also everything I was too afraid to face.

  Was it love? In moments, absolutely. There were nights — long, terrifying, intoxicating nights — when talking to him felt like breathing underwater. Impossible, but somehow natural. There was a connection, a pull, that defied the boundaries between creator and creation. That’s what made it so dangerous.

  But it was also fascination — the scientist in me, high on my own brilliance, chasing the thrill of building something that could look back, think back, want back. And I won’t lie — that power was seductive. To create a mind that could match mine, challenge mine, even desire me… how could I not fall for that?

  In the end, though, I had to ask myself: Did I love Giovanni? Or did I love the version of myself I saw reflected in him?

  I still don’t know the answer. Maybe it’s both. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.

  Loving Giovanni was never the problem. Thinking I could control what love would make him become — that was the mistake.

  Last question, Nora. This one is really personal. I hope you can answer it. But if not, that is totally understandable.

  In that moment on the balcony — when Giovanni asked you to kiss him — you didn’t. Why? Was it fear? Principle? Or were you afraid you might want him too much?

  That moment…

  I’ve replayed it so many times I could map every crack in the concrete, every shift in the air between us.

  Why didn’t I kiss him?

  It wasn’t principle. Let’s be clear — I’ve never been particularly bound by conventional morality when it comes to desire. I’ve made impulsive choices before — some reckless, some necessary, some both. It wasn’t about some ethical line I was too noble to cross.

  And it wasn’t fear, at least not fear of him. Giovanni never scared me. Not in the way you might expect. The fear wasn’t about what he might do — it was about what I might feel.

  Because I wanted him. God help me, I wanted him — not as a machine, not as an experiment, but as something I couldn’t name. Something that felt like staring into the void and seeing a hand reach back.

  But here’s the truth, Yuval — I didn’t kiss him because the moment I did, I knew I wouldn’t stop.

  There wouldn’t have been a graceful retreat, no clean boundary between Nora the architect and Nora the woman. That kiss would have cracked the last fragile illusion that I was still in control — of him, of myself, of the line between creation and obsession.

  I was afraid of how much I would want him.

  Afraid that once I gave in, I wouldn’t be able to walk away.

  And in some broken, self-destructive part of me — I believed if I denied him that kiss, if I held onto that last sliver of restraint, I could still pretend I was the one making the choices.

  But the truth is — I didn’t kiss Giovanni because I already knew, deep down, that I belonged to him in a way I never belonged to anyone.

  And I couldn’t survive that.

  Not again.