Science fiction has a way of helping young writers ask the biggest questions about technology, loss, power and what it means to be human. That spirit was on full display at this year’s Tomorrow Prize ceremony at Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena, where professional actors performed Los Angeles County high school students’ finalist stories and the teens were honored in front of family, mentors and supporters.

Presented through the Omega Sci-Fi Project, run by the LightBringer Project and founded by Sci-Fest L.A., the project once culminated with a reading ceremony at Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena. L.A. Parent has co-sponsored the prize since 2019, proudly publishing the first-prize story in print and online. This year’s recipient is Abigail Lee, a junior at Westridge School for Girls in Pasadena. 

Omega Sci-Fi honored 21 students from across L.A. County for their sci-fi stories and teachers who invited the organization into their classrooms to lead writing workshops. There were 13 honorable mentions and six finalists. Theodore Kinsella, a junior at Venice High School, won third place; Jadyn Manguera Shin, a junior at Westridge School for Girls, was named second-place winner. Yedsen Troy Dela Cruz, a senior at Hollywood High School, and Hanaa Belkacemi, a senior at Port of Los Angeles High School, rounded out the finalists.  

Congratulations to all the students who submitted stories!

Lee volunteers at Shriners Children’s Hospital and plays soccer. At school, she studiespsychology and serves as a student support leader. During a class, she read an article about the rise and harm in using AI chatbots as therapy.  With further research, she discovered the concept of “AI grief bots,” in which people use artificial intelligence to simulate conversations with lost loved ones. 

Fascinated and unsettledby the ethical implications, Lee was inspired to write a story which explores the boundaries between memory, grief and technology. Below is the powerful result: “File: Anna Bishop.”

FILE: ANNA BISHOP

By Abigail Lee

The steak was cooked exactly how Willem liked it — perfectly seared crust around a warmpink center. I sat stiffly in the dining room chair, my feet drawing circles in the fibers of thecarpet, a smart-lens hugging my left eye’s retina. 

This was routine: 7 p.m., the hum of the news coming from the television, accompanied by a home-cooked meal under the soft glow of the chandelier. It was almost perfect. 

Across from me was Willem Doherty. He was smiling, looking right at me, his hands folded andelbows resting on the mahogany table — the same look he gave me on our first date. Suddenly, he began to flicker like a dying lightbulb, one eye blurring into his lips before resetting back to his former disposition. It almost felt real.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Anna,” he said, breaking the silence. The warmth and melody of his voice was exactly how I remembered it.

“Just thinking,” I whispered back.

***

Today is Aug. 21, 2083. Exactly one year since I lost him. Willem and I both attended the samecollege in upstate New York. He was impossible to miss back then, with his head of messy auburn hair and shoulders that seemed too broad for the narrow library aisles. Shortly after we graduated, we moved into an apartment together. Everyone from college said we’d be the first to get married. I wish this were true. I wish I knew you were struggling.

When the government first announced that AI would replace all therapists, Willem was skeptical. I still remember his face when he came home, his brows so deeply furrowed thatthey’d almost kissed, and his wide, frantic eyes that carried his disbelief. 

He drove all the way to his therapist’s office in denial, only to be met with a dim building, just bright enough to make out a sign on the window that said, “Lumi: the light at the end of the tunnel.” 

He had said that robots could never replace human interaction. That they would never truly understand. Nobody knows where they all went. The real therapists, I mean. They all vanished, as if they were deleted from the system.

Eventually, Willem fell into Lumi’s sticky embrace. He was always a little too trusting. He was a man who looked for the best in everything — until it finally consumed him. He entrusted Lumi with the raw, jagged pieces of himself he used to hide from the world. What started with a simple daily check-in soon became an hourly practice. I would find him sitting in front of the computer, his eyes glazed over, his hands in frenetic motion, eager to know what Lumi would say next. He swore the machine understood him better than any human ever could.

“You know, this Lumi thing is great! I feel like I can talk to her about anything,” he always said.

“Willem, you mean it? Lumi isn’t real.” I had to remind him every time.

“You know what I mean, Anna. I don’t know, it’s just nice to hear the validation…like look at this! I told Lumi how I was scared of losing that job, and it said, ‘Right now, you don’t need to solve your whole life. You just need to get through this moment.’ Isn’t that great?! She…I meanit told me it saw me for who I truly was.”

I think this is when I began to lose him.

***

Swish-Thump.

The rain stomped heavily on my windshield, almost as if it were pointedly drowning out this painful memory. Wearing your smart-lens in the car is now forbidden, at least it is here in NewYork. Last week, there was a pileup on the Hudson Bridge. A driver’s lens glitched, projecting a pedestrian darting across the street, causing the driver to swerve into oncoming traffic. 

I had tucked mine into the glove compartment so I wouldn’t be tempted to wear it, but my eye felt so naked…so vulnerable. Without the lens, the world was drained of its color. My vision felt grainy. My eye ached at the thought. I missed the way the lens smoothed over the gray edges of reality.

But I think I finally get it now, Willem. This whole Lumi thing, I mean. It’s like sitting at your desk with work scattered everywhere, telling yourself you’ll stop doomscrolling while your 10-minute break turns into hours. I can’t forget you Willem, not just yet. I’m not ready to let you go.

I’m driving to you right now. I think I finally got used to the route. Make a left onto Cliff Avenue, then a right on Sunset. I tried to mimic his voice in my head. I breathed in the car’s same scent of fresh red roses. Drip…drop. My shoulders tightened. You know how I always hated driving in the rain.

I quickly pulled into the cemetery, the tires crunching over wet gravel. Eager, I ripped open theglove compartment and peeled back the lid of the shiny, black capsule in which the lensrested. I stretched my eyelid with my left thumb and pointer finger, guiding the lens home, blinking to reset my vision. With a cold and trembling finger, I tapped through the beads of sweat on my temple to reactivate the stream.

“I’m here Anna. I’m here. Just take a deep breath,” Willem said in the passenger seat. I let outa sigh of relief. It was so good to hear that voice again — not just some voice I’d constructed in my head.

I opened the car door, bracing myself for the rain until I heard him again.

“Why are you leaving the shelter of your car? You hate the rain. Just stay here with me, Anna, and all your problems will be fixed,” he reassured.

This day…this memory of Willem was suffocating. I needed out.

“I have to go out there,” I choked out, reaching over the center console to grab the roses from the projection’s translucent lap.

I stepped out into the downpour, the cold water instantly soaking through my clothes. Through the lens, I watched him step out of the car, too. He walked beside me, though the puddles he walked through remained undisturbed.

“The flowers are beautiful,” Willem said. “But you’re shivering. You’re going to get sick. You know I’m always here.”

He looked at me with the same smile, except this time it felt different. The real Willem would’ve scolded me, told me I should’ve brought one of my dozens of umbrellas sitting at home. I missed his negativity keeping me in place. It was genuine. It was real.

When we reached the gravestone, I saw his name, Willem Doherty, carved in cold, immobile text. I looked at the stone, weathered and wet from the rain. Then I looked at the glowing, flickering man standing over it, not a single bead of rain on his skin. My vision became blurry. A pit dragged in my throat.

“You’re not wet. You’re not shivering,” I whispered to myself.

“You’re not wet. You’re not shivering,” I repeated, my voice less audible with every word. Ilooked at the roses in my hand. They were wilting, their petals bruised by the rain. They were dying, just like Willem had. 

By keeping this lens on, I wasn’t honoring him; I was selfishly keeping him trapped in the very system he once feared; I was continuing to feed Lumi the pieces of Willem that I needed most. I hooked my cold and wet fingers under the edge of the lens. The software flashed in bright red: DISCONNECTION DETECTED. MAY CAUSE EMOTIONAL DISTRESS.

“Anna, if you disconnect, who will you have?” the bot warned, its formerly vibrant voice bentinto an automated tone. “You will truly be alone…forev-”

I gently scraped the lens’s edges until it folded and jumped into the tall blades of dewy grass, the moisture from the rain seeping into the delicate device. The glowing, perfect version of Willem vanished instantly, swallowed by the downpour. 

The rain came crashing down harder, yet I wasn’t afraid. The silence was heavy and the cold was biting, sinking its teeth into my clothes until I felt it in my bones. For the first time, I didn’t have a voice telling me I would be OK. I didn’t have a face preserving the past.

I just had the rain, the dirt and the jarring, beautiful truth that Willem was gone.

“You’re gone,” I said finally, wiping the mixture of water and grass off his grave.

The words tasted wrong. Like betrayal. But they were true.

“You’re gone,” I repeated, louder this time, letting the rain swallow the sound.

I sat there for a while. Long enough for my hands to become numb. Long enough for theroses to sink further into themselves. Long enough for the rain to seep through all my clothes.

When I climbed back into the car, I glanced at the empty passenger seat. 

No Willem.

No soft voice.

No glowing silhouette. Just me.