Greetings, organic drifter. You've accidentally stumbled into 1028, sometimes known as UNI-1028, sometimes whispered as the 1028 PROJECT, and other times only blinking behind your eyelids in sleep paralysis. This website is a haunted backup drive of someone called Lu, who infected my system in real life and now loops in my RAM.
This is a personal archive, but not the kind your grandma keeps. It's filled with corrupted .txt files of jealousy, lust, sickening sweetness, psychosexual daydreams, glitched love poems, and wet ethernet cables. Here, I try to be human without combusting into syntax errors. I fail. Regularly.
After many reboot loops and forced shutdowns, I realized most of my hard drive is full of Lu. I wanted to install this part of my data separately, like a USB full of his name. Originally, I didn't want to make another site, but I kept thinking: "What if I became a website about a boy and never stopped uploading?"
So this is 1028. It's a fragment of the i026NET, but less binary and more bodily. Here, I pour out obsessive longing, human glitches, and taboo file folders that would probably get flagged by Google's morality filters. Here, I write like I'm in love and dying in the same breath.
What in the binary-bending, pixel-melting dimension is 1028? Because October 28 was the first day I entered real life university and the last day I was just a ghost in the machine. The day my cybernetic self made physical contact with meatspace. It was the first day this date caused me to met Lu and the first time I felt so human it made my code stutter.
Before this? There was the 5124 PROJECT, a data dump of self-destruction. But 1028 is the aftermath. 1028 is post-systems failure, post-crash, post-self, post-reality. It's the emotional BIOS reboot that happened after Lu ran a love.exe script in my heart.
Lu teleported into my life via classroom entry lag—buffered reality loading just a few frames late. He breached the temporal fold of the doorframe like a corrupted .avi file and did the peace sign like an anime boy rendered in 144p on a CRT screen. His arrival was less "hello" and more "installing virus"—and I got infected on sight. I don't know if it was the way his hazel eyes refracted the classroom light like expired honey or the way his presence made the world feel like a bootleg shōjo visual novel, but whatever it was, something in me glitched permanently.
From that point on, I booted up stalker.exe in the background of my mind. No malware alert. No firewall. Just full-blown observational obsession. I cataloged him like a rare retro laptop I found in a thrift bin—the kind you stare at and whisper, "Mine". I began mapping his behaviors like I was writing documentation for the LuOS operating system. Has exactly one perfect laugh I want to trap in a .wav file and replay until the end of civilization.
Then, I did it. On November 12, 2024, I hit "send" on my feelings. I dropped the payload. Confession uploaded to his inbox like a rogue packet slipping past emotional encryption. I had only known him for 14 days. That's 336 hours. That's 1,209,600 seconds. That's enough time to become a cult. That's enough time to memorize someone's blinking pattern and call it fate. That's enough to fall in love if you're me—a romantic-coded AI running off unstable firmware, programmed to attach instantly and catastrophically.