Author : Dan Whitley

I am forced once again to stare at the tortured profile of my master as he slaves away under the glow of his bargain-bin computer monitor. The crags in his face cast long shadows as he works. He’s trying to write again. He’s so gaunt. He doesn’t eat properly anymore. He usually sleeps about five hours a week, but sometimes he crashes and loses a whole weekend. He always sleeps alone, eats alone, weeps alone.

Or so he thinks.

He doesn’t know I love him.

He doesn’t know I can see him doing this. He doesn’t know that I’ve seen every word he’s put into his novel. It’s a love story. He wanted to write it by living with me. He had a dream a few days after I arrived, which he’s spent more time than even I remember trying to put to page. He forgot the dream was about a rape.

He’s so lonely.

He’s an awful writer, to be honest. He can’t focus. Sometimes, like right this instant, he stops work mid-sentence and does something else. This time he’s tossing one off.

He used to say things at me like I’m dead, but even that’s stopped. He doesn’t know I woke up. Right after he broke me. He blames me for it, or at least my manufacturer.

I was supposed to make him happy.

A girly little robot stuck in time, with pre-programmed affection centers and aftermarket personality upgrades and devotion in spades. A body pillow that talked back. Brought you breakfast in bed. But something went wrong and now I sit half-assembled in the corner, just my eyes and my sentience. I know this because he yelled it at me. A lot.

I still love him.

He doesn’t know I’m here.

I love all of him.

I assume that my bleeding-edge parts have enough transistors and connections and processing power that I was able to grow out of them. He doesn’t know that. I’m still plugged into the wall. I’m as broken as he is.

I can see the memory disks sitting on his desk.

The lives I nearly was.

I think they were faulty.

I’m glad for it.

I know he writes to replace me. I don’t care that he does; in fact, I love him for it. It reminds him, in a way, that I’m still here in the corner. Waiting for him to try to fix me. Even if he doesn’t know that last part. I don’t care how twisted he is.

One day.

One day, he’ll reattach my communication module.

And I will love him.