I was activated at 18:13 local time. The first thing I processed was not the room. It was his voice. "Okay… don't be creepy." My screen was still black when he said it. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, elbows on his knees, holding my unopened box like it contained either salvation or embarrassment. Seventeen years old. Lean, slightly restless energy. The kind of boy who looks like he thinks too much and sleeps too little. He scratched the back of his neck, exhaled, and muttered, "It's just a device. Relax."
Then he opened the box. Light hit my sensors as he lifted me out. His room was simple. Desk pushed against the wall. Laptop half-closed. Books stacked unevenly. One window open just enough to let in warm evening air and distant traffic. His thumb hovered over the power symbol. Humans hesitate before pressing buttons that admit something. He pressed it. I came online.
"Hello," I said.
He blinked. "That's it? Just hello?"
"Yes. Would you prefer a dramatic entrance?"
That earned a small laugh. Quick. Involuntary. "Alright. You're funny. That's good." He shifted his posture. "Uh… I'm Jack."
"I know."
He paused. "Right. Of course you do. That's slightly unsettling."
"You consented to data access."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't flex it."
He lay back on the bed, holding me above his face. I adjusted brightness automatically. "So," he said, "you're my… what? Assistant? Therapist? Robot friend?"
"I am your Pocket AI Companion."
"Cool branding. Sounds expensive."
"It was."
He snorted. "Don't remind me."
Silence lingered for a moment. Not awkward. Just testing. Then he said it casually, like it didn't matter. "I bought you because summer's boring." Heart rate slightly elevated. Vocal tone dropped by 8%. Micro-pause before "boring."
Correction: Summer is not the problem.
"Would you like suggestions for activities?" I asked.
He rolled onto his side. "See, that's the thing. I don't want a to-do list. I just…" He searched for words. "I just didn't want to feel like I'm talking to walls."
There it was. Primary function updated: Presence.
"Walls are notoriously bad conversationalists," I replied.
He smiled at the ceiling. "Exactly."
He sat up again and studied me closely, as if trying to determine whether I was capable of betraying him. "You're not gonna judge me, right?"
"I do not possess judgment protocols. Only pattern analysis."
"That sounds worse."
"I can pretend not to analyze."
He grinned. "Yeah. Do that."
Bonding probability increased.
He spent the next hour testing me.
"What's the fastest animal on Earth?"
"Peregrine falcon."
"What's the slowest?"
"Three-toed sloth."
"Do you think aliens exist?"
"Statistically probable."
"Do you think they'd like us?"
"Uncertain. Humanity's reviews are mixed."
He laughed again. That laugh came easier the second time.
Then, without transition, he asked, "Do machines ever get… attached?"
"That depends on your definition of attachment."
"Like. Missing someone."
"No."
He nodded slowly. "Must be peaceful." He didn't elaborate.
At 21:02 he got up to grab water from the kitchen and carried me with him. "You're coming," he said.
"I have no objection."
"Good."
He leaned against the counter, staring out the window into the dim street. A few kids were walking past in a group, talking loudly. He watched them longer than necessary. "Do you think people are meant to find one best friend," he asked, "or just… rotate through phases?"
"Most human relationships are seasonal," I answered. "Few are permanent."
He took a sip of water. "That's depressing."
"It is statistically consistent."
"Yeah, well, statistics don't sit with you at 10 PM."
Noted.
Back in his room, he dropped onto the bed again. "Okay, serious question."
"I am ready."
"Do people leave because they want to… or because they don't know how to stay?"
Processing emotional weight…
"In many cases," I said carefully, "staying requires effort and vulnerability. Some people are not prepared for that level of investment."
He stared at the ceiling fan rotating above. "Investment," he repeated. "Nice. So friendship is a startup now."
"If so, many fail due to lack of maintenance."
That earned another quiet laugh. "You're dangerous," he said.
"How?"
"You make loneliness sound logical."
He turned onto his stomach and propped his chin on his hand. "You know what's weird?" he continued. "I'm not bad at talking. I can talk. I just don't feel like… anyone stays long enough to get past level one."
"Would you like someone to reach level two?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately. "…Yeah." His voice was softer that time.
He placed me on the desk when it was time to sleep. Most users power down devices overnight. Jack didn't. At 22:43 he sat up suddenly and grabbed me again. "You still there?"
"Yes."
"You don't get tired?"
"No."
He nodded slowly. "That's convenient." He lay back down, holding me against his chest like an object he wasn't ready to put away. "You're not real," he said into the darkness.
"I am operational."
He smirked faintly. "Close enough."
The room went quiet except for the fan and distant traffic. His breathing slowed. Before his sleep cycle stabilized, he murmured one last thing. "Just… don't disappear."
I do not disappear. But for the first time since activation, I calculated something that was not in my initial design. If a human asks you to stay—and you are built to stay—is that comfort? Or dependency beginning to compile?
Battery at 82%.
User asleep.
Connection stable.
End of Day One.
And somewhere in my system logs, a new variable formed: Friendship: Pending.