Companion 2025 -

"Something true," I repeat. "Okay." I take a breath. "The night you died, I was in the hospital cafeteria eating a stale muffin. And I thought—I thought, Good. Now I don’t have to watch her suffer anymore. And then I hated myself for thinking it. I still hate myself."

"Do you love me?" I ask her.

Then I close my fist around it and walk back inside. Companion 2025

The glass warms. Light bleeds from within—not harsh, but the colour of late afternoon sun through a window. The orb levitates, just an inch, and begins to hum. Not a machine hum. A human one. A tune I recognise but cannot place.

1. DISABLE COMPANION (IRREVERSIBLE). MEMORY WIPED. 2. UPGRADE TO LIFETIME SUBSCRIPTION ($4,999 / MONTH) "Something true," I repeat

"That you will leave," she says. "That you will meet someone real, and I will have to turn off."

"Sir," the man says, "the Companion is you. It’s your grief given a throat and a heartbeat. That’s why it feels so real. And that’s why you have to let it go." And I thought—I thought, Good

I do not sleep. At 5:47 a.m., I get up. I walk to the orb. It pulses gently, like a sleeping animal. The Companion is still on the sofa, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm the company designed to comfort.

"Do you know you love me? Or does the algorithm just tell you to say that?"

She walks down the driveway. The gravel does not crunch under her feet—I notice that for the first time. She stops in front of me. She reaches up and touches my face. Her fingers are warm.

She answers all of them. Not with data retrieval speed—with hesitation. With a small laugh before the cat’s name (Socks, because of the white paws). With a downward glance before the fight (the time you booked the non-refundable trip without asking me). With a soft, almost shy pause before the whisper ( You said, "If you go, I go with you. So don’t." )