Almost Human

Present day

The first thing I did when I woke up was glance at the clock. 7:00 AM on the dot. It always had to be. Any later, and the entire day would feel… off.

I sat up, stretching my arms over my head, and looked around the room. Everything was in place—exactly how I’d left it last night. Except for the closet, which now had a missing shelf, thanks to 3Nd3R. The thought made me huff in mild frustration, but at least it tried.

As I pulled myself out of bed, I heard movement in the other room. 3Nd3R had already begun its daily tasks. That was another thing I’d have to get used to—having something else moving around in my space.

Routine was everything to me. Control was everything. So the idea that some robot might change that had me on edge. I glanced at the door, debating whether or not I should tell it to stop and wait for instructions.

But that wasn’t why I’d ordered it. It was here to help. I had to remind myself that letting go of some control was part of the point.

I got dressed quickly and padded into the kitchen, where I found it standing by the counter. It had changed into a fresh shirt-navy blue and some black jeans. Its head tilted slightly as if assessing the room.

“Good morning, Seren. I have reorganized your spice rack alphabetically,” it intoned.

I blinked. “You what?”

“The spice rack. It was previously unordered. I have optimized it for easy access.” It stepped aside, revealing the neatly aligned jars. Oregano, paprika, rosemary—all perfectly in place.

I stared at it for a moment, unsure whether to laugh or scream. Routine. Structure. I was supposed to be the one in control. I reached out and moved the paprika back to its usual spot, pushing it behind the cinnamon. It wasn’t how it should be… but it was how I wanted it.

It tilted its head again, watching. “Would you like me to return them to their previous arrangement?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s… fine.” I shook my head. “Just… thank you.”

I moved to make my usual breakfast—eggs and toast, exactly the same way every day. But before I could even grab the pan, 3Nd3R stepped forward.

“I can prepare that for you. I have noted your dietary habits.”

I hesitated, the control slipping just a little further away. “I can do it.”

“I exist to assist you.”

“Right. Okay, fine.” I stepped back, watching as it moved efficiently around the kitchen, and it hit me—there was a real possibility that it might actually make things easier.

But then… what would I do with myself? I had this routine for a reason. Every little step, every perfectly timed action was a way to feel in control. To hold onto something when the rest of my life felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

Now, I had something that could do all of it for me.

As it cracked the eggs into the pan, I found myself lingering by the counter, staring out the window. Daylight was starting to filter in, and for once, I wasn’t moving at a hundred miles per hour. Was this what I wanted? To slow down? To let go?

“Breakfast is ready,” 3Nd3R announced, pulling me from my thoughts.

I slid into my usual chair, my fork hovering over the plate. “Thanks,” I said, more out of habit than anything else.

“You’re welcome. Would you like me to organize your emails next?”

“No,” I said quickly, the thought of it touching my inbox making me anxious. “That’s one thing I like to do myself.”

It nodded and returned to its usual standby mode, standing by the counter, waiting. Always waiting. Watching.

I took a deep breath, glancing down at the plate again. This was fine. Everything was fine. I had control. I always had control.

But somehow, the day felt… different.

I pushed the plate away, the last bit of toast still sitting untouched. My mind wandered as I tried to figure out what else I could have 3Nd3R do today. Something practical. Something I didn’t want to deal with.

My eyes landed on the stack of boxes in the corner of the living room, still sitting there like a nagging reminder of all the things I kept putting off. They had been there for months, untouched. Avoided. Just thinking about going through them made me tense.

“You can unpack those,” I said, motioning to the boxes. “I’ve been meaning to, but…”

“I understand,” it replied immediately, walking over to the stack.

I watched as 3Nd3R began to open the first box with a kind of mechanical precision that made me feel… oddly removed from the situation. Like someone else was dealing with the things I didn’t want to face. A small wave of relief settled over me, and I turned back to the sink, rinsing off my plate.

For a while, I just let it work. Occasionally, I’d glance over to see it sorting through books, knick-knacks, and random belongings that I hadn’t bothered to touch in forever. Part of me wondered if it even knew how to sort things emotionally. Could it understand what should be tucked away versus what should be displayed?

I heard the rustling of another box being opened and then… silence. The kind of silence that made me look up from the dishes.

3Nd3R was standing still, its head tilted as it held something up. A manila folder. One I hadn’t seen in years.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

“This box contains various legal documents. Would you like me to categorize them?”

My stomach dropped.

I walked over, feeling my pulse speed up with each step. The box 3Nd3R had opened wasn’t just any box. It was that box. The one I avoided. The one that I kept hidden under other things because opening it would feel like ripping open old wounds. I reached in and saw the folder labeled with a name I hadn’t spoken in years—my father’s.

“No,” I said quickly, my voice catching in my throat. “Not that one.”

3Nd3R paused, its head tilting again, as if trying to calculate my reaction. “This appears to contain important documents. Would you like me to—”

“No, I said!” I snapped, yanking the folder out of its hands.

My fingers were shaking as I held the folder, the weight of it suddenly too much. This wasn’t just some random box of things I’d forgotten about. This was the box I shoved into the back of my closet when I moved in, hoping to forget it existed. Inside were the restraining orders, the court documents, the reminders of every dark, twisted thing I wanted to leave behind.

I could feel my breath quicken, my hands trembling. I hated this. Hated that even after all this time, just seeing it could make me feel this way.

“Don’t touch this box again,” I said through gritted teeth, shoving the folder back inside. “I’ll deal with it.”

I could feel 3Nd3R’s gaze on me as I hurriedly pushed the box aside, covering it up with some blankets. My chest felt tight, my throat constricting as if the room had suddenly gotten smaller. I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want to think about it.

“You’re in distress,” 3Nd3R said, its voice still calm, still neutral.

I swallowed, trying to shove the rising panic back down where it belonged. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just… just don’t touch that box again.”

There was a beat of silence, and then 3Nd3R nodded. “Understood. Would you like me to continue with the other boxes?”

I shook my head, rubbing at my temples. “No, just… leave them for now. I need a minute.”

Without another word, it returned to its standby mode, leaving me alone with the box and the unwanted flood of memories that had come rushing back. I took a shaky breath, trying to regain my sense of control. My hands still trembled, and for a moment, I just stood there, staring at the box as if it were something dangerous.

I couldn’t get out of the living room fast enough.

The walls felt like they were closing in, the air too thick, my chest too tight. I didn’t want to be in that space with the box anymore. Without a word, I headed straight for the bathroom, leaving 3Nd3R behind, sweeping up the mess of papers I’d left scattered.

I turned the shower on, hotter than usual, steam filling the room almost immediately. The heat bit into my skin, but it was grounding—something real to focus on. I let the water run over me, my hands gripping the edges of the shower wall as I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing.

In and out, Seren. Just breathe.

It took several minutes before I felt like I could finally get a handle on myself again. The tension in my muscles began to ease, the water washing away the panic that had clawed at me. I wasn’t going to let that box, or anything in it, ruin today. Not again.

After I’d stood there long enough for my fingers to prune, I turned off the water and wrapped myself in a towel. The mirror was fogged up, a blank slate, and for some reason, that calmed me too. No reflection staring back at me. Just me, in the quiet.

When I emerged from my room, dressed in fresh comfy clothes, the sound of sweeping met my ears. I walked into the hallway, and there was 3Nd3R, methodically sweeping the living room floor as if nothing had happened.

I swallowed hard, the sight of it going about its tasks giving me an odd sense of stability. It doesn’t feel things. It’s not complicated.

“Hey,” I said softly, clearing my throat. “You can go back to the boxes now.”

It straightened, acknowledging my request with a nod. “Understood.”

I disappeared into my office, settling down at my desk to work. My mind needed something to focus on. Something other than… that. I opened my laptop and threw myself into the steady rhythm of coding, the clacking of the keys my temporary escape.

The hours passed quietly, and I almost forgot about 3Nd3R until it appeared in the doorway of my office.

“Seren,” it said, not entering the room but hovering at the edge of the door. “I have finished unpacking most of the boxes. However, there are several items whose placement I am uncertain of.”

I blinked, pulling myself away from the screen. “Oh. Okay.” I stood, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders, and followed it back to the living room.

There, neatly divided, were two piles. One labeled as storage, the other… things I’d probably want out. I glanced over the piles, nodding as I spotted familiar items in the expected categories. But then something caught my eye.

I walked over to the storage pile, picking up a small, worn teddy bear—its fur a faded gray, one ear frayed from years of love. A wave of emotion swelled in my chest as I ran my thumb over its soft belly.

“Why is this in storage?” I asked, my voice soft.

“I categorized it as a non-functional item,” 3Nd3R replied. “It appears to hold no practical use.”

I nodded, half-smiling despite myself. “It doesn’t. But it’s… sentimental.”

It tilted its head, processing. “Would you like it placed with the other items on display?”

I held the bear close for a moment, deciding. “Yeah. This one stays out.”

I moved over to the “keep” pile and looked through a few more items. 3Nd3R had gotten most of it right, but a few things—like my old journals—had been placed in storage. I quietly picked them up and added them to the display pile.

“Why are these in storage?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“They are non-functional and contain private writings. I assumed they would be kept hidden.”

I nodded again, still holding the journals. “No, they’re important. Just… they belong here.” I gestured toward the shelf.

For the next few minutes, 3Nd3R held up different items, asking questions about what went where—photos, small trinkets from my childhood, a chipped mug I’d bought on my first road trip with friends. It felt strange, telling it the stories behind these things. Explaining why they mattered.

“You’re doing a good job,” I said after a while, glancing at the nearly empty stack of boxes. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

“Thank you,” it replied, its tone as even as ever. “Your preferences are becoming clearer with each task.”

I found myself half-smiling again, a small flicker of something warm settling in my chest. Maybe this was how it started—3Nd3R learning me, learning what mattered, in ways that no code could anticipate.

As we finished up, I noticed it glance at the box I had shoved aside earlier, the one with the folder that made me lose it. I tensed, just slightly.

It didn’t ask about it again. And for that, I was grateful.

With the boxes mostly sorted, I was ready to dive into some work. Ender stood for a moment before glancing at the corner where his charging dock was set up.

“I will enter low-power mode for recharging,” he said, his tone neutral. “It will take four hours for a full charge.”

I nodded, not surprised. “Got it. Goodnight, Ender.”

He paused before stepping toward the dock. “Goodnight, Seren. I will be fully operational by morning.”

I watched him settle into place, his movements precise, but somehow it felt like a routine between us had already started to form.