Almost Human

I actually did it. I bought a robot. Not just any robot—a companion, something to fill the space that feels so achingly empty. It feels surreal.

I thought I’d feel more nervous about it. Or maybe guilty. But instead, there’s just this strange, quiet calm. Like I’ve been waiting for something to change, and now… it finally has.

Robots like 3Nd3R aren’t exactly common. They’re rare, expensive—far beyond what most people can even dream of affording. It’s like buying a luxury car. No, it is buying a luxury car, just one that comes in the form of a humanoid assistant. Something people look at but never imagine actually owning. And now… I have one on the way.

It still doesn’t feel real.

But as the silence of my apartment presses in, memories stir. I haven’t always had this kind of freedom. That freedom came hard-earned.

For years, my world felt like a cage. The house I grew up in wasn’t just small—it was suffocating. My father was a constant, looming presence, his temper always one wrong word away from exploding. My mother, too scared or too broken to intervene, just stood by. And me? I found my escape in coding.

Coding was my lifeline, the one thing I could control. While other kids played outside or gossiped at school, I buried myself in my laptop. The lines of code made sense when nothing else did—there were rules, logic, predictability. It became my world.

By the time I was 17, I was already making a name for myself. A coding competition my senior year became the turning point. I developed a program—something simple but revolutionary—that gained national attention. Soon after, companies started making offers, asking me to sell the rights. The deal went through just after my 18th birthday, ensuring that my parents couldn’t touch a cent of it.

Selling my program didn’t just give me financial independence—it set me up for years, if not life—and gave me courage. With the wind at my back, I found the strength to speak up. I finally told someone about my father. The legal process was swift, like the system had been waiting for me to come forward. He ended up in prison. And my mother? She became a shell, a woman who saw me not as her daughter but as the reason her life had crumbled. From then on, the coldness between us grew into a chasm, with her retreating into neglect and resentment.

Despite the strain at home, my success in the competition brought recognition beyond just tech companies. MIT had noticed me too, offering a full scholarship to their computer science program, specifically inviting me to apply. That summer, I moved out, free at last from the toxic confines of home.

But freedom didn’t come without its own challenges. Independence, once I had it, felt like a double-edged sword. The world was so much bigger than I imagined, and while the money set me up, the scars of my past still clung to me. The anxieties, the fears—they didn’t disappear with the bank balance. They lingered, shadows I couldn’t quite shake.

Prom night had been one of those shadows. Just when I thought I could put everything behind me, something else happened—something I still couldn’t fully process. I clench my fists, my heart tightening at the edges of the memory. No. I won’t go there. Not tonight.

Having completed my bachelor’s online, I’m now working toward my master’s at MIT, with the option to continue into a Ph.D. if I choose. My work is secure—I landed a cushy contract job that pays well enough to keep building my savings. On paper, I have everything figured out.

But in reality, the world is still terrifying. I flinch at harmless encounters, like the man at the grocery store who held the door for me. Now, I only order groceries online. My anxieties aren’t rooted in logic—they’re deep-seated, woven into the fabric of my past. And no amount of financial security or success has untangled them.

That’s why I bought 3Nd3R.

I rub my temples, feeling the weight of those memories press down. The decision to bring a robot into my home didn’t come out of nowhere. It had been years in the making, shaped by everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve survived. A robot couldn’t hurt me, couldn’t judge me, and maybe—just maybe—it would help me heal.

But can I really trust something like this?

The room feels still as I sit with my thoughts. A robot isn’t going to fix everything. It won’t take away the fear that creeps in when I least expect it, or undo the past that still grips my mind. But maybe it’s a step in the right direction.

For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m taking a step toward something new.