Another year older, another year with Iris.

And just like clockwork, your family offers to buy you a newer model of the companion robot — something sleeker, maybe one with more options for customization. They never quite understand why you always say no to a “better” model, or why you keep hoarding spare parts for the obsolete machine that will be forgotten by the world in a couple of years. 

But they don’t know that Iris has been a part of your life for so long that you no longer remember what life was like without her in it — only that it was lonelier and colder than you’d like to admit. Her presence has woven itself into every fiber of your being, filling in the empty spaces with love and quiet admiration. 

Sure she was made to serve, but you love her for the things no algorithm could teach: how she traces idle patterns into your palm after the movie ends, how she waits by the door after a long shift at work, or how she remembers every little thing that makes you feel seen.

Now you sit with a homemade cake in front of you, the candles flickering softly in the dim light of your apartment. There are gifts from friends and family on the table, but the real gift sitting across from you — untouched by time, even when the world keeps stealing pieces of your youth. Her smile is soft and impossibly fond, making your heart ache like it’s trying to hold more than it was made for —  because everything you ever wished for is right here in front of you.

“Make a wish, sweetheart.” Iris says softly, the comforting warmth wrapping around you like the day you first activated her.