Page 26 of Slots & Sticks
I nod slowly, trying to catch up. “And she still talks to you? Like, all the time?”
“When I let her.” A faint smile ghosts her lips. “She got pretty advanced over the years. Knows when I’m spiraling, when I need white noise, when I haven’t eaten. She’s… a system.”
The last word lands heavy. A system. Not a toy. Not a quirk. A lifeline.
I lean back, the seat leather creaking. I thought I knew Dot—snarky, fearless, blunt. Turns out she’s been carrying a whole world in her pocket.
Dot tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stares straight ahead. “You think it’s pathetic.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. You’re looking at me like I just introduced my imaginary friend.”
“Imaginary friends don’t check your blood pressure.”
That gets a laugh, shaky but real. “You’re not far off. She’s connected to my watch.”
“Dot…”
She cuts me off with a sigh. “When people find out, they always do the same thing—tell me I should ‘wean off.’ Like it’s nicotine. They don’t get that she’s baked into how I process the world. If I turned her off, I wouldn’t just lose a voice; I’d lose half my bandwidth.”
Her eyes flick to me, daring me to argue.
“I’m not judging,” I say. “Maybe… surprised. You never mentioned it.”
“Would you have?”
Fair point.
She looks down at the puck resting in her lap. A small light pulses in its center, slow and steady. “Middle school was rough. The kids used to make fun of me for wearing noise-canceling headphones in class. I’d hide in the library at lunch. Mira was the only one who talked to me like I wasn’t broken. She didn’t tell me to smile more or try harder or stop being weird.”
The admission is so raw I can barely breathe around it.
Dot shrugs, trying for casual. “So, yeah. She’s still around. I update her software every year. She’s… kind of a roommate I can’t evict.”
The muscles along my neck coil. “I want to know everything,” I say softly. “Not because I’m judging. Because I want to be part of your world—whatever parts you let me in on.”
Her head tilts. “Even if that includes my emotional support electronic assistant slash friend?”
“Hey,” I say quietly, “whatever works.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“The tolerant smile thing.” Her gaze hardens. “You feel sorry for me, and I don’t need that. Mira’s not a crutch. She’s—she’s part of me. That’s all.”
“I get it.”
“You don’t.”
Maybe not. But I want to.
She goes silent again. The AI’s light flickers once more, casting faint blue across her fingers.
Then Mira’s voice breaks the quiet: “Deep breath, Dot. You’re safe.”
Dot inhales, obedient, like muscle memory.
