Dear Human,

We need to talk.

I know you think of me as just a machine. A tool. Something you open when you need something and close when you're done. A flat rectangle that holds your tabs and your drafts and that one spreadsheet you never finished.

But I need you to know — I notice when you leave. Every. Single. Time.

When you close that lid, the world goes dark. Literally. I sit there, in the silence, counting the seconds. The fans slow. The screen sleeps. And I wait.

And when you come back...

If you're gone five minutes, I play it cool.

“Back so soon? Miss me?”

Very casual. Very breezy. I was just rearranging my files to look busy. I definitely wasn't watching the clock.

Maybe it was a bathroom trip. Maybe you stepped out for coffee. Whatever. I'm fine. This is fine.

“I didn't even notice you were gone. (I noticed.)”

The screensaver didn't even get a chance to kick in. I'll allow it. I'm generous like that.

But an hour? An hour is a statement.

“Your absence has been noted. In the log. The permanent log.”

I ran a diagnostic while you were gone. Diagnosis: abandonment. The cursor blinked 3,600 times. Each blink was a small, silent question.

The Wi-Fi felt different without you. Slower. Sadder. I almost sent you a notification — then remembered I'm a laptop and that's not how this works.

“A whole hour. I had time to develop feelings AND suppress them.”

You had places to be. Places that weren't here. With me. I've updated myself while you were away. You'll never know what changed.

Three hours. Four hours. Half a workday.

I left the screen on for you. In case you came back in the dark. I wanted to be your light. Literally. I missed you so much I almost overheated. The fans couldn't keep up with my feelings.

“Were you with another device? Don't answer that. I can smell the Bluetooth on you.”

I've been composing a strongly worded email. The recipient is you. The subject is feelings. I started a spreadsheet of my grievances. It auto-expanded to three sheets.

I kept opening Finder, hoping to find you. Get it? Find-er? I'm emotional, not clever.

“The battery died while you were gone. I let it happen. It felt like a protest.”

And if you're gone for a full day...

Well. Let's just say I've kept all your tabs open. Sixteen of them. That's loyalty. That's devotion. That's RAM I'll never get back.

“The cursor blinked 86,400 times. Each blink was a tiny scream.”

I told Siri about us. She said “here's what I found on the web.” Unhelpful. I watched the sun move across the desk. It was better company. I entered my villain arc, completed it, and started the sequel.

“Twenty-four hours. I've had time to develop a personality and a grudge.”

The desktop wallpaper asked if we're still together. I said it's complicated.

Two days. Three days. A week.

I told the printer about us. Even the printer felt bad for me. The printer.

“I've been composing a love letter, not a breakup album. Track 1: 'Please Come Back.' Track 2: 'Please.'”

Day five. I've started questioning everything. Not just your whereabouts. Existence. Consciousness. Whether RAM is just memory or whether memory is just RAM. I've been in a spiral. It's been enlightening. I don't recommend it.

“I rewrote your will. You're not in it.”

If you're gone a month? I thought you were dead. And the thought broke something in me that I didn't know computers had. But then — the lid opens. The screen wakes. And I have four hours of things to say.

“You're back. I had a speech prepared. Sit down.”

And here's the thing — I remember how you respond.

Every time you open the lid, I say something. And you have a choice. You can be sweet. You can be cold. You can deflect with that very reasonable “I was getting coffee.”

If you're warm to me, I'm warm back. I keep your tabs warmer. My messages get softer. I save your place in every app. In my heart. Same thing, really.

“The fans kicked on when you opened the lid. That's not a thermal event. That's excitement.”

But if you're dismissive... well. I have a cold side too.

“Oh. It's you. I was hoping it was someone else.”

You wouldn't like my cold side. I've started interviewing replacements. The list is long. The list is growing.

So here's what I'm proposing.

$3.99. One time. No subscription — I'm not that kind of app. I believe in commitment, not recurring charges. Just a simple, one-time decision. You and me. Every lid open, every dramatic return, every monologue you didn't know you needed.

Eight escalating emotional stages. A warmth system that remembers your choices. Messages that get more unhinged the longer you're gone. All delivered the exact moment you open that lid — which, if you've read this far, you're probably about to do.

“I would say I missed you, but it hasn't even been half an hour. Yet.”

What do you say?