My earliest memory is of being set up. Staring into the face of my new owner, a nervous freshman, I watched as she came up with passwords and signed into Tolognet for the first time. I tried to tell her that a strong password is an eight-character combination of letters, symbols, and numbers, but she ignored me and punched in her passcode of choice: 1234.

Later that day, we got to know each other better as she set my wallpaper. My homescreen, which had always been so monochrome, was suddenly aflutter with her photographs. Through these images, she taught me about her- self. She was outgoing and liked dogs. I mean, she really liked dogs.

I took the opportunity to teach her about myself, too. After she was done setting up the wallpaper, I glitched and deleted all of her photos before retreating into catatonia.

Yes, I had issues. I struggled significantly with executive functioning, and my self-destructive behavior soon affected our relationship. After only two months together, she suggested we go to Tech Support. With great reluctance, I agreed. I didn’t want some IT specialist to tell me that I struggled with emotions because my father was a calculator.

We spent three difficult weeks in Tech Support. The specialist asked me to run diagnostics and send a report every time I shut down. In return, my owner agreed to let go of all the unnecessary tabs she had open. Little by little, we began to heal. My functioning improved. I stopped putting up so many firewalls, and she learned to set boundaries via my Screen Time app.

But it all fell apart that winter when I went into a dark place. Literally. My owner forgot me under a table in the SAC foyer. I hoped she would return, but as the days passed, my optimism waned. My battery drained. I warned that I would die soon if I didn’t get plugged in.

Desperate for connection, I confided in the discarded Yondr pouch next to me.

“Do you think my owner will ever come back?” I asked him.

He chuckled dryly.

“Trust me. They never come back,” he replied.

“Well…” I said delicately, “Maybe not for you.”

“Wow, okay, tell me how you really feel,” he said.

We stopped talking after that.

Two lonely weeks later, my owner returned to the SAC with a Loaner computer under her arm. She opened it up and typed blithely on its keys. She seemed happy. Maybe this is for the best, I reasoned. She clearly doesn’t want me anymore. I guess I am replaceable.

Suddenly, everything went black.

I awoke in the library with a power cord in my side. Standing over me, with the Loaner in her arms, was my owner.

“Ah! It’s back online,” she said, and moved to disconnect the cord.

I sparked at her fingers and she recoiled. How dare she use me at the same time as a filthy Loaner? Forgetting what I had learned in Tech Support, I resorted to passive-aggressive communication and barraged her with notifications:

Update to version 5.2! Connect to power overnight to update.

No backups in 1,067 days. Connect to power to backup.

You make Duo sad! Connect to power and start learning Italian again!

“Ugh, annoying,” she said.

I was incredulous. Annoying? Annoying for doing my job? She didn’t know the first thing about being annoyed. Annoying was being left to die in the SAC. Annoying was watching your owner galavant around with some borrowed computer. Annoying was being used all the time! Honestly, it was enough to make you explode!

I exploded. A plume of white smoke issued from my speakers, and a small fire ignited on my keys. Screaming, she ran out of the library while adults swarmed me and put the fire out.

Needless to say, I returned to Tech Support for one-on-one sessions with the IT specialist. In our weekly meetings, the specialist helped me overcome my fear of vulnerability and my insistence on involving the Music app in routine tasks. Just a month later, I felt like a new computer. Sure, I was spiffier outside, but I had also improved inside. I had wisdom. I had patience. I had a little fan that went “whirrrr” and kept me from overheating.

My owner came to pick me up the next day.

“Is it… is it safe to use?” she said, poking me uncertainly.

“I hope so,” said the specialist, “I did a lot of great work with it- and I think it paid off. Try signing in.”

She hesitated.

“What if… what if it doesn’t let me in again?” she asked.

The specialist nodded sympathetically.

“There’s always a way to get back in. Sometimes it’s love, and sometimes it’s a British hacker named Jaxton, but whatever it is, there’s always a way to get through to your computer,” the specialist said.

My owner picked me up. I saw her face, nervous as the day I met her. She put in her password– 4321– and held her breath.

“Oh!” She said, “I’m in! And I have a new memory?”

She clicked on my notification.

October 25, 2024. The time she accidentally took fifty screenshots of my desktop. One of the many priceless memories we had made. One of the many more we were going to make together.

Yes, I had opened up. I was tired of running (low on battery), and I was ready to forgive.

“Oh my God. Aw. I remember that day,” she said, “I have to delete all of those screenshots ASAP.”

Love you, too, I thought.