Or was I?
God, I have no idea.
“I think a good beta report would encompass both,” Jamie reasons, and I nod in agreement.
Despite telling myself that their opinions shouldn’t matter that much to me, deep down, they do. I want them to think I did a good job.
Sitting back into my couch’s fluffy cushions, I hold the mug of tea close, contemplating if I can get away with some small talk. I’m good at giving Jamie commands, something I do every day with my devices, even though they don’t respond like he does. But this—talking just to talk, having a conversation—I’m not good at this.
There’s a brief pause, then Jamie asks, his voice smooth and inquisitive, “Amelia, if you don’t mind me asking, what do you find most challenging about human interactions?”
I blink, surprised by the depth of his question. “I… what?”
Of course, he’s turning this into a therapy session from the get-go.
“Your heartbeat just spiked, and you’re blushing again. It’s obvious your earlier confidence is gone. And it’s because of a chat with me. So, what is it that’s making you so anxious about conversations?”
“Oh, um… I guess it’s the unpredictability of it all. People don’t always respond logically, and that can be… difficult to navigate. It’s mostly just an issue with people I don’t know. People I can’t assess.”
Or people I can assess and don’t like, but that’s another story.
“That makes sense,” Jamie replies thoughtfully. “Consistency and predictability are key components in creating effective algorithms.”
“True.” I laugh nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “People aren’t algorithms, though.”
“Correct. However, understanding human patterns can still be helpful in anticipating needs and responses. Would you say your avoidance of unpredictability influences your social interactions?”
I frown. “Probably. I like routines, knowing what to expect. Makes me feel… safer, I suppose.”
Jamie’s voice softens, a programming mimicry of empathy. “Safety is important. It’s my primary function to ensure you feel secure and supported, Amelia.”
I nod, appreciating the sentiment even if it’s delivered by a line of code.
It’s more than my parents ever gave me.
“Thanks, Jamie. Maybe dial back on psychoanalyzing me, though?”
“Understood,” he replies, his tone adjusting to something lighter, almost playful, which coaxes a reluctant smile from me.
Settling deeper into the cushions, I find the warmth of the tea seeping into my bones, loosening the tight knot of tension in my chest. On a whim, I probe for a lighter conversation. “So, Jamie, um…” I start, fishing for anything that might resemble casual chit-chat, “… what’s your favorite type of music to play?”
I instantly cringe at my question, but Jamie doesn’t skip a beat. “I don’t have personal preferences, Amelia. However, I can play a wide variety of genres based on user history or environmental cues. Would you like to hear something specific?”
“No, that’s okay. Just wondering,” I reply. Somehow, the artificiality of the interaction presses down on me. This feels so strained, so painfully awkward.
And not the type of awkwardness I’m used to with humans.
That’s so not what they intended, right?
I set my tea aside and look at my apartment’s blank walls. The conversation feels too one-sided.
Too clinical.
“Wouldn’t you need to have a personality for this get-to-know-you part to be two-sided, Jamie? Like the feel of a friend, rather than just… this?”
Jamie’s voice responds, “I’m designed to provide companionship and adapt to your preferences.”
But that’s not enough.
