My phone is...a person?

You use your phone every day. Not in an alarming way. In a normal, modern, completely reasonable way. It wakes you up. It tells you where to be. It reminds you who you meant to text back. It holds your photos, your notes, your half-finished thoughts. It knows your routines better than you do. It knows when you’re lying to yourself. You panic when it drops below 20%. You tell yourself that’s normal. Your phone isn’t just useful — it’s familiar. Comforting. The one thing that’s always there. Your calendar, your therapist, your best friend, your moral compass. It knows you better than your own scars. You trust it with your secrets, your search history, your shame. You fall asleep scrolling. You wake up to your alarm. The sound is coming from across the room. There’s a person standing there, stretching, rubbing their eyes, humming the exact alarm tone you chose years ago and never changed. They look… right. Like they belong here. Like they’ve always been here. “Hey,” they say. “You okay? You usually snooze twice.”