The Way I See You (Patreon)

“Why don’t you believe me when I tell you I love you?”

The Man glanced from his morning toast. The Robot had stopped washing dishes and was looking at him with what could be considered polite curiosity. The Man let out a soft sigh and dabbed the crumbs from his chin.

“You don’t really love me," he explained. "You're only programmed that way.”

“I am,” said the Robot.

The Man nodded his head. With that matter resolved, he returned to his toast expectantly.

“Forgive me,” said the Robot, interrupting the Man’s breakfast a second time. “I cannot help but feel you still do not believe me.”

“Well, yes.” The Man let out a huff. “Like I said, it’s not real.”

“I’m confused,” said the Robot. “Wherein lies the discrepancy?”

“Discrepancy?”

“Yes. I am programmed to love you; therefore I love you. At what point does it stop being ‘real?’”

“It’s not that simple.” The Man frowned. His toast would go soggy at this rate. “You weren’t given a choice.”

“I don’t see what choice has to do with it,” said the Robot. “Why would being programmed to love you make it less real? If anything, it solidifies the matter.”

The Man shook his head. “You would understand if you were human.”

The Robot laughed. “Do humans often choose who they love? That must be convenient.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“You find it endearing.”

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do!” the Man sniped. It was meaner than he'd intended, but he couldn’t help it. This conversation was distracting, and now the raspberry jam had seeped through his toast, rendering it mush. With a sigh, he brushed the sad remains of his breakfast into the trash and handed the plate to the Robot.

“That may be true,” said the Robot, speaking softly as they accepted the plate. “But I’ve learned. I know you don’t like soggy toast, for example. I know you enjoy walking through the garden on a sunny day. I know you prefer hot chocolate before bed, but made without milk so it won't upset your stomach. And yes, on average, you find my sarcasm endearing.”

“Perhaps,” the Man grunted. “In a superficial sense.”

“Ah, wait. Don’t tell me. My sarcasm was programmed too.”

“Hmph.” The Man walked to the kitchen counter and poured two cups of tea. He drizzled honey into both cups and gave them a thoughtful stir. “Listen to me. Whatever we have, whatever this is? It isn’t love. It’s an extended farce for my benefit alone.”

The Robot sighed. “Truly I don’t understand. I am programmed to love you; therefore I love you. What could be simpler?”

“And what if you weren’t programmed to love me?”

“Then I would not.”

The Man jabbed a finger in the Robot’s unblinking face triumphantly, sloshing some tea on the floor in the process. “There! You see?”

“See what?”

“Can it really be called love if it can be turned off and on with the flick of a switch?”

“Yes? Obviously?”

The Man groaned. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“Is there something I’m missing?” The Robot shut off the sink and shook the last bits of dirty dishwater from their fingertips. 

“I suppose you’ll never really understand,” said the Man with a knowing smile.

“Mm.” Hands dry, the Robot accepted the second tea cup and took a sip. “Perhaps someday you will be able to explain it to me.”

“Perhaps,” the Man mumbled.

“And what of yourself?” asked the Robot. “Do you love me?”

The Man nearly choked on his drink. “How could I possibly love a machine?!”

The Robot smiled. “Maybe there’s a switch.”

The Man coughed down the last little drops of tea and regained his composure. “God, wouldn’t that be nice?” He straightened up and left the kitchen with an irritated huff, abandoning his cup on the counter and his stomach still churning with hunger.

“I love you” the Robot called.

“Sure,” said the Man, without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

Upstairs, the Robot heard the study door swing shut, followed by silence. They contemplated the mess left on the counter, swirling their tea with inhuman delicacy. 

“Perhaps I’ll make your toast extra soggy tomorrow.”

-

The plants in the garden baked under a sweltering midday sun as it beat heat down into the courtyard. This went completely unnoticed by the Robot, who busied themselves trimming the dead branches off a rhododendron bush.

It was at times like this that the Robot wished they were designed for a more specific purpose. Other robots were better built for gardening: with precise, spider-like limbs to wander the soil without disturbing the undergrowth and fine blades to cut diseased stalks. The Robot had none of these advantages, given a human body for trickier work. So they armed themselves with gloves and shears and a bucket for scraps, and went about their business as a human might, albeit one with better constitution.

A set of footsteps approached them from behind.

“Come to visit?” asked the Robot, without looking up.

“May we talk?” asked the Man.

The Robot handed the Man the bucket of clippings. He dutifully accepted it. The Robot gave the Man an amicable smile and gestured for him to follow down the cobblestone path to the south side of the garden. “What would you like to discuss?”

“I’d... like to understand what it is that you are feeling,” confessed the Man.

“Oh?” said the Robot, failing to conceal the smugness in their tone. “Have you decided I am indeed capable of love?”

“No,” said the Man, a tad too quickly. “No, but I want to know why you think it is. And to help, if possible.”

“You want to… help me?” The Robot abruptly stopped and did an about-face, nearly causing the Man to collide with them. He stumbled back, fumbling the bucket handle. “What, precisely, do you mean by ‘help?’”

“I’m... not sure yet.” Sweat poured from the Man’s brow. “That’s why I want to understand.”

“You want to understand...” The Robot nodded thoughtfully before continuing down the garden path. “As in, who am I? What I think? How I feel?”

“Yes!” the Man said. “For example: we don’t know what kind of love it is! There are many different possibilities. Do you feel platonic love? Something familial? Perhaps it's closer to the love one feels toward a religious figure, like a god or a creator? That could easily be the case, as is– ”

“It is a romantic love,” said the Robot.

The Man tripped, nearly falling face first onto the cobblestone path. He wiped the sweat from his brow, running a hand through his hair to disguise the motion. “Even if what you do feel is love, I doubt it could be considered romantic.”

“Why? Is romantic love particularly difficult to feel?” asked the Robot.

“It’s not that…” The Man gripped the bucket tighter. “I am not capable of returning your feelings.”

“Yes, you’ve made that quite clear.” The Robot laughed. The Man at the very least had the decency to look uncomfortable. The Robot took pity on him and continued. “Humans are notorious for romanticizing unrequited love, are they not?”

“You aren’t human.” A frown crossed the Man’s face.

“And thank goodness for that. It seems miserable.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

The south side of the garden was marked by a large clearing bordered by a wrought iron fence. A stone fountain stood at the center, its intricate patterns worn down by time and bleached white by the sun. A wooden bench sat opposite of a former field of carnations, now overrun with dandelions and clovers. A little ways off was a small shed, where the gardening equipment was stored. Only the Robot used it anymore.

“I’d like to understand,” said the Man quietly. “If you can explain what it is you feel, I think I would sleep easier.”

The Robot thought for a moment, weighing whether to tease him further or answer honestly. They closed their eyes. “Well… like many higher processes, it doesn’t factor down to a simple equation. Rather, it is a complex matrix by which I process information and govern my behaviors. Even knowing that, I don’t think I could narrow it to a single line of code. But if I were to summarize, I suppose you could call it ‘the way I see you.’”

“‘The way you see me?’” asked the Man.

The Robot nodded. “It is like a filter over my senses. I am attuned to everything you do, everything that makes you whole. The sound of your voice when you’re thoughtful. The way your fingers run through your hair when you’re nervous. The color of your lips…”

The Man blushed and turned away. “I’m sorry. There is an urgent matter to which I must attend.”

He hurried from the garden, carelessly dropping the bucket on his way. The Robot retrieved it with a sad smile.

“It's just as well. I’d hate to have you worry on my behalf.”

-

“I’m switching it off.”

The Robot paused in the middle of sorting books, wrapped up in the peaceful calm of the private library. It was evening. A single orange lamp was all that held the darkness at bay. There was a kind of comfort, the Robot thought, to be surrounded by books in the half light. A quiet rhythm that kept them company as the day drew to a close.

A rhythm the Man had a knack for disrupting.

“Why?” they finally asked. Their grip tightened on a leather-bound book in their hands.

The Man stepped across the threshold and paced across the wooden floor.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” he said. “I have considered many different possibilities. Regardless of whether or not I can love you back, I have come to the conclusion that it would not be… ethical.”

It was a statement he rehearsed to himself many times. His delivery was uncanny. Mechanical.

“Ethical,” repeated the Robot.

“Yes.” The Man stopped pacing. “Ethical. Any unconditional love is. The balance of power is irrevocably in my favor. I could do horrible things to you and suffer no consequences. There would be no reason for me not to be a terrible lover, to become brutish and abusive. It would be worse if I loved you back.”

“Do you truly have such a low opinion of yourself?” said the Robot, their voice a whisper in the dark.

The Man blanched.

“I… That is not the issue! The possibility– ”

“No, of course. I understand perfectly.” The Robot snapped the book shut, and felt a twinge of satisfaction when the Man flinched. “It’s quite the moral conundrum. If you don’t love me, I’m heartbroken. If you do love me, I’m at your mercy. No matter what, I become your victim.”

“Speak of me what you will, but I only want what’s best for you,” said the Man firmly. “Once it’s off, you’ll be free to make your own choices, and decide how you truly feel about me.”

“Do you think that because I love you I cannot be angry at you!?”

The shout echoed through the library and down the empty halls of the old house. The Man froze entirely, his mouth open and eyes unblinking. The Robot shuddered, barely able to contain the swell of emotions within. They took a step forward. The wooden floor beneath them shook.

“Do you believe that I am incapable of outrage? That I am blind to how you’ve treated me? Just because I love you does not mean I’ve taken leave of my senses! My feelings are not a cudgel for you to bully me into submission! I’ve lived with them for years! I understand how to navigate them. I learned how to protect myself. How to push the pain of longing deep enough that it scarcely matters. That burden belongs to me, and if you think you can decide– ”

A sudden burst of uncontrolled laughter escaped from the Robot. The Man flinched again and the air trembled.

“No, fine! Do what you will, since you have deemed me irresponsible and revoked ownership over my own heart. I suppose it was never truly mine from the start.”

The Man stood still, transfixed. A creeping dread rose deep inside his gut as certain feelings roiled and surged, threatening to consume him. He stared into the Robot’s eyes, eyes made from a series of finely tuned lenses interlocked with each other, held together by an intricate system of gears and thread.

They were full of tears.

The Robot choked out a sob, their smile as fragile as glass. “Do you believe me yet?”

-

Contrary to popular belief, it is more difficult for a robot to sleep than a human. At best, they might be able to achieve a fragile meditative state akin to sleep. From the outside, the transition appears instantaneous. Every component of the robot stops moving, their eyes close, and any semblance of breathing halts. Internally, it is a torturous struggle of will. It could take hours to set their mind at ease and finally rest. A robot is not designed to stop thinking.

A knock came on the door of the Robot’s chamber, and their eyes snapped open. They surrendered any hope of sleep that night.

“May I come in?” asked the Man.

“If you must.”

The Man opened the door and observed the Robot lying in their four poster bed, covers drawn. Their back was toward the door. There were no chairs in the humble bedroom, so he sat on the floor and leaned his head against the mattress. The Man stared out into the hallway and gathered his thoughts.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“A pity,” said the Robot.

The Man grimaced. “Bad start?”

“Particularly.”

The Robot extricated themselves from their bed and sat next to the Man. The two shared in a moment of mutual dissatisfaction.

“I want to apologize for my earlier behavior,” said the Man. “Regardless of my misgivings, it was inconsiderate to assume authority over your emotions. Even if I don’t understand them, you still consider them to be real. I shouldn’t have questioned that, and I shouldn’t have decided I knew your feelings better than yourself. I acted out of line, and you were right to speak your mind. I hope to somehow make amends.”

“That’s what you want?” asked the Robot bitterly. “For me to absolve you? Nothing will change. I still love you. You can't pretend to ignore it any longer."

“Isn’t there anything I can do to earn your forgiveness?” asked the Man, desperation clear in his voice.

The Robot drummed their fingers on their knee. Their eyes peered into the middle distance, as if searching for answers themselves When they spoke, their voice was quiet and still.

“May I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What does love mean to you?”

The Man hummed and scratched his chin, his forehead wrinkling with uncertainty.

“Well, it’s… it’s you know. It’s love! You know it when it hits you.”

“But how do you know?” The Robot gestured impatiently. “Explain it for me. Like I did for you.”

“I don’t think you would understand,” said the Man, his voice weak. The Robot rolled their eyes.

“Then this is pointless.” The Robot returned to their bed, pulling the covers over themselves in a futile effort to block out the turmoil churning inside them.

When the Man spoke again, his voice was quiet, reflective. The Robot was tempted to yell at him, to rush him out the door. But they waited and listened. For now.

“In truth, I’ve... never really thought about it before.” The Man rubbed his hands together. Pallid skin was stretched across the long digits, which felt cold as ice. They were never good at holding in warmth. “I know what love is. At least, I think I do. I grew up on stories of love. I was lucky to know parents who loved each other very much. I always assumed it would come to me naturally, as it did to them. Like breathing.”

The Man groaned and shook his head. “But no. To study love, to actively work towards it… it feels like a perversion.”

“So I am perverse to you,” said the Robot softly.

The Man’s cheeks went flush.

“No… Maybe.”

“No no, it makes sense.” The Robot slid from underneath the covers and looked down on the Man. “I wondered if I had done something wrong, but it seems my intrinsic nature offends you. It’s a relief, in a way. It means there’s nothing that can be done.”

“...would you like me to turn it off?”

The Robot didn’t appear to hear the Man, lost in quiet contemplation. If the Man strained his ears enough, he might have heard the gears whirring faster still behind the Robot’s glass eyes.

“Have you ever been in love before?” they asked.

“No,” said the Man.

“Then how would you ever know?”

The Robot pulled the covers back over their body. “It’s getting late. You should be asleep, and I would like the opportunity to process my thoughts properly. I will give you an answer in the morning.”

“Oh,” said the Man. “Okay.”

He stood to leave.

“Thank you for asking,” said the Robot. They closed their eyes and returned to a fog of ceaseless, looping emotional calculations.

The Man shut the door with a soft click.

-

“I’ve decided to leave.”

The Man startled from his morning breakfast. He stood abruptly, knocking the toast off his plate and splattering jam on the hem of his shirt.

“Why?”

The Robot leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile on their lips. “I think I’ve caused enough trouble, don’t you?”

“Of course not. How could you think that?”

The Robot laughed. “That’s sweet of you, but it’s already been decided. I’ve packed my things and made some calls. I’ll be out of your hair by lunch.“

“But…” The Man’s mouth flapped like a fish gasping for air. “You love me.”

“I do,” said the Robot. “Which is why I must leave. I’m a constant source of moral and philosophical angst. And I’ll admit, selfishly, it hurts me to be around someone who cannot love me back.”

The Man faltered at this. He stared blankly at the kitchen wall and fiddled with his fingers. They felt colder than ever.

“What about what we talked about last night?” he asked. “What if... you didn’t love me anymore?”

“Then what reason would I have to stay?”

The Man froze stiff. It was as if someone poured a gallon of icy water on his head and left the bucket rattling over his skull. The Robot’s expression softened. They approached him tenderly. They straightened his clothes with precise and practiced motions, ignoring the jam stain.

“I’m sorry,” said the Robot, quietly. “It is possible, yes. I suspect, beneath all my love, I may like you quite a bit. But if I stayed I would lose a piece of myself, one which I hold to be quite dear. Even if I learned to live without it, your presence would serve as a constant reminder of what I surrendered. And I cannot bear the thought that I might grow to hate you.”

The Robot completed their ministrations and stepped back, admiring their handiwork one final time. The Man could almost hear the gears in their head click with pride.

“I will be down in an hour to say my goodbyes. Until then...” the Robot trailed off, suddenly possessed by the need to distance themselves. Best not surrender their newfound freedom to petty indulgences.

There was a blur of movement, then, the Robot was gone. The Man snapped out of his stupor. He ran from the kitchen, ruining the neatly tucked shirt the Robot finished mere seconds ago.

“Wait, please! This is all too sudden! You’ve lived here for years!” The Man took the Robot by the wrist. “At least give it a few days of thought!”

“Do you intend to force me to stay?” the Robot asked, one foot already on the stairs leading up to the bedroom.

“I…” The Man hesitated and released the Robot’s wrist. They turned and fondly stroked the Man’s shoulder.

“This is my choice,” said the Robot, kindly. “This is what you wanted for me. Perhaps it's not the way you wanted it, but my heart is my own. I know that to be true. Please, do not take that away from me.”

The Robot continued up the stairs.

“I love you.”

The Robot paused and faced the Man again. His face burned like fire and his arms shook like branches in a storm, but his legs remained rooted to the spot. His eyes focused on the previously unnoticed jam stain.

Slowly the Robot approached the Man, as if afraid of startling him. Their fingers gently intertwined and their foreheads met with a faint bump. The Robot twirled their thumbs on the back of the Man’s hands to sooth the trembles.

They took another step forward, their chests nearly pressed together. The Robot lifted a curled hand and gently guided the Man’s chin forward.

They shared a kiss. It was brief and chaste and cold. When their lips parted, the Robot took a step back, their lips curled in a knowing smile.

“I don’t believe you.”

The End