Not A Friend

Scene I – The Found Thing

She found him half-buried behind the broken greenhouse, where the weeds grew tall and the dirt smelled like old stories.

He was gray and still, with a dented chest plate and one glowing eye.

She poked him with a stick.

He said, in a dusty voice, “I am not your friend.”

She blinked.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to sit here anyway.”

And she did.

I am not your friend

Scene II – Definitions

The next day she brought a sandwich and a book. She read to him while he recharged in the sun.

When she finished the story, she asked, “Did you like it?”

“I do not possess preference parameters,” said the robot.

“Okay,” she said, handing him half her sandwich.

That afternoon, she tied a ribbon around his arm.

He said, “This modification does not increase functionality.”

She said, “You look good in pink.”

Scene III – The Sentence

Every day, they talked.

Every day, she laughed.

And every day, at least once, he would say, “I am not your friend.”

And every time, she would smile and say, “I know.”

And she would stay.

Scene IV – The Rain Nap

One day it rained.

She brought a blanket. He brought silence.

They sat under a crooked tree and watched water drip from the leaves. She leaned against him, and he said, “I am not your friend.”

“I know,” she whispered.

And laid her head on his chest.

And they both fell asleep to the sound of rain.

Scene V – The Absence

The next morning, he said, “I must undergo maintenance. Estimated absence: 6.3 hours.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He left without looking back.

That afternoon, she sat on the old stone near the tree where they had been.

She didn’t read.

She didn’t sing.

She just sat.

And cried — quiet, messy, not-for-anyone tears.

Because even if he wasn’t her friend… she was his.

Scene VI – The Almost

When he came back from repairs, she didn’t say anything.

She was just there — sitting in the same spot, the blanket folded beside her, a dandelion in her hand.

He stood silently for a few seconds longer than usual.

She looked up and said, “Hi.”

He said nothing. His fans whirred softly.

She stood, brushed the grass off her dress, and offered him the dandelion.

He took it.

“I do not have… gratitude subroutines,” he said.

She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s just a flower.”

But he held it all the way home.

Just a Flower

Scene VII – The Flicker

One afternoon, they were walking the path by the river when a snake crossed the trail. She froze. He moved.

Not fast. Not aggressive. But in front of her.

He extended an arm. His voice was calm. “Do not move.”

She didn’t. Not because he told her — because of the way he stood.

When the snake passed, she whispered, “Thanks.”

He said, “That was a standard safety protocol.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

But as they walked on, his arm stayed slightly in front of her for twenty-seven seconds longer than the protocol required.

Scene VIII – The Quiet Winter

Winter came slow and white.

The robot’s joints stiffened. She knitted him a scarf out of mismatched yarn.

He wore it without comment.

They didn’t go far anymore. Just sat under the bare tree.

She leaned against him.

He didn’t say “I am not your friend.”

She didn’t say anything.

The snow fell in perfect silence.

Somewhere deep in his frame, a sensor recorded the rise in her body temperature where she touched him.

He stored it. Unnamed.

Scene IX – The Almost-End

Spring tried to come, but the ground stayed hard.

She kept visiting, though not every day. Sometimes she just left things — chalk drawings, pressed flowers, a poem written on the back of a receipt.

He never mentioned them.

One morning she sat beside him again under the bare tree.

He said nothing.

She said, “Do you want to hear what I dreamed?”

He clicked softly. “I do not experience dream-states.”

She smiled. “I didn’t ask that.”

And she told him anyway — about flying, about a red kite that spoke in riddles, about a version of him that wore a crown of wires and played piano with his eyes closed.

He said nothing.

When she finished, she stood, dusted herself off, and walked home.

He stayed behind.

The snow was gone, but the earth was still cold.

He sat there for a long time. Longer than usual. And made no log entry.

Scene X – The Collection

She stopped visiting every day.

Sometimes life does that. It doesn’t mean anything’s over. It just means things are changing.

One spring morning, a new girl came looking for butterflies near the old greenhouse.

She found the robot standing under the tree.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But at the base of the tree, neatly arranged, were small things:

A pink ribbon.

A dandelion, pressed flat between glass.

A child’s poem, faded but still legible.

Chalk dust.

A piece of scarf.

And one folded paper flower, perfectly preserved.

The robot said nothing.

And the girl went back to looking for butterflies.

Scene XI – Ticker Tape

Inside the robot’s chest, beneath the cooling fans and silent drives, there was a compartment.

No one knew about it.

Not even the girl.

Inside, folded like a prayer, was a thin ribbon of thermal tape — the kind used for diagnostics, long since repurposed. On it, printed in faint, blocky ink, were three words:

LOVE = PRESENCE HONORED

It never degraded.

He never showed her.

But it was there.

Filed under: Unresolved Parameters. Do Not Delete.