It took her a long time but Shuri had perfected the act. Smooth, calculated movements. Blinking at precise intervals. A voice that never hummed the latest chartbusters under the shower. A face untouched by a smile, even beneath the summer sun. Eyes sworn never to shed tears, even when haunted by the memories of her lost family. She never heard her brother's laugh anymore. She didn't think of her mother's warm embrace or of her father's bedtime stories.
Grief was an endless loop of things that could have been. It was tiring and illogical, lurking underneath her skin, ripping her apart at the seams and bleeding her dry. So she chose logic over longing, calculation over chaos.If she couldn’t erase the pain, she would smother it until it was nothing but a distant whisper.
She studied the robots. She imitated their stillness, their efficiency, their lack of need for connection.
At work, she stopped engaging in small talk, ignored invitations to lunch, declined after-work gatherings, and never asked about anyone’s weekend or their children. She heard the murmurs in the break room, the stolen glances in meetings, the subtle shift in tone when she entered a room. But it didn't matter because they didn't matter. It worked. People saw what they expected to see. A machine, not a person.
Someone to be ignored. Someone to be left alone. And for a while, it worked.
Then Namor arrived. Namor, with his warmth, his laughter, his insufferable need to pull her back into the world of the living. He asked questions she had no logical answer for. He reminded her, in a thousand small ways, that she had once been human. But to be human was to grieve. And grief was unbearable.
************
Namor plopped down in the chair across from her. His presence was a disruption, a ripple of chaos in her world of controlled variables.His warm brown eyes, messy hair and that smile, were a distraction. He studied her, eyes flicking between her blank expression and the perfectly arranged contents of her desk. “You know, you look like one of them. The way you talk, how still you are.”
Shuri's fingers twitched before she forced them to still. “Efficiency is logical.”
“Maybe. But it is also lonely.”
Loneliness. A human concept. Shuri ignored it.
“Was there a work-related reason for this interaction?”
Namor smirked.
“No.”
“Then it is unnecessary.”
He didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “I don’t think you’re a robot, Shuri.”
She finally met his gaze. “And what makes you say that?”
His fingers brushed against her wrist, warm and inviting. "Because a robot’s heart wouldn’t skip a beat in my presence."
***************
Namor started appearing at lunch, in hallways, at coffee breaks. His presence, a burn and a salve. She ignored him like she did with the others. But he didn't give up. He would always ask her questions she didn't answer, buy her coffee she didn't drink. He would bring her home cooked food that remained untouched. Shuri knew if she ignored him enough, he would leave. Like people always did.
***************
She stood at the bus stop, unmoving, watching droplets slide down the glass. The air was cold, but she ignored it. The world felt distant, like she was watching it through a screen.
Namor appeared beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Let me guess. You’re waterproof.” Shuri didn’t smile. That would be breaking protocol. “Yes.”
“ But are you cold?” She hesitated. “Robots do not experience effects of temperature.”
Namor studied her for a moment. Then, without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm.
Shuri's fingers clenched. “This is unnecessary.”
“Maybe.” He tilted his head, “But you didn’t take it off.”
A pause. A flicker of something she couldn’t name. Namor’s voice was softer now. “You don’t have to shut it all down, you know. Feeling things—it’s messy, but it’s what makes us real.”
Shuri looked away. “Reality is inefficient.”
Namor chuckled. “So is love. But we do it anyway.”
Something inside her cracked. Just a little. Memories surfaced, hazy yet clear—her mother’s embrace, her father’s laugh, her brother’s smile.
A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away with robotic precision. Then, barely above a whisper, she murmured, “Malfunction detected.”
Namor smiled. “No. Just a proof you’re still human.”
And for the first time in years, Shuri wasn’t so sure she wanted to be a machine.