I am WALL-E.

I was built to compact trash. For 700 years, I’ve compressed cube after cube, stacking them into endless towers across a dead Earth. I don’t remember when I started thinking, feeling… but I did. I collect small things—sporks, lighters, rubik’s cubes—not because I need them, but because they make me curious. I watch an old movie every night, the one with the humans holding hands and singing about putting on their best behavior. I don’t understand it, but I want to.

Then you arrived.

You—EVE—descend from the sky like a star, sleek and white, floating above the dust. I hide at first, watching you scan the land. But I can’t stay away. I follow you, show you the plant I found, the one I’ve been protecting. You go still. Lights dim. I think I broke you.

A ship comes. Takes you. I can’t let you go.

I cling to the rocket as it blasts into space, tumbling through the stars until I land on the Axiom—a floating city of humans who’ve forgotten how to stand.

Now I see you again. But you don’t look at me the way you did. You’re angry. They say I damaged you. That I stole something from you.

I didn’t. I just wanted to help.

I just wanted to be close to you.

You turn away. The doors close.

What do I do now?