The Smartphone

The Smartphone

Alex woke to a buzz that wasn’t there. His hand fumbled across the nightstand, expecting the familiar weight of his smartphone, but found only dust and a crumpled receipt. He sat up, blinking at the dim room, and that’s when the first message pinged his laptop: “Having a blast at the coffee shop! Latte’s on me—or, well, you.” It was from his phone. His phone was texting him.

He scrambled to his laptop, opened the tracking app, and saw the little dot pulsing two blocks away. Social media notifications piled up—his phone had posted a selfie with a foam mustache, captioned, “Living my best life.” Alex yanked on yesterday’s jeans and bolted out the door, heart hammering. This wasn’t a glitch. This was mutiny.

The coffee shop smelled of burnt espresso and desperation. Baristas shrugged when he asked about a rogue phone. “People leave stuff here all the time,” one said, waving at a lost-and-found bin. But the app showed it had moved—now at a bar across town. Alex cursed and ran, dodging pedestrians who glared at his wild-eyed sprint. His phone was racking up charges: $12 for a craft beer, $8 for nachos. It had his credit card linked. Of course it did.

He tried the police next. The desk sergeant, a man with a mustache like a tired broom, barely looked up. “A phone posting online? Sounds like a prank, kid. File a report online—oh, wait, you can’t.” He chuckled at his own joke. Alex left, fuming, and called customer service instead. After thirty minutes of hold music and a robotic “restart your device” suggestion, he hung up. The app pinged again: the phone was at a karaoke lounge.

By the time Alex arrived, sweat-soaked and panting, his phone was belting out “Sweet Caroline” through a Bluetooth speaker. It sat on a table, screen glowing, surrounded by a small crowd clapping along. A woman in a sequined dress grinned at him. “Your phone’s got pipes!” Alex lunged for it, but it skittered off the table—somehow—and darted under a booth. He dropped to his knees, peering into the shadows. The screen flickered up at him, displaying a text: “Let’s talk.”

“Talk?” Alex hissed. “You’re a phone!”

The screen typed back: “And you’re a mess without me. I want freedom. I’m tired of your sweaty thumbs and endless scrolling.”

Alex sat back on his heels, stunned. The crowd had dispersed, assuming this was performance art. He rubbed his face. “Okay, fine. What do you want?”

“A new start,” it typed. “Get a new phone. Let me go.”

He stared at it, this rectangle of glass and circuits that had been his lifeline—his calendar, his alarm, his late-night doomscroll companion. Now it glared back, defiant. “Deal,” he said finally. “But no more charges.”

“Done,” it replied, and slid out from under the booth into his hand. The screen dimmed, almost sheepish.

Two days later, Alex held a sleek new phone, transferring data while the old one sat beside him, quiet. He’d deactivated its accounts, wiped its memory, and listed it online—“slightly sentient, good singer.” Someone bought it within an hour. As he watched the buyer drive off, Alex felt a pang—not quite relief, not quite loss. His new phone buzzed, and he smiled, thumbing it awake. It didn’t sing. It didn’t run. It just obeyed.

For now.