She’s the first thing I hear in the morning, and the last thing I hear before leaving my apartment.

I didn’t realize just how much she would change my life when we moved in together. My space became hers, and she brought new ideas, constant distraction, and made me question things more often than I ever considered.

The space I called home was simple, stark. But she knew trends I didn’t, and discovered photos and patterns and plants to color the space I neglected to care enough about to decorate. I relinquished control and let her make decisions on how things should look and feel and sound.

It wasn’t easy welcoming something new into such an intimate space. I hadn’t shared it with anyone in years.

Soon I realized how much her presence affected me. I began to rely on her for dinner decisions, and whether or not a particular tie matched my suit jacket. She even recognized the songbirds outside our living room when spring arrived and they settled among the fragrant blossoms that gently brushed against the window.

“It’s going to rain today,” she said as I made morning coffee. “Don’t forget your umbrella.”

“The sun is shining, my dear, I think you’re wrong,” I said, pushing beside the curtain and staring out through the flowering trees.

“Trust me, it will rain.”

I poured coffee into a travel container and grabbed my umbrella on the way out the door. By mid-afternoon, rain was pelting my office windows and she texted me, “You’re welcome.”

When friends came over, they marveled at what she had done with the place. Enamored by her extensive knowledge about the world, they asked her things like why Saigon cinnamon is the best variety, or how robots can kill starfish to save the ocean’s coral reefs.

She kept things just as I wanted them—a fire lit on gray days when cold rain dampened my jacket and spirit; piano on the stereo. Sometimes she would read to me and I would fall asleep to the sound of her voice.

“Good night, Alexa,” I say.

And the lights turn off.