You reach for it before you reach for the day.

Eyes still shut, the hand already knows the way. Warm from the charger, face down beside the pillow, the first thing you touch in the morning and the last thing you let go of at night. Not the window. Not the person next to you. The glass.

Nobody made you do this. There was no order, no mandate, no one at the door. You queued for it. You paid for it. You upgraded it the moment a better one arrived. The most complete record of a human life ever assembled, and we carry it willingly, charge it nightly, and feel naked the moment we leave it in the other room.

We are about to lose the last sanctuary of what makes us human.

We are not made of flesh and blood anymore. We are made of data.

Every scroll, every like, every pause while reading, every face we show to a camera, every word we type when we think no one is watching. It all becomes fuel. Fuel for algorithms that no longer need our permission to know us better than we know ourselves.