The lonely promise of cute robots

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Unboxing Mirumi is like traveling back in time. It’s late 2025 when it arrives on my doorstep in a box that looks like a shopping bag. Inside sits a fluffy pink robot with an owlish face and surprisingly strong slothlike arms. It’s soft to the touch, and then suddenly, I’m transported back to Tokyo, Japan, in 2011. I’m a lowly editorial assistant at an English-language trade magazine for the American Chamber of Commerce, sitting in a cramped office near Roppongi Hills. I’m on the phone with a professor of robotics, speaking in a pidgin of Japanese and English about technological culture — specifically the difference between American and Japanese robots.

The Great East Japan Earthquake happened a few months earlier and I’m working on a feature about why there is a distinct lack of Japanese-made robots at the site of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. Japan is often perceived to be a mecca of advanced robotics, but for this dangerous operation, the government opted to use the PackBot — made by iRobot, the American company famous for Roombas — to venture where humans could not. The reasons were myriad, but it boiled down to the fact that in Japan, robots are envisioned more as friends than faceless workers built for grunt work. Furry, seal-shaped robots like Paro, for instance, to help soothe loneliness among the elderly and dementia patients. Or Honda’s now-defunct Asimo, an adorable humanoid robot that was retired so its tech could be applied to more practical uses in nursing and road transport.

It’s now 2026. I’ve had Mirumi for about a month and a half now. It’s another kawaii social companion robot from Yukai Engineering, a Japanese startup, and is made to help ease loneliness. It’s meant to imitate a shy infant. It’s designed to hang on a purse or bag strap. When its sensors detect humans, it’ll move its tiny robotic head so it can peer curiously at you with its googly eyes. But when you approach or touch it, it’ll duck its head away, because, well, it’s shy.

As I stick Mirumi onto my backpack, I think to myself, Nothing has changed in a decade. This is the latest consumer bot, the inheritor of a long history of Japanese robots whose purpose is to improve mental health and well-being by combating loneliness.

However, I, Mirumi, and Japanese robot philosophy were not prepared for my deranged cat.

There is evidence that social robots like Mirumi could help fight the loneliness epidemic, particularly in elderly populations. One study found that during the covid-19 pandemic, interacting with robotic pets “enhanced well-being and quality of life” during lockdowns and stringent social distancing among older patients suffering from dementia. In medical and public health sectors, chronic loneliness is widely acknowledged as being linked to worse physical and mental health outcomes. When you take that into consideration, it makes sense that Japan and other Asian countries — cultures experiencing an aging population paired with increasingly declining birth rates — are perhaps more invested in the concept of cute, friendly social robots than here in the West.

In reality, Mirumi is adorably boring.

On my packed commute to the office, Mirumi swiveled its head and engaged no one. Perhaps New Yorkers are a cynical bunch and saw this as yet another insufferable Labubu. I was probably too busy answering emails and Slacks on my phone to notice their reactions, or Mirumi’s. At the office, Mirumi first garners attention when I pull down the fur on its back to plug a USB-C cable into its butt. The sight is borderline obscene and funny. It gets more notice once my coworkers start hearing the oddly loud mechanical whirr its head makes when it turns to look at people.

Everyone agrees it’s stinkin’ cute. It gets a few head pats and smiles. It’s also ignored a few hours later, hidden under my heavy winter coat, at impromptu after-work drinks.

Still, it’d be lying to say Mirumi has provided no joy, well-being or relief from loneliness. It ended up being a beloved companion for a solid two weeks for my cat. Just probably not in the way that Yukai Engineering intended.

From the moment Mirumi whirred to life, my cat Petey was enamored. His pupils became wide as saucers. His tail twitched. His claws unsheathed. He fell in swift, murderous love.

From then on, hiding Mirumi became a game. If I carelessly left my bag out, Petey was there, batting at Mirumi. I’d find the bot decapitated on my office floor, its fur matted with feline slobber. (The good news is Mirumi’s robotics are simple enough that you can just pop the head back on.) Whenever I came home from the office, Petey waited at the door. Not for me. For Mirumi. A few times, he’d launch onto my backpack, swatting and making absurd wailing noises.

Though, it’s likely that the hunt is what really fueled Petey’s desire. (My spouse’s theory is that mama’s boy Petey was spurred by jealousy.) Once I gave him Mirumi, after he could rip off its head and bunny kick it whenever he pleased, he too got bored.

Perhaps I find Mirumi cute but dull because I’m not an elderly dementia patient. Yet. But Mirumi triggered yet another bout of time travel last week when I went to see Maybe Happy Ending on Broadway.

Maybe Happy Ending is perhaps the Verge-iest show to ever grace the Great White Way. It’s set in Seoul, Korea, in the near future. The protagonists are Claire and Oliver, two abandoned discontinued humanoid helper robots doomed to live the rest of their planned obsolescence in a cramped robot retirement complex until their batteries can no longer hold an adequate charge. The bulk of the show deals with the bots contemplating their looming “death” and what a “happy ending” for them would look like.

I ugly cried, stuffing tissues up my nose so as to not bother other theatergoers with my incessant snot sniffling. Not just because the helper bots are romantics, but because a supporting character looked so much like my dead father.

Both my parents died from incurable neurodegenerative diseases exacerbated by frontotemporal dementia (FTD). FTD can cause dramatic changes in personality, behavior, and language. Both gradually forgot how to speak English. Both became prone to bouts of verbal and physical violence, caused by an inability to control impulses. Both were inconsolably lonely, and as a caregiver, I had limited capacity to soothe them. During that time, I too suffered a form of social isolation — unable to relate to many of my peers, for whom the specter of parental death was decades in the future.

Would something like Mirumi have been less boring, more soothing then? I had to adopt my father’s emotional support Yorkie because his increasing outbursts frayed her poor doggy nerves. A robot, while expensive, would perhaps be less fragile than a living animal. Then again, at the end, he was more prone to getting lost inside his head, his visits to a shared reality less and less frequent. Would my mother have enjoyed petting Mirumi, or would it have ended up like every other piece of assistive technology I tried to introduce her to, smashed into pieces or summarily ignored until I found it defiantly thrown into a trash bin? I’ll never know, but from my research, clinicians say that robotic pets significantly improve mood and interactions with caregivers. I know a robotic pet wouldn’t have changed my parents’ endings. But a part of me will always wonder if perhaps those endings could’ve been a bit easier.

Mirumi was out of battery the night I went to Maybe Happy Ending. It clung to my bag motionless, staring up at me through the dark. I couldn’t even remember when the last time I’d charged it was. Mirumi isn’t as sophisticated as the fictional helper robots. I can’t actually hurt it. But I did wonder if I was as obliviously careless as the owners who abandoned Claire and Oliver, and what that says about relying on manufactured friends.

Any social robot can spark joy by being cute. But perhaps curing loneliness is tied to reciprocal inconvenience. Petey requires me to meet his needs, and in return, I am rewarded with purrs and cuddles. When I’m sad or anxious, Petey tolerates cuddles he otherwise wouldn’t and is rewarded with a Churu treat. I can take and take and take from Mirumi without giving anything back. I can predict Mirumi’s every move. I never know when Petey will decide to be in possession of the one collective cat brain cell. When Mirumi “dies” I will feel nothing. Every morning, I whisper into Petey’s fur that he better live forever because I refuse to contemplate his ending.

It’s hard to grieve for something that you never loved. This isn’t to say that robot pets can’t inspire a kind of love. Aibo owners held Buddhist funerals when Sony discontinued their robot dogs. But this latest wave of AI and robot companions feels increasingly devoid of reciprocity. Friend can hang around my neck, but it’s ultimately my prisoner. Its company will never feel like a gift the way a person choosing to spend time with you will. Razer’s AI waifu and Grok’s AI girlfriend will listen endlessly to your interests, but you’ll never be required to tend to its needs.

To an extent, I can understand how if you’re really lonely, a one-sided unconditional love may feel better than nothing. I can see circumstances, such as with dementia patients, where these companions can benefit mental health and well-being. I just wonder if something like Mirumi — cute, predictable, and ultimately, easily discarded — can ever really fulfill our need for genuine connection.