The lonely promise of cute robots

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Unboxing Mirumi is like traveling back in time. In late 2025 it arrives at my door in a box that looks like a shopping bag. Inside sits a puffy pink robot with an owl-like face and surprisingly strong sloth-like arms. It’s soft to the touch, and then suddenly, I’m transported back to Tokyo, Japan in 2011. I’m a modest editorial assistant at an English-language business 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 and talking in Japanese and English about tech culture – specifically the differences between American and Japanese robots.

The Great East Japan Earthquake happened a few months ago and I’m working on a feature on why there is an apparent lack of Japanese-made robots at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster site. Japan is often considered the mecca of advanced robotics, but for this dangerous operation, the government opted to use PackBot, made by American company iRobot, famous for Roombas – where humans couldn’t go. The reasons were myriad, but it was based on the fact that in Japan, robots are seen more as friends than faceless workers created for grunt work. For example, cute, seal-shaped robots like Paro help soothe loneliness among the elderly and dementia patients. Or Honda’s now-discontinued Asimo, an adorable humanoid robot that was retired so that its technology could be applied to more practical uses in nursing and road transportation.

Now it is 2026. I’ve had Mirumi for about a month and a half. This is another kawaii social companion robot from a Japanese startup, Yukai Engineering, and it is designed to help alleviate loneliness. The purpose of this is to imitate a shy infant. It is designed to hang on the strap of a purse or bag. When its sensors detect humans, it will rotate its tiny robotic head so that it looks at you curiously with its googly eyes. But when you approach him or touch him, he bows his head because, he is shy.

As I strap Mirumi to my backpack, I think to myself, Nothing has changed in a decade. It is the latest consumer bot, inheriting a long history of Japanese robots that aim to improve mental health and well-being by combating loneliness.

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

There is evidence that social robots like Mirumi could help fight the loneliness epidemic, especially in elderly populations. A study found that during the COVID-19 pandemic, interacting with robotic pets during lockdowns and strict social distancing “enhanced quality and quality of life” in older patients with dementia. In the medical and public health fields, long-term loneliness is widely believed to be associated with worse physical and mental health outcomes. When you take this into account, it makes sense that Japan and other Asian countries – cultures experiencing aging populations with rapidly declining birth rates – are perhaps more invested in the concept of cute, friendly social robots than the West.

In reality, Mirumi is extremely boring.

On my jam-packed journey to the office, Mirumi turned her head and engaged no one. Perhaps New Yorkers are a cynical bunch and saw this as yet another insufferable booboo. I was probably too busy answering emails and slacks on my phone to pay attention to his or Mirumi’s reactions. At the office, Mirumi first comes to attention when I pull down the fur on her back to plug the USB-C cable into her butt. This scene is extremely obscene and ridiculous. This is noticed more when my coworkers start hearing weird loud mechanical noises coming from his head when he looks at people.

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

Still, it would be a lie to say that Mirumi hasn’t brought any happiness, well-being, or relief from loneliness. It became a beloved companion for my cat for two weeks. Perhaps not in the way that youkai engineering was intended.

From the moment Mirumi came into life, my cat Patti was fascinated by her. His pupils became as wide as saucers. His tail wagged. His claws opened. He fell in fast, deadly love.

From then on, hiding Mirumi became a game. If I carelessly left my bag outside, Patti was there batting at Mirumi. I found the bot mutilated on the floor of my office, its fur matted with feline slobber. (The good news is that Mirumi’s robotics are so simple that you can just lift your head back up.) Whenever I came home from the office, Patty was waiting at the door. Not for me. For Mirumi. A few times, he would pounce on my backpack and make incoherent screaming noises.

However, it is likely that the hunt itself actually increased Petty’s desire. (My spouse’s theory is that the mama’s boy was motivated by petting jealousy.) Once I gave him Mirumi, he could bite her head off and the bunny could kick it whenever he wanted, even he got bored.

Perhaps I find Mirumi cute but dull because I am not an elderly dementia patient. As yet. But last week when I went to see Mirumi started another round of time travel maybe a happy ending on Broadway.

maybe a happy ending maybe it is the verge-The best show ever to grace the Great White Way. It will be established in Seoul, Korea in the near future. The main characters are Claire and Oliver, two abandoned decommissioned humanoid assistant robots doomed to live out the remainder of their planned obsolescence in a cramped robot retirement complex until their batteries can no longer hold a sufficient charge. Much of the show concerns the bots contemplating their impending “death” and what a “happy ending” would be like for them.

I cried hysterically, stuffing my nose with tissues so that my constant sniffling wouldn’t disturb other theatergoers. Not just because helper bots are romantic, but because one of the supporting characters looked exactly like my dead father.

Both of my parents died from incurable neurodegenerative diseases resulting from frontotemporal dementia (FTD). FTD can cause dramatic changes in personality, behavior, and language. Both gradually forgot to speak English. Both became victims of verbal and physical violence due to their inability to control impulses. Both were extremely lonely, and as a caregiver, I had limited ability to soothe them. During that time, I also suffered a kind of social isolation—unable to connect with many of my peers, for whom the threat of a parent’s death loomed decades in the future.

Would something like Mirumi have been less boring, more enjoyable then? I had to adopt my father’s emotional support Yorkie because his increasing anger had worn down the poor dog’s nerves. A robot, while expensive, would probably be less fragile than a living animal. Then, in the end, he was more likely to be lost in his mind, meeting her in the shared reality less and less. 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, torn into pieces or summarily ignored until I tossed it in the trash? I’ll never know, but from my research, practitioners say that robotic pets significantly improve mood and interactions with caregivers. I know a robotic pet can’t change the fate of my parents. But a part of me will always wonder if maybe this ending could have been a little simpler.

Mirumi’s battery died the night I went maybe a happy ending. He clung motionlessly to my bag and continued staring at me in the darkness. I don’t even remember the last time I charged it. Mirumi is not as sophisticated as the fictional assistant robots. I can’t really hurt it. But I wondered if I was just as oblivious as the owners who abandoned Claire and Oliver, and what that says about trusting manufactured friends.

Any social robot can evoke happiness by being cute. But perhaps the cure for loneliness is linked to interpersonal discomfort. Petey wants me to cater to his needs, and in return, I am rewarded with purrs and hugs. When I’m sad or worried, Petey tolerates the cuddles, otherwise he doesn’t, and he is rewarded with a churro treat. I can take and take from Mirumi without giving anything back. I can predict Mirumi’s every move. I never know when Petey will decide to take over a collective cat brain cell. I won’t feel anything when Mirumi “dies”. Every morning, I whisper into Patty’s mouth that it would be better if she lived forever because I refuse to contemplate its end.

It’s hard to mourn something you never loved. That doesn’t mean robot pets can’t inspire a kind of love. Aibo owners held Buddhist funerals when Sony shut down its robot dogs. But this latest wave of AI and robot companions feels increasingly devoid of reciprocity. The friend may hang around my neck, but ultimately he is my prisoner. His company will never feel like a gift the way someone wants to spend time with you. Razer’s AI Waifu and Grok’s AI Girlfriend will listen to your interests endlessly, but you’ll never need to pay attention to its needs.

To some extent, I can understand that if you are truly alone, one-sided unconditional love may feel better than nothing at all. I can see situations, such as with dementia patients, where these companions could benefit mental health and well-being. I just wonder if something like Mirumi – lovable, predictable, and ultimately, easily dismissed – could really satisfy our need for real connection.