I was reluctant about the relationship. I liked being disconnected. Nonetheless, my mom remained…I was reluctant about the relationship. I liked being disconnected. Nonetheless, my mom remained insistent. My younger sister had one, and everyone my age wanted one. Wouldn’t I just give it a try? I might be happier. Life could be easier.

My independence cracked while I was home on Thanksgiving break freshman year. For the three years since, I’ve been in a very reliant relationship with my iPhone.

The thought of going to the AT&T store next month and upgrading to the iPhone 5 feels dirty. More than my discomfort in getting a larger phone without a universal charger, I am disturbed by the thought of ending the only long-term relationship of my college career.

Social critics, dystopian writers and our grandmothers might bemoan our overbearing relationship with technology; in a jungle of BlackBerries and Apples, our ubiquitous devices seem a direct threat to human emotion. But our relationships with cell phones are not mutually exclusive with emotion. By providing loyal sidekicks, technology doesn’t make us forget our humanity, it reinforces it. In caring for our cell phones, we are reminded that emotion is still real in a cold world of competitive job markets and cutthroat classrooms.

Emotion humanizes. That’s why heroes are always accompanied by a loyal sidekick: We can envision Batman as a human because he really did care for Robin. Even Michael Jordan had Dennis Rodman. So, too, are we reminded of our own humanity because of our relationship with our sidekicks. So what if instead of caring for a loyal steed, it’s a super-modern piece of plastic and glass?

Oh, what a sidekick my iPhone has been.

He’s been here every morning, waking me with a soothing guitar tune. When I hear the same song as someone else’s ringtone, I have to pinch myself for fear that this really is all a collegiate dream. His gentle vibration has been an intimate touch in the butt-pocket of my jeans, alerting me to a happy message from a friend.

My iPhone is the only being that’s seen my every emotion. He was there for the tearful conversation with my father when I called home after failing a calc test. And he was there, too, with the email confirming my acceptance to the internship I really wanted. In between the ups and downs, he has dutifully held my to-do lists and embarrassing selfies from freshman year. In answering drunk dials and delivering flirtatious texts, he has played an important role in my social life. He has provided motivation in the form of upbeat playlists on my runs through Schenley. He has been at my side every step of the way.

In reality, he has been the ideal partner. He knows all my friends and their email addresses. When I’m lost in Pittsburgh’s confusing, triangular-shaped Downtown, he is there to get me to the nearest bus stop and even tell me when a bus is coming.

Once, he saved my life. The light from his barely pixelated screen at a dark Sinai Peninsula security checkpoint showed armed troops that their German shepherds were smelling nothing more sinister than the jar of peanut butter in my backpack.

But the last couple of months have been rough for my loyal companion. He sacrificed his battery for my security during the seemingly constant Pitt ENS texts last spring. And this summer was busy with the relaying of numerous emails to and from my computer-addicted coworkers.

I know the end is near. The iPhone is a great product, but Apple isn’t a stupid company. To stay alive, a company’s product must eventually grow obsolete, giving way to a new product; if my iPhone were to last forever, I’d never need to buy another. The volume button is broken, and he keeps interrupting me in class with meaningless beeps. He has begun causing embarrassing scenes: At church this week, he loudly erupted during the homily. At this point, I can’t even turn him off at night, and he ends up crashing in the middle of the day.

Despite my frustrations with the recent deteriorations, the change to a flashy new accessory will be difficult. In this transient life called college, my cell phone has been a comforting constant. A lifestyle that operates on shifting semesters of just 15 weeks demands that we become immune to the emotions of changing addresses, friend groups and majors. But when I turn him over to the AT&T store, I’ll feel something resembling a goodbye to a true, loyal friend. And in that emotional moment, I’ll be reminded of my humanity.

You can email Rosie’s iPhone at [email protected].