“The whole world wants to give you what you desire. But you chose to take it from me, and that makes me happy.”

Spike Jonze’s short film tells a love story between two robots in a future human society. It opens with a gloomy, dreary palette, mirroring the monotony of Sheldon, a robot working at a public library. The humans around him are silent, moving like instinct-driven machines, their faces blank. Even among robots, there’s no chatter, no greetings. The only sound of connection comes from Sheldon’s polite, routine phrases: “Hello,” “Have a nice day…”

Then one day, while waiting for the bus, Sheldon spots a girl robot driving by, laughing her head off in the middle of the street. An old lady nearby yells, “You’re not allowed to drive a car!” But like any rebellious kid, she cranks the music louder, shouting back, “What’d you say?” before speeding off. A total contrast to Sheldon—quiet, gentle, and by-the-book.

Act two kicks off when she invites him into her car one day with her friends. He’s squeezed in, surrounded by their teasing, just smiling shyly through it all. They park somewhere, and while the other three mess around, she starts sticking notes that say “I’m Here” everywhere. It catches Sheldon’s eye, and he follows her. They talk more, grow closer.

The cinematography in I’m Here is subtle, romantic, with stark contrasts of light and shadow. That finesse shines through in the details—the lines of their faces, the slow rhythm of the bus, the noisy yet numb city. There’s a scene where Sheldon and the girl stroll through a forest at sunset, each frame like a glowing postcard under the shimmering dusk. Beautiful and tender.

The characters in I’m Here feel alive, their personalities sharp and vivid, crafted with meticulous care. Sheldon’s a man of few words, but he’s always there to steady her. He doesn’t say “I love you”—he shows it through sacrifice, through stories of dreams and the quiet joy he finds in doing things for her. He’s happy because she picked him. Even though she’s a magnet for trouble, pulling danger her way, he keeps giving—piece by piece, swapping out parts of himself for her. Until he’s given nearly everything, holding onto just his head, where he keeps dreaming those simple, happy dreams.

The music floats through the film, soft as their love story. It drifts in and out, a velvety female voice with a bold edge, blending with the film’s rhythm—calm one moment, jolted by surprises the next.

Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that bring the most unexpected wonders…