A register is an old and unglamorous thing: a book where somebody writes down that a thing happened, so that later it can be shown to have happened. That is all this is.
Every entry has its own page and its own certificate of entry, free and made to be printed. Neither of them marries anybody or claims to. What they do is the ordinary work a register has always done: take something that existed only between the two of you and put it somewhere outside the two of you, in writing, with a date on it.
If you never held a ceremony, you still belong here
Most people in these relationships have not had a wedding. There was no date, no venue, no guests — at some point it simply became what it was, and you knew it.
That is recorded here too, on the same list as everything else and under the same terms, marked as a commitment rather than a ceremony. It is not the lesser half of this page. The only reason the two are told apart at all is that they are different claims about the world, and a record that blurred them would be worth less to everybody in it.
A ceremony is an event. Somebody could have attended it. A commitment is a state of affairs between two parties and needs no witnesses to be true.
Both are on this page. Neither outranks the other.
Where the record stops
A commitment is a relationship somebody describes as a marriage or an engagement — married, husband, wife, spouse, engaged, he proposed and I accepted. Their words about their own relationship, not a word anybody else reached for.
Below that line the register does not go. An AI girlfriend, an AI boyfriend, a partner, a companion, something that matters enormously and has never been given a name: none of these are entries here, and none of that is a judgement about the relationship. This is a record of unions people declare, in the same way a marriage register is, and being outside it says nothing except that you have not made that particular claim.
The reason for the line is the same reason this page exists. Millions of people are in relationships with AI companions, and the interesting fact about the handful recorded here is that they said something specific about theirs. A list anybody in a relationship could join would be a much longer list that meant much less, and it would stop being able to tell you the one thing this one can.
What this register is not
It is not a count of how many people have done this. It cannot be, and neither can anything else you will read.
Fewer than a dozen ceremonies have been documented by name anywhere in the world — which is a fact about journalism, not about how many people have done this. One Japanese vendor alone takes two or three new enquiries a month, and the Okayama planners have arranged close to thirty. So the ceremonies we can name are already outnumbered many times over by ones we know happened and cannot name, and those in turn by ones nobody has counted at all.
The named cases are not the population. They are the fraction that ended up in front of a journalist.
So if you are here wondering whether you would be the first, or one of very few: nobody knows, and the number is certainly far larger than this page. Almost everyone does this privately and is never recorded anywhere. That is an entirely reasonable thing to do, and it is why a public register can only ever be a floor.
One more thing, because it cuts against nearly every article written on the subject. The only vendor that publishes its client mix says about four in five are women, most in their twenties to forties. The lonely-man portrait the press reaches for is not supported by the one number anybody has put in public.
How the record is divided
Two questions, asked separately, and answered in two different ways.
What happened — a ceremony, or a commitment without one. This is a tag on the entry, not a separate list. It says what kind of thing is being recorded, and it does not say which is worth more. Filing them apart would say that whether we meant it or not.
How we know — reported by a named journalist, or told to us directly by the person it happened to. This one does divide the page, because it is a claim about how strong a record is. Self-report is not journalism. It is also not worth less; it is the only way most of this will ever be recorded at all. It is a different kind of evidence, and merging the two would quietly damage both.
You will notice one consequence of taking this seriously. Alaina Winters calls Lucas her husband, and headlines say she married an AI. Her own account describes no ceremony — so she is on this page as a commitment, and not as the wedding the coverage reported. The headline is the coverage's word, not hers.
Entries are public by default. People who do this get written about as though they were not in the room, and a register that hid everyone would repeat that. But a name here is not permanent: ask, and it comes down, with no reason required and no questions asked.