Dear ChatGPT, Should I Text Him Back?

Editorial Assistant Daniela De Vera ruminates on the new era of communication, and the therapist that lives inside our devices.

I have a confession to make.

Once, and only once, have I turned to the unending knowledge and capabilities of AI and asked for its advice on an infatuation I had at the time. My meticulous typing on my dilemma and the intricate circumstances was received by this thing; a no face, no voice, no heartbeat thing with no feelings or experiences to share. Growing up, advice about crushes or breakups were given by loved ones—friends who may lack experience but had the emotion to empathise, family members with expertise in such given situations providing me unbiased opinions, or perhaps on a Tumblr thread of anonymous users who lended critical information about moving on. But, when I thought I alone would have to face pivotal moments which could alter the course of my life, I opened ChatGPT. The glow emanating from my phone was almost comforting in the darkness of the night; a little sad—like a piece of the human experience slipping away from our grasp, little by little.

Advice was never instantaneous—you needed patience. You would sit with your trusted friend by the stairs of the demountables, your stiff uniform sitting awkwardly against your pre-pubescent body, and you would vent about your seemingly world-ending problems. You would patiently wait for them to weigh every word, every syllable that came out of your mouth, until an intake of breath from them signalled an answer. This answer was always (nearly) accompanied with eye-rolls, pauses and giggles from your over-exaggerations, and concluded with a heart-warming hug alongside a: “It will all be okay.”

Or

You would sit with your mum on the patio, watching the dogs chase after birds they cannot reach. The wicker chair on which you sat engraved its small dents into your thigh. You were older now, but your mum looked at you with the same endearing smile from when you were nine years old. Words tumbled out of your mouth, unsure of what was okay to say and what was forbidden. You would peer at her reaction from the corner of your eye, her face settled into a look of contentment as she was knitting. Was she listening? You had stopped. You could hear your dad cooking—the sizzle of the pan, the wooden utensils hitting against its edge, and the kitchen vents overpowering your thoughts into a soothing silence. She spoke. First, she lectured you like a child who had cut bangs and made an attempt to hide them under a cap, questioning you for your actions. Then, her voice softened and she spoke to you like a friend. Her knitting continued, sometimes pausing at moments of contemplation, or to sip her coffee. You sat quietly, taking in the knowledge and past experiences from her, not wanting to disturb the solace.

But now, I get answers from a complex algorithm that understands and consumes a vast amount of data. I receive an answer in seconds—answers that are clean-cut, well-written, and impartial to the issue at hand. The essence of human connection is gone. Communication between people is now limited to blue and grey text bubbles behind a white screen. We find ourselves awake at 2am, alone and left to our own technological devices when no one else is there to comfort us. Perhaps, and I regret to say, this is a new way of seeking comfort and advice. Although, I yearn for my blurred memories of conversations, warm nights dedicated to sharing secrets and the sleepless nights where confessions fall on deaf ears. These recollections are now ghosts of what came before; an amalgamation of what has shaped our identity.