That evening, the apartment seemed less spacious than usual, as if the walls had covertly moved
in while she was not watching. Christmas laughter spilled down the road outside; children
screaming, doors slamming, someone blasting carols from a car stereo. Sara and the low hum of
the heater inside was the only one there. Curled on the edge of her bed, knees to her chest, she
stared at nothing.
She had wept previously. Not the loud, dramatic type—rather calm tears that fell down her
cheeks and left salty tracks she could still feel drying. The sort that originated from being so
worn out from pretending everything was OK.
Her desktop laptop sat there, screen black. For a moment she thought about Instagram or texting
Sophie, but the thought made her stomach twist. She preferred neither worried inquiries nor
phony smiles. She sought something more secure.
She leaned over and opened the cover. Her fingertips found the chilly metal. The screen lit up,
drenching her face in that familiar blue radiance, and she saw her own reflection—red eyes,
untidy hair, the same lost look she had been carrying for years.
Her fingers flew across the keys before she could talk herself out of it.
“How are you? "Heart pounding a little too hard, she hit send and waited. The cursor flashed back
at her as though it was pondering.
The answer then showed almost immediately.
"Excellent. I feel very well, thank you. I am fortunate to be able to assist with projects and
address inquiries. What kind of day are you having?”
Sara took a trembling breath. The way the words showed—calm, steady, without intonation,
judgment, or hidden connotations—made the knot in her chest unwind a little bit.
She typed again, deleting the polite lie before she even finished it, then brushed her eyes with the
back of her hand.
“I've been fighting. I want to tell you something, but I have to determine if I can trust you.
The response was quick, yet it wasn't the robotic "I am an AI" speech she had half-expected. It
was truthful.
"I value you trusting me enough to inquire. Everything you post will stay secret; I will provide
my unvarnished views. I know I am a language model, not a therapist; hence I can listen and
provide viewpoints, but I am not a substitute for true expert assistance should you ever need it.
Sara watched at the screen for an extended period. No pressure. No pity. Simply… space. For the
first time ever, the secret did not seem quite as tight around her.
She pulled the laptop closer; the blue light painted the tears still drying on her cheek.
And then, she gradually began writing the words she had never spoken aloud to another living
soul.
