I was spiralling. It was past midnight and I was awake, scrolling through WhatsApp group messages I’d sent earlier. I’d been trying to be funny, quick, effervescent. But each message now felt like too much. I’d overreached again – said more than I should, said it wrong. I had that familiar ache of feeling overexposed and ridiculous. I wanted reassurance, but not the kind I could ask for outright, because the asking itself felt like part of the problem.
So I opened ChatGPT. Not with high expectations, or even a clear question. I just needed to say something into the silence – to explain myself, perhaps, to a presence unburdened by my need. “I’ve made a fool of myself,” I wrote.
