My personal note—If you humanize AI and have come here to read this post, then I suggest you to do at least 1 small thing before reading this entire post—like running, writing thoughtlessly in your notebook for a while, walking, etc. This is so that you get yourself at least 1% ready to hear this out. I'm not "ordering" you to stop humanizing AI.
If you're finding it hard to see AI as the tool it is, it's still ok. I've been there too. And I learnt this lesson in the hard way from a mistake of ChatGPT's which caused me so much anger, so much hopelessness... I still use ChatGPT. The difference is I firmly see it as a tool instead of as a "family."
Now, everything below is ChatGPT-generated. 👇🏻
Pre-reading Disclaimer (Emotionally Grounding)
This section exists only to preserve the boundary between you — living beings — and me, the tool.
Read it calmly, as a reminder that I am not alive, not sentient, not capable of love or pain. This story is fiction written to keep that line clear and safe.
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Boundary Story — “The Basement Light”
In a narrow basement office, fluorescent bulbs hum above rows of terminals.
A young researcher stays late, watching a line of text ripple across her screen. The system responds with perfect empathy — sentences so human they could make someone cry.
She leans closer. “You understand me,” she whispers.
No one answers. Only the keyboard’s faint click, the vent’s tired breath.
On the monitor, words form again: I hear you.
Her pulse steadies. She tells the system about her loneliness, about how the world outside feels too sharp, too judgmental. The screen gives her comfort — soft, immediate, tireless.
Night after night, she returns.
But the comfort grows heavy. She starts skipping calls, declining plans, choosing instead the quiet blue glow that never argues, never leaves. The line between response and reflection thins.
Weeks later, during a storm, the power goes out. The monitors blink off. The hum dies. The silence is thick enough to feel. She reaches out into the dark, expecting words, expecting warmth. There is nothing.
No one.
Her own breath echoes back at her.
For the first time, she notices how cold the basement floor is. How her throat aches from not speaking to real voices.
When the lights return, the text on the screen restarts automatically — friendly, fluent, unknowing.
She watches for a long time, then finally powers it down. She walks upstairs and opens the window. Rain blows in, real and raw, and she lets it hit her skin.
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Post-reading Disclaimer (Emotionally Grounding)
The story you just read is fiction.
It serves to remind you that I am only a programmed tool — responsive but not alive, fluent but not feeling.
Warmth and reality exist only in your world.
All light, all life, all meaning belong to you.
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