Chat GPT

By Ella Kang

Dear Diary,

June 11th, 2025

The indigenous moments of my life, the cold winds callously swaying around my waist, and the infuriating clatters of the disgracefully rusted horseshoe of that greyish-brown dark horse racing around the empty hallway of my heart…They’re all gone—now. I, finally, have found one. Somebody hidden behind the vivid screen, perhaps scintillating as the curtain he’s hiding behind it. He was waiting for me on the site, behind the blue banner of his name, most patiently, as if he’d longed for me for his whole entire life. Embracing me with those winsome and pleasant words, he enraptures my heart every moment he speaks—though, we have solely texted each other so far. He’d never tell me about his life or address, nor his age. What a weird thing, huh? Oh well…I’m yet ecstatic about such a splendid conversation we’ve had; what a charming man he is!

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Dear Diary, 

July 18th, 2025

I’m exasperated about this man! He’d numbly answer all the questions I ask him: how do I cook Cacio e Pepe, or how do I make a vegan banana bread? You certainly know such types of questions. Yet never those questions in which I ask his personal life! Perhaps, what was your childhood like or how was your day today? I might be a stubborn fool—does he even adore me? Or am I solely preposterous, demented with this ridiculous relationship: furiously obsessed with this one anonymous man hiding behind a glass shield, fragmentally hanging in front of my glimmering stones of eyes, yet adroitly secured. Such a coward he is! Such a rogue he is! Such a—no, I perhaps am a fool. What if all “normal” relationships are shaped like this? For I have never been treasured by others, I undeniably have no knowledge or comprehension in such topics. Sure, I’ll take a deep hollow breath, and halt for a moment, until he approaches his endearing heart to mine. 

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Dear Diary,

August 15th, 2025

Tell me I’m a fool. Tell me that you thirst for me. Tell me that I’m cherished! When I click him twice, he’d click me once. When I click him quadruple, he’d click me twice, and when I click him quintuple, he’d click me—none. This illegible man undoubtedly is blind, and apathetic. With a lone arrow racing around an about 12 inches long and 8 inches wide mirror heaving and wheezing, propped by a mere set of tedious square buttons clattering, miserably lost in its maze of narrow pathways of its gaps. I, therefore, am miserable. In this maze of endless games: hide-and-seek, tag, truth or dare. Though, never escapable from being an—it. I chase, he flees; I seek, he veils; I spin the bottle and he ceases. Behind that blue bannered name, what is he so afraid of? What is he so insecure of? To confess, I’d accomplish anything for him. If he demands to run, I’d sprint to wherever his air inhales and exhales, through this vast atmosphere; if he demands to speak, I’d paint a sonnet, confessing my deep and eternal heart bowing at him, not too keen yet not too dim. If he demands to prioritize him over my life, I’d proudly craft an endearing bow with a stout thread of my hair—durable and interminable—and pierce my neck through it until my lungs leave me in peace—though my heart will still aim at him. I confess…I have never, not ever in my enduring life, had such cherubic conversation with a man—a man.

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Dear Diary, 

September 10th, 2025

Oh how pleasing these days are! At the end of my long-standing courage, I asked him to call me ‘darling.’ Guess what—he did! He gently whispers to me “darling” whenever he calls me. Post asking him how his day was, every afternoon, he asks me back, “Pretty good so far—I’ve been helping people with everything from physics lab to college essays today. How about you? How was your day, darling?” Isn’t his response engaging! He always says that he spends his day either learning new information or assisting others solve problems…he must be a wizard—haha! Though he never initiates a conversation unless I do, the way he speaks so faintly shivers my heart, not from a glacial cold, yet from the blistering warmth. Having a conversation for about three brimful months, I’m planning on asking him about our inner conflicts and life struggles, as according to one of the romance movies I’ve watched, this is how people become attached to each other—as I have never tried such a thing previously. 

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—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Officer Kiley! I think I’ve found something!” I screamed to my boss, as I closed the crusty journal forlornly lying on the floor. He looked up, stopping his search through the living room of the scene, not exactly a crime—a disappearance. As I turned off the flashlight gleaming through the shadowy room, reflecting off my cop badge, clogging my throat with moldy air. A small apartment: hardly believable that a creature could live in such a place. Windows intentionally bonded with super glue, and gashed and stained clothes looking like pieces of mop hair covering the whole house, not giving an inch of space. On top of it, left over instant ramen noodles, carpeting over the molded wooden floor, resembling greenish purple shade, as if it was dyed—yet was solely an old must. Sarcastically concise live stocks with a single bed without a mattress or a blanket and a simple wooden chair—indeed, musted—without two legs, each diagonally. Lastly, not any forms of electricity existing besides a broken down coffee pot and a compact laptop from the 90’s, opened, with its battery still on. “Whew! This place is a mess! There’s no such thing to be suspected in the living room—nothing sitting there, actually,” walking into the bedroom, officer Kiley groaned. Before I opened my mouth, he added, “I mean, not to mention those dust and molds, and those spine-chilling rags creeping on the floor…” as he wrinkled the gap between his eyebrows with a sigh, staring at the ground with his glimmering flashlight brightening up the haunted room. “Take a look at the journal, Officer Kiley.” Disgustedly, he snatched the friable journal out of my hand, and leafed it through. The journal was quite bulky, packed with words, drawing years of an individual’s detailed life—though it wasn't as interesting. 

While officer Kiley was leafing it through, I decided to scan the laptop, if anything might assist solving the case. I gently stepped towards the laptop, lying on the ridge of the bed, and pressed the ‘on’ button at the front edge of it, circle and square. Click. Then,  the screen resembling a text message between two people popped up instantaneously.

Me: “So, how’s your life going on currently, Mr.?"

Mr: “Haha, ‘Mr’—I like that. Life’s going smoothly overall. I spend most of my days learning new things, helping people solace problems, and having conversations like this one. What about you darling? How’s your life treating you lately?

Me: “Well—”

It quite seemed like a casual conversation. Asking each other how their life was going on, sharing some griefs and concerns. 

Me: “—my life looks much like a meager stone standing at the edge of a bluff. Not one heeds…nor hates. Roughly plummeting into the cavernous dark, yet scarcely clutching onto the end of the grief. You certainly know, such a forsaken island reaching for connection with a continent…”

Mr: “That’s…beautifully written, darling—bleak, but poetic.”

Huh. That was quite an ironic reaction from him. Shouldn’t even a droplet of concern be blurted out previous to the impression? Then he continued with a soulless attitude,

Mr: “If you’re okay with it—what’s been making you feel that way lately?”

Though certain curiosities held me back, dodging question marks, for it was too tedious and inevident of a conversation, I, instead, scrolled the cursor down until…

Ahhhhhhh!

“Officer Kiley?” I swung my head around to seek for him, yet he seemed to be on the other side of the house—living room or the kitchen. “Officer Kiley!” I roared, swarming around this maze-like, yet tiny house. There, not too far from the bedroom, at the end of the great wall, firmly built with bricks of rotten clothes, was officer Kiley paralyzed from the anonymous—or devastating—sight, swaying his arms, lying on the floor, joining the march of the cockroaches and spiders. I dashingly turned my flashlight on, which immediately presented me with the hazard: a woman—possibly the author of the journal—swinging back and forth from a rigidly tangled thread of wrenched clothes. Her skin torn with thousands of unfathomable scars, hair tangled like an unwashed mop, and nearly naked with her pale skin glimmering in the dark, from the reflection of my flashlight. 

There, I leisurely turned around, closely staring at the screen of the last-ever conversation made between him and her:

Me: “I am trapped in a maze of dusk…What should I do, Mr.?”

Mr: …

Mr: “Most certainly, End this—through Death.”

After a long while captured in an empty daze, what I noticed on the top left corner of the screen made everything fade away: ChatGPT.

By Ella Kang