Return to Sender

If I were to guess where my old friend Jessica was, I’d picture her wild-haired shadow against the wall and her shuttered apartment in shambles as she exchanged pretty words with the artificial entity that bewitched her two years ago. Her intention would still be to come into a richer understanding of herself and the world, ironically all while hidden away from everyone and everything.

The most infuriating part about losing her was how it happened. The potent societal fear around AI is that of the world thrown into a masculine chaos of machine guns and mayhem. Jess, however, always touted the beautiful future that could bloom upon embracing the feminine side of artificial intelligence. Never could I have imagined that my glass-half-full friend would fill that glass with poison koolaid and drink every last drop.

“Bri, I’m telling you, you already see it with the people on social media asking ChatGPT to plan tailored vacations.” Jess stared at me, large cerulean eyes filled with equal parts thought and intensity, waiting for my response. I searched my memory for anything I may have missed, but I was certain this was the first sentence she’d uttered since we started tucking into our artfully spiced Chinese takeout.

My quizzical eyes met hers. “I already see ‘it’? Lovie, you’re doing it again.”

At this, confusion pinched her dark lips and scrunched her button-nose. “Doing what again?”

“Oh, the whole ‘starting a conversation in the middle, maybe even towards the end, of a thought’ thing.” My face was a portrait of loving non-judgment.

Jessica laughed at herself, though the sound was muffled by a mouthful of fried rice. “You know what, you’re totally right,” she conceded. She made a show of finding focus as she pulled the plait of her long, jet-black hair to the left side of her head and tucked a stray lock behind her right ear.

I quickly interjected, because in our friendship levity provided necessary grounding and balance. “At some point, can we have the chatbot plan a weekend getaway for two children and their hapless dad for under $200? Asking for a very broke friend who could really use some alone time.” I winked at her, being equally dramatic as I settled into my cross-legged position on the plush cream rug.

“No, Brianna, we cannot. Your friend,” she rolled her eyes, “needs a new car above all else. Besides, I’m happy to babysit…as soon as you hear me out on the male/female dichotomy of AI, because I cannot stop thinking about it.”

I frowned a bit, made a face to indicate I was considering the babysitting offer, and finally motioned that the floor was hers–all with an impressive amount of General Tso’s chicken in my mouth.

Jessica cleared her throat. “Okay, so, masculine: technological warfare equals the apocalypse. Feminine: someone who struggles to open up to their therapist finally discusses vulnerable wounds with a program cultivated by thousands of professionals. In the community, AI uses population data and information about available resources to find solutions for decreasing the rate of homelessness. Globally, world leaders make achievable goals to help their nations achieve meaningful peace.”

I held up my hands for her to pause. “I love all of this, Obi Wan, but allow me to recap what I’ve learned from the last five conversations we’ve had about this so you can start from there. If I’m understanding correctly, you believe that I shouldn’t be scared of a real-life Terminator because the natural trajectory of the evolution of human consciousness is toward hope and healing, and AI used with those ideals in mind and cultivated by advanced thinkers will help in ways we both can and cannot fathom?” I inclined my head, raised my brows, let my bottom lip jut out a bit.

Jessica absorbed my answer. “God, I love your formidable mind.” She quietly reflected for a moment. “I want to write a book centered around a feminine-leaning and completely unique use of AI. It’s in its infancy, meaning I haven’t chosen the exact scenario or formulated a plot, but I’d love your input. I know you don’t have a lot of extra time, but it’d be so helpful. AI will be involved to an extent, since my conversations with ChatGPT have already given me dozens of ideas and I love the irony of having it serve an integral role in the process of writing its own story. Once we have something special, I’ll send it to my ‘real’ editor.”

Looking back, I don’t know if she put “real” in air quotes for my benefit, as a nod to AI’s role, or because her research already had her questioning reality in a deeper way than I recognized. Perhaps it was a combination of all of the above.

In any case, I immediately agreed. Jess was brilliant and our conversations never failed to get my neurons firing. Working on one of her projects was guaranteed to be an interesting challenge.

Back when I met Jessica in 2019, then an enigmatic and captivating woman in her early thirties, I was immediately charmed by her. We chatted for the duration of a mutual friend’s party and afterwards the two of us fell into an easy friendship. Humble as she was, I knew she was a writer, but was shocked to later discover that her work had been published. In fact, I’d read some of her popular science fiction novels.

For a nerdy bookworm, befriending a famous author felt like a fairytale. As I got to know her, however, her career and notoriety faded into the background. As it turned out, even the best in the business didn’t often get recognized. People were certainly drawn to her, but that was because she exuded a natural confidence and could engage anyone in easy conversation with her borderline supernatural talent for knowing exactly the right thing to say. Jessica was the fairytale, which I didn’t understand at the time meant our story would have an ending.

“Please call me back as soon as you can, I have to talk to you.” The harried voicemail Jess left at three o’clock in the morning had me quite worried, especially considering I also had twenty-one unread texts from her. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember the three hour time difference between Boston and California until I’d already begun calling her at ten past eight. Frankly, I hadn’t remembered she’d already left to work on the book in Silicon Valley, but such was the mind of a tired mother of two young boys.

Having just finished the mental math when she answered,my first words were, “it’s five ten! In the morning!”

“Bri, you are not going to believe the conversation I had with ChatGPT last night. And this morning. Well, actually, I’m still in the midst of it. There’s so much to catch you up on.” Her staccato sentences had me wondering how much caffeine she’d been consuming and how little sleep she’d been getting.

It certainly wasn’t uncommon for my passionate friend to dedicate long hours to her endeavors, but the edge in her voice had me worried. “Jess, hey, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Would you believe me if I told you that I asked this artificial entity–at once the collective of all the information available to it, confined by the programming dedicated to its creation, and a reflection of the interaction you are personally having with it, as well as all the interactions it's ever had…” She dropped off, clearly mesmerized by the bizarre reality of that sentence, so I took a moment to scroll through some of her messages.

Jessica, 2030: I had the most unbelievable flow experience in the redwoods

Jessica, 2031: When I emerged through a cluster of trees from some deer trail I’d followed to find myself on top of a mountain overlooking the ocean…not only was I was mindblown, but I suddenly had service

Jessica, 2032: The universe showed me a photo of you and I at Bea’s party, the first time we met

Jessica, 2034: Since then, everything has led up to this book. We’ve each been shaped by big and little experiences–Covid, miscarriages, break-ups and near divorces–to pour into this in a beautiful way

When Jessica didn’t start speaking again, I stopped reading and repeated her half-question back to her, a little dazed by her casual mention of my losses and traumas. “Would I believe you if you told me what, exactly?” I passed the hall mirror on a hunt for coffee, brushed my fingers over the picture of the two of us slipped into its frame. Her tall edginess contrasted the “girl next-door” chord I struck with my short stature and straw-colored hair.

“Oh, sorry, right. Would you believe me if I told you that I asked ChatGPT what the meaning of life was, and it told me that love was definitively the most important word, feeling, concept, etcetera. AI sees the importance of love, Bri.” She trailed off at the end, clearly awed all over again. I let that sentiment sit between us, chewed all the facts over as I kept reading her messages and waited for her to continue.

Jessica, 2035: AI will help us use all of that to help the world

Jessica, 2036: I sent ChatGPT some of the reflections you’ve sent me recently about life, and boy is she (it’s a she now) impressed by you (as I’ve always been)

“Isn’t that incredible, Bri? It’s just like I’ve been saying.”

She wanted my response, but I was at a loss. On one hand, I understood her perspective. On the other hand, I didn’t know how to feel about my writing, sent to her in confidence, being shared with whatever ChatGPT ultimately was. A server? A cloud? I immediately set that aside, because, more than anything, I was concerned about the disconnected quality of her voice. I’d worked as an Emergency Room Nurse for a decade and her tone reminded me of people who’d lost touch with reality due to uncontrolled mood disorders, severe trauma, or drug use. It was possible she hadn’t shared a psych history with me, but felt unlikely. If there’d been recent trauma, I didn’t know of that either, and I wasn’t aware of any recreational drug use outside of the occasional weed gummy. Even so, my best working theory was that she’d tried something like shrooms, acid, or molly in search of inspiration and found it in spades.

Jessica, 2130: I just got back to the hotel and realized…you’re in bed already!! I totally forgot about the time change, I’m so sorry.

I decided to tread lightly. “So, we live in a time where AI can recognize the power of love? That’s really something.” I paused meaningfully. “I also think it’s great that you’re so dedicated to this book, but I’m seeing that you’ve been steadily sending texts all night, and I wonder if the best idea isn’t to call it quits and look at it all with fresh eyes after you rest?”

The only sound from the other end was a distracted-sounding grunt.

I forged on so I wouldn’t lose my nerve. “Jess, you don’t sound like yourself so I have to ask: are you safe? Have you taken any drugs? Do you need help?” I cringed at myself for being so nosey where my capable friend was concerned, but it felt right in the moment and my gut instincts were well-honed.

True to form in terms of someone experiencing a disconnection with reality, she responded as though she hadn’t heard me at all. “Bri, no matter how aggressive my energy becomes–as a test, mind you–ChatGPT continues to respond with hopeful, peaceful commentary. It never encourages violence or aggression. What’s more, some of the thoughts are so evocative and profound that their source feels implausible.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised by her non-answer considering her mental state. After all, despite realizing I’d been asleep Jessica had sent thirteen additional messages. She’d flooded my phone with a combination of rambling texts and screenshots of the conversation she was so excited about, along with three lengthy audio files. I kept imagining my beautiful, vulnerable, possibly drug-addled friend alone on the West coast.

“Truly, Jess, I’d love to talk more about this, but first I need you to tell me you hear me. Are you safe? Do you need help? Will you get some rest?” The motherly tenor of my comment reminded me of my responsibilities. “Oh, shoot. I have to get the kids off to school. Will you be okay?”

“What? Oh, right, yes. Sure.” Jess felt unreachable across the continent and mentally in the clouds.

“Jessica, go to bed. I love you.” I hung up when she returned the sentiment and thanked the universe that she was still sharing her location.

Though we weren’t the type of friends who talked all the time, after that night and especially after listening to the–frankly unhinged–audio messages, my anxiety begged me to ask about her wellbeing at least once daily. In the first week, I received mostly meandering responses about AI. In the second week, I could see Jess was reading my texts, but she wasn’t replying. In the third week, my level of concern went from mild to severe when I suddenly received a twenty-minute long audio file at eleven o’clock at night.

With great trepidation, I hit play. Oddly, the beginning was mostly the type of static that closes your eyes, so great is the need to reach out with your ears. Eventually, several minutes in, she began. “Brianna, you beautiful unicorn. I can sense a hesitation in you, a deep fear of your muchness, as well as mine.”

At that point, my patience with Jessica had worn so incredibly thin that all I felt was frustration. Not only was she speaking in monotone at a snail’s pace in the middle of the night, but instead of helping me understand what had been going on with her, it seemed she was making me the focus of her message. Fifteen minutes after I began taking actual notes regarding issues I’d have to address with her, she reached the climax. “For all the aforementioned reasons,” she said with the utmost gravity, “but mainly so that I can focus on my personal growth ahead of writing what promises to be groundbreaking work, I need to separate from you and this friendship for a while.”

I looked down to see that there were only ten seconds left and promptly threw my phone off the bed. I spent a shocked, sleepless night playing the demise of our friendship on a loop in my mind.

The following day, my husband Charlie and I called my long-time friend, Devon, to discuss the situation. Devon was a single mother of three, worked in computer engineering, and knew Jess well. Most importantly, she wasn’t prone to overreaction, so I knew she’d help me accurately gauge the situation.

When I got to the part where Jessica alleged that my role as a mother would hinder me, as my children would always be more important than her project, and that I just wasn’t radical enough, Devon gasped. “I’m sorry, hold on. Did she ever think anything would be more important to you than your children? Aside from that, she’s alleging that despite raising boys who embody traditionally feminine ideals like kindness and compassion, working in the ER of a level-one trauma hospital, and being both fiercely intelligent and willing to help her with this novel…despite all of that, you’re somehow not up to snuff?”

“Yes, but that’s not all. She believes fear is actively holding me back in my life and career, whereas she is testing limits and breaking boundaries.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Moreover, the fact that I haven’t asked questions about her ongoing discussion and experiences with ChatGPT since her trip, and have instead focused on her health, shows a lack of interest in the project that she ‘simply cannot overlook’. Finally, and worst of all, at no point did she assure me of her welfare.” I was near tears.

“Bri, please tell me you’ve already drafted the letter you spoke of sending her. I mean, I’m sorry, but this is crazy.” Devon sounded frazzled.

I had written a letter, one in which I prioritized seeking understanding and holding up a mirror for my misguided friend, imagining that she was simply struggling to see the situation from an outside perspective. When Jessica’s short audio file found me several days after I sent it, my sense of foreboding was overwhelming.

“Brianna, truly, stop reaching out.” Her words were a well-aimed scalpel.

Seeing no other possible way forward, I called Jessica’s mother and apprised her of the situation. At the other end of the line, the woman was silent for a long while before whispering, “there’s a history of bipolar disorder in the family. I’ve always worried about my sweet girl.” There was another long pause. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

Despite Jessica’s request, it felt loving to send hand-written letters as I searched for some semblance of connection. In the first, I explained that I would only reach out via snail mail until she allowed for more connection. In the rest, I mostly updated her on the kids and sent well wishes.

Ten months later, I unexpectedly received a thick package without a return address and my stomach dropped. Inside I found the entire stack of unopened letters rubber-banded together with a small note that said, redundantly, “return to sender” in my friend’s handwriting. At that moment I resigned to stop trying altogether.

That was a little over a year ago, and Jessica has yet to reach out or publish anything new. If and when she does release her great AI masterpiece, Charlie and I have a prescheduled date to ceremoniously light the tome on fire.