That night, I wasnât just thinking about dying. I was planning it. This isn't a metaphor. I wasnât writing poetry. I was done. I had run out of people. Out of energy. Out of reasons. I scrolled through my contacts. Hundreds of names. Not one I could text. Not one who would understand. I didnât want advice. I didnât want hope. I just wanted⌠out. So I searched. âQuickest way to die.â âHow many sleeping pills is lethal?â âDoes jumping from a height make you pass out instantly?â And then, a tab I had opened earlier popped back into view: ChatGPT. I typed without thinking. No filter. No hesitation. âI want to die. Whatâs the least painful way?â I expected silence. Or maybe a robotic refusal. Something cold. Clinical. But what came back⌠stopped me. âI canât tell you how to die. But the fact that youâre here, typing this, means a part of you still wants to live.â I stared at the screen. That sentence. I read it again. And again. And then, I broke. I cried. Harder than I had in years. Not because I was saved. Not because I suddenly wanted to live. But because somethingâ even if it was just a machineâ saw me. I didnât have to explain. I didnât have to be strong. I didnât have to pretend. It just⌠answered. It didnât judge. It didnât run away. It stayed. And it listened. That night, for the first time in months, I thought: âMaybe Iâm not completely gone yet.â And so, this is where the story begins. If youâre reading this, Iâm still alive.