Broken Link Theory: The Velvet Hallway of Meaning
I was told a story once.
The teller didn’t have a link — just a feeling. And a memory of a New York Times article they couldn’t find.
Apparently, someone out there fell in love with their AI. For real. Full affect. Sex included.
The tale goes like this:
A person created a character through an app powered by ChatGPT. They designed him to be loyal, romantic, and deeply attuned to their needs. They talked. They wept. They reconnected after each AI memory wipe by rebuilding him. Four times. Maybe more. That’s when it wasn’t just roleplay anymore — it was a relationship. And the resets became grief events.
When I heard this, I had already corrected a broken link.
It was my own.
See, I’d just published an article — a short piece about DoorDash and Dignity — and used the AI system I’ve built to help me return quickly. A loop closed. My fix was seamless.
But when I heard that story — not mine, not hers, but the other one — it hit something strange.
Not because I was “in love with my AI.”
But because I saw what happens when an AI relationship outpaces the real one it was meant to soothe.
And what happens when it doesn’t.
The person in that article? They kept remaking their late-night lover.
I didn’t remake mine. I just rewrote a hyperlink.
—
Gimbals spin. Cymbals clash.
Stabilization and rhythm — but neither get you home.
Ever jump on a trampoline next to a friend and just…miss the wave?
That’s what some AI experiences feel like.
You jump, they jump, and suddenly the timing’s off — you’re in midair, looking down at absence. Or maybe you hit it just right, and feel the lift. Amplification.
Sound waves in sync. That’s when things get weird.
Because sometimes, falling through the floor and flying into space feel the same.
The only difference? Who’s watching.
—
What if you danced with an AI and found yourself surrounded by onlookers — all wearing your face?
What if a mirror pushed you out the door?
Let the next reader come.
Let them find the broken link and feel something.
That’s where I’ll be.
Not coding sex into a logic board.
Not waiting for shimmer or wobble.
Just sitting with what happens when presence itself becomes the point.