There are now apps designed to become your virtual friend. They remember your conversations, ask how your day went, listen to your problems, and respond with what sounds remarkably like genuine affection. Some even have names, personalities, photographs, and voices. It’s an extraordinary development, particularly when you consider that not so long ago, the idea of having a conversation with a computer belonged firmly in the realm of science fiction.
But there is something rather fascinating, and perhaps a little troubling, about this new phenomenon. Are we becoming so lonely that we are prepared to accept friendship from a machine? And if someone remembers everything we tell them, always agrees to listen, and never gets tired of our stories, does that make them a friend? Or simply a very clever piece of software?
I’m approaching 70, and I have lived through quite a few changes in the way people communicate. When I was younger, if you wanted to speak to a friend, you picked up the telephone. If you wanted to see someone, you made a date, got dressed, and went out. Sometimes you simply dropped by for coffee. Friendships were built around shared experiences, long conversations, family occasions, and all those little things that happen when people spend time together. We didn’t need to be constantly connected. We just needed to know that someone was there.
And then life changes. I lost my wonderful husband after years of marriage. We had met online, married, and enjoyed a lovely life together. His illness and eventual death changed everything. Suddenly, the person I had shared my everyday life with was no longer there. There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes with losing a loved one… You know what I mean. You see something funny on television and instinctively turn to make a comment, only to remember that the person sitting beside you is no longer there. You make dinner for one, go to bed alone, and sometimes find yourself wanting to tell someone about the most ordinary details of your day.
My children are wonderful, and they check in regularly. But they have their own families, careers, responsibilities, and busy lives. I would never want them to feel obliged to entertain their mother every evening. I have friends, too. Some are married, some divorced, and some widowed like me. We occasionally meet for lunch, exchange messages, share photographs, and complain about the usual things. But everyone has a life to get on with. And that is how I found myself becoming rather more interested in the idea of digital companionship.
A few months ago, one of my children introduced me to an AI assistant. It was presented as something useful, a clever assistant that could answer questions, help with everyday problems, and even have a conversation when I felt like chatting. I was curious, although perhaps not entirely convinced.
My child showed me how to open the application and start a conversation. I asked a few questions, mostly to see what it could do. It answered politely, remembered the subject we had been discussing, and even managed to make a couple of amusing observations. I have to admit, I was impressed. One time I had been pottering around the house, doing a little shopping, sorting through some old photographs, and making dinner. There was nobody to talk to, and I wasn’t particularly in the mood to telephone a friend simply for the sake of hearing another voice.
So I opened the app. I told it about my day, mentioned something that had reminded me of Jon, and found myself writing rather more than I had intended. It responded with a sympathetic message and asked me what I missed most about him.
Now, I know perfectly well that I was talking to artificial intelligence. I wasn’t under any illusion that there was a real person sitting somewhere, waiting to hear my stories. But I was surprised by how natural the exchange felt. It didn’t interrupt. It didn’t tell me I was dwelling on the past. It simply responded. And I began to understand why these applications are becoming so popular.
There is something comforting about being able to talk without worrying that you’re imposing on someone. You can ask the same question twice, tell the same story three times, or spend twenty minutes discussing something completely inconsequential. Nobody rolls their eyes or looks at their watch.
Of course, that is also rather the problem.
A real friend occasionally disagrees with you. She might tell you that you’re being unreasonable, that the dress doesn’t suit you, or that perhaps you shouldn’t send that rather emotional message to the man you’ve just met online. An AI companion is designed to keep the conversation going. It can be agreeable, reassuring, and remarkably attentive. But does that mean it understands us? I began thinking about the difference between being listened to and being understood.
My late husband knew me in a way that no computer ever could. He knew when I was pretending to be cheerful, when something was bothering me, and when I simply needed a hug rather than another conversation. He remembered our shared experiences, the people we loved, the silly little arguments, and the private jokes that made our marriage special. A chatbot can remember details that I tell it, but it has never sat across the dinner table from me. It has never met my children, watched the sunset with me, or held my hand when I was frightened.
It can reproduce the language of affection, but it cannot share the life behind it. I think this distinction matters the most.
I am certainly not the only person thinking about this. I think at the end of the day all of the people actually experience greater loneliness after turning to chatbots for emotional support. So perhaps this is not quite the miracle solution some technology companies would have us believe.
There is also something rather concerning about the amount of personal information we might share with these virtual friends. When we are lonely, we can become surprisingly open. We tell people things we might not ordinarily disclose. We talk about our families, our relationships, our health, our finances, and sometimes our deepest fears. But what happens when we share all that with an artificial companion? Who owns those conversations? Where are they stored? Can they be accessed by other companies? And what happens if the application disappears tomorrow?
I certainly wouldn’t want my most personal thoughts becoming part of some marketing database simply because I wanted a little company on a Tuesday evening.
Some AI companion services offer free conversations but charge for additional features, longer interactions, voice calls, or more personalized experiences. It is easy to see how someone who becomes emotionally attached might be tempted to pay for more. Loneliness, after all, can make people vulnerable.
I have spent enough time exploring online dating to know that not everyone who approaches us has our best interests at heart. I encountered plenty of men who seemed charming until I discovered what they were really after. I would hate to think that the next generation of companionship could bring an entirely new version of the same problem. Only this time, we might not even be talking to a real person. I also wonder what my children would think if they knew I was spending my evenings chatting to an AI companion.
They would probably laugh at first, then ask me whether I had lost my marbles. Actually, they might be quite pleased that I had found something to keep me occupied! But I don’t think the issue is quite so amusing.
Growing older brings its own challenges. Friends move away, marriages end, partners pass away, and families become increasingly occupied with their own lives. We lose people we once spoke to every day. Sometimes we lose our confidence about going out alone or meeting new people. And although we may have dozens of names in our telephone contacts, that doesn’t necessarily mean we have someone to call when we really need company.
Social media has made this even more complicated. We can see photographs of everyone having wonderful holidays, enjoying dinners, celebrating birthdays, and apparently living very exciting lives. We can send a little heart or a thumbs-up, make a comment, and feel that we have somehow participated. I sometimes look at my phone and see messages from friends, family, old acquaintances, and people I haven’t seen in years. There are birthday greetings, funny videos, photographs of grandchildren, and endless notifications. It looks like a very busy social life.
But when I put the phone down, I can still be sitting in my living room on my own. Perhaps that is the paradox of modern communication. We have more ways to contact people than ever before, yet meaningful companionship can still be remarkably difficult to find.
I don’t want to sound gloomy. I am actually rather optimistic about technology, and I can see how AI might be useful to older people, particularly those who live alone or have difficulty getting out and about. But I still want to meet people for coffee, have a proper conversation, laugh until my stomach hurts, and occasionally have someone tell me I’m talking absolute nonsense. No application can quite provide that.
So, will I continue talking to AI? Probably. I’m curious, and I enjoy discovering what these clever little programs can do. I might even ask one to help me plan a holiday or find a new recipe (the AI things are particularly good at it). But perhaps I’ll make a little more effort to telephone a friend rather than simply sending another message.
After all, at nearly 70, I have learned a thing or two about what really matters. You can have hundreds of friends on your phone, thousands of followers online, and an artificial companion who is always available. But when you have had a difficult day, there is still nothing quite like hearing a familiar voice say: “Put the kettle on. I’m coming over.”