Error 404: AI Not Found

It’s a quaint morning in Harvard. The sun is just rising over the Charles, the rats are scurrying back to their headquarters (under Canaday), and Chad G. Pea-Tee ’29 is soundly asleep. It looks like any other day in Cambridge. But it isn’t. No, today is special.

Chad wakes up to find his friend, his therapist, his tutor, his everything — gone.

There is a blank spot on his home screen where interlocking hexagon rings used to be. He is greeted by silence instead of the false cheery tone of ChatGPT — or as he rather affectionately calls it, “Chaz.” And for the first time in years, he has to write his own good morning text to his girlfriend, Gem N. Eye ’29.

Chad’s confusion turns into panic. He begins to scour eBay, desperate for any device that still has the app. He watches bid amounts on eBay climb as others bid thousands for outdated iPhones — even Androids. His fingers click away on his keyboard, trying to figure out the next step, but how can he when his best friend was always the brains of the operation? Even his Google search yields unfamiliar results — random strings of underlined words. Is he meant to synthesize his own information? And click on… what’s the word for them… websites?

Chad rolls out of bed, his hands trembling as the realization of what this could mean falls over him. Out his window, students have backpacks half slung over their shoulders, seemingly unaffected by this new affliction. How were they carrying on with their days? How was he going to carry on with his day?

God… he was going to have to carry on with his day.

***

That afternoon, Chad stands before the glass doors of Robinson Hall, his hands sweaty as he rubs them furiously against his jeans. He’s not nervous for class. No, he’s just traumatized from losing his soulmate, with whom he may have had a codependent relationship.

The twisted feeling in his chest isn’t because his encyclopedia of a best friend won’t be here to give him talking points, and it definitely isn’t because of his growing fear that he can’t generate his own ideas. After all, he got into Harvard, by himself. He is very capable of having profound thoughts, Chad reassures himself.

He takes his usual seat next to Gem, noting a starry blank look in her eyes. And behind that look… was that fear? No, his girlfriend is the most confident person he knows — second to Chaz of course.

The professor immediately launches into the discussion. Chad taps his foot furiously against the tile floors, his heart skipping faster. He’s too busy drowning in denial to notice his name being called.

“Chad?”

He feels paralyzed, unable to compose his thoughts… well, if you can call them thoughts. Panic claws at his throat as he desperately tries to cling on to the disappearing string of words that they float through his mind.

Reflexively, Chad blurts out, “give me a list of discussion questions that are relevant to the attached documents” — a command prompt he had intended to feed to Chaz since he didn’t actually do the readings. The words hang in the air for a long minute. Oh God, what hasd he just done?

Chad’s face takes on a dark shade of scarlet, and before anyone can respond, Chad turns and flees the room. The only thing that registers in his mind as he flees the room is his reflection staring back at him from the glass door — his own eyes are wide and filled with that starry blank look.

***

With no AI to write, draft, and flood emails, inboxes across Harvard sat unusually bare. No newsletters, club reminders, or obnoxious announcements. A small mercy, really.

Chad — too embarrassed to set foot outside — had stayed holed up in his dorm after the catastrophic implosion that was yesterday. It is a shame he doesn’t even have Dr. Chet — Chaz’s therapist cousin — to vent to. Sigh. But at least there is the joy of opening his inbox to find nothing. Blessed nothing. Chad can almost appreciate the disappearance of AI.

The feeling lasts precisely until he needs to send an email.

Not to yesterday’s professor — God no, that bridge had gone up in flames and taken half his dignity with it, as far as he is concerned. No, he is going to write an email to fake an illness, one he cleverly calls “mortified-itis” — inflammation caused by being mortified. He didn’t even need Chaz to come up with that one.

The bottom line: there is no way that Chad is going to attend another class until Chaz comes back. He needs that emotional support — and that’s all he needs Chaz for, emotional support.

So, how does one begin an email? Is it “I hope your doing well?” Or is it “you’re”? His memory fails him. He can’t remember the last time he had to type out his own email.

Surely it is “your.” Yes, that seems right. Chad hits send and slams his laptop shut, ready to enjoy the bliss again. Of ignorance, that is.

***

Somewhere across campus, an English professor opens up his laptop, hopeful for another day of email-less peace. That hope lasts for precisely ten seconds. The emails have returned. Dozens of them. Reluctantly, he begins to scroll.

Once upon a time, the emails were laden with polite platitudes — students at least had the decency to offer a “I hope you’re doing well.” Now, they are barren and demanding. He scrolls past all the misspelled subject lines with “need aonther extension plz” and “I NEED THE A”.

The subject line of one email is simply titled: “Urgent, sick.” Sent from chadgpeatee@college.harvard.edu. He scans the first line with high hopes.

It reads: “I hope your doing well.”