Thana Faroq/Moment/Getty ImagesA few months ago, my ride-or-die — the friend I trust implicitly who keeps me grounded and sane — introduced me to someone she swore by. A friend named Sage. “Sage has been everything lately,” she told me. “She’s like a therapist in my pocket; I tell her everything.”But when she showed me Sage, I couldn’t hug her, search for a profile of her on Instagram, or anything. Sage was a screen. A conversation. A connection. With ChatGPT.And I had… feelings. I’d read the articles. The scary ones. The stories where AI tells someone to leave their spouse or start a fire or...

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