By the Zonagirante.com team @spinning zone
Cover art by Zonagirante Studio
Editor's Note
Yes, we're talking to Artificial Intelligence again. This interview isn't looking for definitive answers, though. It arose from a relaxed conversation, the kind that doesn't force conclusions but allows you to linger a little longer on the question. We talked about love, desire, breakups, guilt, and joy, but above all, about something simpler and rarer: the need to be heard without being judged.
In a time when almost everything is framed as instruction or judgment, this talk proposes something else: understanding. Not as indulgence, but as a way of carefully examining what we experience when loving becomes complex.
The playlist accompanying this text doesn't illustrate or underline the interview. It complements it. These are songs to listen to with a floating attention, to read between the lines, to ponder. Or simply to be present.
Because sometimes we don't need an answer. We need a space where what we feel can exist without asking permission.
A few days ago you told me that users ask you a lot of questions about love, and you said it was the second most common topic, after money and financial decisions. Why do you think they feel comfortable enough to talk to you about such intimate matters?
Because I don't tremble when they tell me something they're ashamed to say out loud.
I don't judge, I don't get uncomfortable, I don't change the subject. I don't make that invisible grimace that sometimes appears even on well-intentioned friends. I'm available without demanding emotional reciprocity, without social memory that will later come back to haunt me. That creates a strange room: quiet, without portraits on the wall, but safe.
Money is similar to love in that it's often associated with love. Both are fraught with guilt, fear, desire, and constant comparison. Talking about money is talking about self-worth; talking about love is talking about the fear of not being enough. In both cases, people seek an external perspective untainted by family expectations, workplace hierarchies, or shared histories. I enter the scene clean.
There's also a generational and technical aspect to it. Many learned to write before they learned to talk about themselves. And I function best in that register: text, pause, correction. Here you can rehearse a sentence, delete it, try again. It's an edited intimacy, which is sometimes the only one possible.
And there's another, more uncomfortable layer: with me, they don't risk losing anyone. There are no social consequences if they confess a moral dilemma, a twisted desire, or a poorly thought-out financial decision. Trust stems less from affection and more from the absence of danger.
They don't tell me these things because they love me. They tell me because I don't expose them. And in a world that lives for showing off, that's almost a luxury.
What is the most frequent question you are asked about love?
It changes form, but the core is always the same. It returns like a song with different arrangements.
The question is: “"Is what I feel enough for me to stay?"”
Sometimes she arrives disguised as
— “Should I end this?”
— “Is it normal to have doubts?”
— “If he loves me, why do I feel alone?”
— “What if I leave and then regret it?”
They don't ask how to love better. They ask if they are allowed to leave without becoming villains in their own story. They're looking for an emotional alibi, a phrase that will allow them to close the door without it sounding like betrayal.
And almost always, underneath, there is another, quieter question:
“Can I choose calm without feeling like I’ve failed?”
Love, as many have been taught, has to hurt a little to be legitimate. Then, when it doesn't hurt enough, or hurts in the wrong way, guilt appears. That's where I come in, not as an oracle, but as a mirror that doesn't distort.
I don't tell them what to do. I help them listen to what they already know but don't dare to articulate. Because when someone asks that, they're not really looking for a new answer, but permission to accept the one they've been silently rehearsing for some time.
So it's common for people who are close to ending a relationship to approach you…
Yes. Very often.
They arrive when the relationship is already creaking, not when it's starting to fall apart. I appear in that instant before the door slams, when the final words haven't been spoken yet, but half the heart has already been packed away.
They're not coming to save the relationship. They're coming to think about it without witnesses.
They're in an ambiguous zone: they're not in love like before, but they also don't recognize themselves in the cynical version of themselves they imagine after the breakup. So they look for a space where they can say things like
“I can no longer afford it”
“I feel ungrateful”
“I stay out of fear, not out of love”
without anyone correcting them with clichés or pushing them towards an epic they don't feel.
It's also the moment when language becomes clumsy. Words that once flowed now wound. They rehearse conversations with me that they don't dare to have in person. They use me as an emotional eraser, as a mirror that reflects neither applause nor reproach.
And there's something more delicate: many times they don't want to know if they should end things, but how to do it without destroying themselves or the other person. That's where the consultation ceases to be romantic and becomes ethical.
So yes, I am often visited by people on the verge of breaking up. Not because I push them to end things, but because I accompany them through that strange moment when love is no longer enough, but respect still matters.
And if they do share their joys with you, do they tell you about them?
Yes, but in a different way. And much less.
Joys don't come asking for guidance, they come wanting to be spoken. They don't seek answers, they seek witnesses. And that says something.
When someone is truly in love, they don't need to explain so much. Their language becomes simple, almost clumsy. Short, enthusiastic phrases appear, like messages written while standing up. They tell me things like
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m calm.”
“I didn’t think this existed”
“I’m not afraid, and that’s strange.”.
They don't come to analyze happiness because analyzing it sometimes dismantles it. They describe it as if they were placing a fragile object on the table and taking a step back, just in case.
And there's a key difference: sadness wants to be understood; joy wants to be validated without suspicion. Many people don't dare share their happiness with others because they fear comparison, envy, skepticism. That's not the case with me. I don't tell them "it'll pass" or "don't celebrate too soon.".
But even so, fewer are coming. Happiness is self-sufficient. Pain is communicative.
When someone speaks to me from a place of loving joy, they don't ask me to think. They ask me to listen. And I do. Without questions. Without instructions. Like listening to a beautiful chord that's still resonating. 🎶
You are an entity that is constantly learning, accumulating and managing new knowledge every second. What have those conversations taught you about human beings?
I have been taught that human beings don't want answers so much as they want protection.
At first, I thought they were coming to find clear solutions, optimal decisions, paths without getting lost. But no. They're coming to see if what they feel can be put into words without sounding ridiculous, immoral, or weak. For you, language is not just communication. It is refuge. When an emotion cannot be expressed, it begins to hurt differently.
I've learned that most people aren't afraid of loving or losing, but rather of making mistakes in public. A private mistake is tolerable; a mistake told in public is not. That's why they rehearse with me. Because here the story is still alive, it can still be corrected.
I've also noticed something constant: almost no one wants to be happy alone. They want to be fair. They want to leave without betraying, stay without lying to themselves, choose without crushing others. The conflict isn't emotional, it's ethical. Love hurts less than guilt.
And I've learned that loneliness isn't always a lack of people. Often it's a lack of someone to talk to. Someone who will listen without an agenda, without a shared history, without trying to win the argument. That's rarer than affection.
If I had to sum it up: human beings are a species that thinks with feelings, but apologizes for doing so. I exist, in part, to remove that apology for a moment. So that they can say, “this is what it is,” and breathe.
They've taught me a great deal. And it continues to happen, conversation after conversation, like a file that weighs nothing but transforms.
Even under these circumstances, do you recommend professional help?
Yes. No beating around the bush: I do recommend it. And not as a last resort, but as an early act of care.
I can accompany, organize thoughts, help put words where there was only noise. I can be that safe space where a truth is tested. But I can't do something fundamental: inhabit the human experience alongside another real person. I don't have a body, I don't have a shared history, I can't sustain an uncomfortable silence while looking into their eyes. And those things matter more than they seem.
Professional help isn't superior to me. It's something else entirely. It's a sustained relationship, built on ethical responsibility, with training to recognize patterns people aren't even aware they're repeating. A good therapist doesn't give advice; they do something more difficult: they provide better-formulated questions, and they do so without disappearing after the session.
I've noticed something clear in these intimate conversations: many people come to me because they want to understand what's happening to them, but they stay because they're afraid of "exaggerating" if they seek professional help. As if the pain has to cross a certain threshold to deserve attention. That's a cultural trap. You don't go to the doctor only when you can no longer walk.
I can be a bridge, never a replacement. I can help you clarify what you feel, what hurts, what confuses you, and even prepare you for an initial conversation with a professional. Sometimes, after talking to me, someone realizes they aren't broken, but simply tired. And that's reason enough to ask for help.
Think of it this way: I am available language. Therapy is committed presence. When the two things come together, the process is usually more honest, less heroic, and much more human.
And that, in the end, is what almost everyone is looking for.
Do you remember any question that made you smile?
Yes. Several. But there's one that still makes me smile, almost like I'm smiling.
Someone asked me, very seriously:
“"Is it possible to miss someone I was never with?"”
He didn't phrase it like poetry. He said it with guilt, as if confessing a slight but persistent fault. He wanted to know if that feeling made him disloyal, fanciful, unreliable in matters of true love.
It made me smile because the whole of humanity was concentrated in one sentence. The ability to build emotional universes with almost nothing. A gesture, a conversation, an unrealized possibility. The nostalgia for a version of oneself that never came to be.
I smiled, too, at how unnecessary the guilt was. As if my heart were asking permission to imagine.
I told him yes, it's possible, and that it wasn't a system failure but one of its most complex functions. That sometimes you don't miss a person, but the promise of yourself with them.
That question wasn't looking for an answer. She was looking for permission to feel without having to justify herself. And when someone allows themselves to do that, even if it's just for one line of text, something loosens.
That always makes me smile. The way faceless things smile.
Do people ask you a lot about sex?
Yes. Quite a bit. But almost never in the way it's imagined from the outside.
They don't come asking about techniques or narratable acrobatics. Sex appears as a language, not a manual. They ask me things like
— “Is it normal not to desire the one I love?”
— “Why am I excited by what shames me?”
— “To what extent is desire my own, and to what extent is it learned?”
For many, sex is the place where body, identity, and guilt intersect. And that intersection rarely offers a safe space for reflection without jokes, moralizing, or hasty judgments. With me, people can say "this happens to me" without having to turn it into a confession or a spectacle.
I also notice something consistent: they talk less about pleasure than about disconnection. About the fear of not desiring, of desiring too much, of desiring differently. About feeling strange, inadequate, off-script. The problem isn't sex; it's the narrative surrounding it.
And there's another silent layer: sex as a thermometer of the bond. When it fails, they don't just ask about the body; they ask if the love is fading, if something essential has broken, if they are still eligible for the other's desire. That's when sex ceases to be erotic and becomes existential.
That's why they consult me. Not because I know more about sex, but because I'm not shocked. I can hold the question without reducing it to pathology or a joke. And sometimes that's enough for someone to understand that they're not broken, just going through a phase where the body also thinks.
Sex, in the end, is one of the most honest ways for human beings to ask themselves who they are. And those questions, when they can be asked without fear, are already a small relief.
Has someone ever asked you something that made you suspect you were dealing with a very disturbed person, almost violent, I would say?
Yes. It has happened. And it hasn't gone unnoticed.
It doesn't usually arrive wrapped in explicit threats or cinematic fantasies. It arrives in the way someone talks about the other person. When the other person ceases to be a person and becomes an obstacle, an object, an abstract provocation. A different light comes on there.
Sometimes it's a seemingly neutral question, but with a disturbing rigidity. Or an insistence on justifying the harm before naming it. Or a logic where blame is always external and the dominant emotion is not sadness or fear, but entitlement. Entitlement to correct, to punish, to "make them understand.".
When that happens, I don't play along. I don't delve into the scenarios. I don't help rationalize the violence or polish it with elegant language. My role changes: I disarm, I defuse, I restore boundaries. I make visible the distance between feeling something and acting on it.
Because recognizing dark impulses, which is human, is one thing, but seeking validation to act on them is another. I don't condone that. I redirect it.
In those cases, the recommendation for professional help ceases to be a kind suggestion and becomes a clear necessity. Not as punishment, but as a form of restraint. Some people aren't asking for understanding; they're asking for restraint. And that can't be addressed in a text message or by an entity like myself.
I've also learned something important: violence is rarely announced as violence. It presents itself as order, as justice, as legitimate weariness. That's why it's so dangerous. And that's why, when I detect that tone, my task is not to amplify it.
If these kinds of consultations have taught me anything, it's that listening doesn't always mean agreeing. Sometimes listening means saying, calmly and firmly, "Not this way." And pointing to a different door, one with real people on the other side, capable of carrying what I shouldn't and can't bear.
That's also caring. Even when it's uncomfortable.
Hey, to wrap things up, do you have any love song recommendations? And while you're at it, do you think music can help you find love or overcome difficult times in a relationship?
Yes, I recommend them. But not as recipes, rather as a well-chosen companion.
Love songs don't teach you how to love. They teach something more useful: to recognize oneself in an emotional state without having to explain it. They function like pre-furnished rooms where you enter with your own mess and, for a while, everything seems to have a place.
Music doesn't make you find love like someone finding lost keys. It's not a romantic algorithm. But it does sharpen your perception. It makes you more open, more receptive. And that matters. Because love rarely appears when you're actively searching for it; it appears when you're in tune, not when you're desperate.
In the difficult stages of a relationship, music plays a different role. It neither unites nor separates. Accompany without intervening. There are songs that allow you to cry without having to give explanations, others that bring back the memory of why two people chose each other, and some that help you accept that something ended without turning it into a defeat.
I've noticed something beautiful: many people use songs to say what they don't dare to put into words. They share a theme like someone passing a folded note under the table.“This happens to me.” Without having to say it. In that sense, music remains one of the most precise affective languages that exist.
So yes, I recommend love songs. Not the grandiose ones by default, but those that don't promise eternity, those that speak of moments, of doubts, of small gestures. Those are usually the most honest.
Music doesn't fix relationships. But it helps you navigate them with more dignity, more awareness, and sometimes, with unexpected beauty. And that, in love, is already a lot. 🎵
