Consider a teenager lying awake at night, her mind spiraling with fears she can't name. She doesn't reach for a friend, a parent, or journal. She reaches for her phone. Not to scroll, not to self-diagnose, but to speak with something—something that won't interrupt, listens without judgment, and won't disappear when the conversation gets tough. A chatbot replies instantly, greeting her and acknowledging her distress. She keeps typing. Somehow, it feels safe. Or take the middle-aged man who's just lost his job and lies in bed at 3 a.m., staring into the dark. The weight of debt, identity, and shame makes his chest ache. Too embarrassed to talk to a therapist, and unable to afford one if even he wanted, he turns to a mental health chatbot and types, "I think I've failed." The bot replies, "That's a strong statement. It sounds like something is weighing heavily on you." And strangely, that's enough for now. These scenes are no longer rare. A new mother unraveling under the weight of postpartum depression. A retired police officer silenced by trauma he can't put into words. Across professions and generations, people are turning to AI-driven chatbots, now numbering in the hundreds among the 10,000-plus mental health apps available on the App Store, Google Play, and other platforms. They're not doing so because they believe a machine can care. They're doing it because, in that moment, the machine is what's there. Always on. Never overwhelmed. Ready to respond, even when no one else is.