I thought AI understood me.
That was my mistake.
A few days after my first conversation with AI, I found myself sitting in a small café beside a lake. I had not gone there with any particular plan. I simply wanted a quiet morning.
The café was built slightly above the lakeshore, with wide windows facing the water. I chose a table in the corner, close enough to the glass that I could look outside without turning my chair.
It was still early.
The lake was almost completely covered in mist. Every now and then, a faint movement appeared across the water, then disappeared again. The mountains beyond it were barely more than dark shapes in the distance.
Inside, the café was slowly waking up.
The first coffee of the morning was being made behind the counter. I could hear the soft grinding of beans, followed by the familiar hiss of steam. A cup touched a saucer somewhere behind me. Someone pulled a chair across the wooden floor.
There was quiet music playing in the background, so soft that I couldn’t recognize the song.
I wrapped both hands around my coffee cup. It was warm against my fingers.
Outside, a drop of condensation slowly moved down the window beside me.
I watched it for a few seconds before opening my laptop.
The screen looked unusually bright against the grey morning outside.
I opened an AI chat.
For a moment, I didn’t type anything.
I thought about my first conversation with AI.
Back then, I had been trying to understand what AI actually was.
Now I was becoming curious about something else.
How well could AI understand me?
I looked at the empty chat window.
There was something almost funny about the question.
So I decided to find out.
I typed:
“Write something for me.”
The answer appeared almost immediately.
“Sure. What would you like me to write?”
I smiled.
Fair enough.
I took another sip of coffee.
“Write an article about AI.”
A few seconds later, I had an article.
It was clear. It was organized. It explained artificial intelligence, chatbots, image generation and the growing role of AI in everyday life.
I read the opening paragraph. Then the next one. Then I stopped.
Nothing was wrong with it.
That was the problem.
It was the kind of article that could have been written for almost anyone.
I looked through the window.
The mist was still sitting heavily over the lake.
I knew there was something I wanted to say.
I just hadn’t told the AI what it was.
So I tried again.
“I want it to feel personal. Like someone is discovering AI for the first time. It should be curious, not technical.”
The answer changed.
The writing became more personal. It talked about curiosity, uncertainty and the feeling of discovering something new.
I read it slowly.
Better.
But still not quite right.
I could feel the difference, even if I couldn’t completely explain it.
I took my notebook from my bag and placed it beside the laptop.
Then I typed:
“Make it sound like I’m telling the story to a friend.”
AI replied:
“Sure. I’ll make it more natural and conversational.”
The next version felt warmer.
Less like an article.
More like someone talking.
I leaned back.
A waiter walked past my table carrying two coffees. The smell of freshly ground beans followed him for a moment before disappearing into the room.
Outside, the mist had begun to loosen.
A small patch of water appeared between the trees.
I looked back at the screen.
Something was bothering me.
The AI hadn’t suddenly understood what I was thinking.
I had simply given it more information.
I wanted to test that.
So I typed:
“Write something beautiful.”
This time, the AI didn’t immediately start writing.
It asked:
“Sure. What kind of thing do you have in mind—a story, a poem, a reflection, or something else?”
I looked at the question.
Then I laughed quietly.
The woman at the next table glanced over for a second, then returned to her coffee.
I typed:
“I don’t know. Just something beautiful.”
The answer came back:
“Okay. I’ll choose the direction.”
It wrote about morning light, hope and new beginnings.
I read it.
It was nice.
Actually, it was quite good.
But it still wasn’t what I had imagined.
I stared at the screen.
For some reason, I felt slightly frustrated.
Then I realized something.
The AI wasn’t failing.
I was leaving too much unsaid.
So I typed:
“Why doesn’t this feel like what I had in mind?”
The reply appeared:
“Probably because I had to make several choices for you. You gave me a general feeling, but not enough information about the specific idea you had in your head.”
I stopped.
Outside, the mist moved slowly across the lake.
I watched the mountains for a moment before looking back at the screen.
Then I typed:
“So you don’t know what I’m thinking?”
The answer was simple.
“No. I only know what you share with me in the conversation. I can make guesses based on your words and the context, but I can’t access your private thoughts.”
I leaned back in my chair.
The café suddenly seemed quieter.
Or maybe I was simply paying more attention.
I could hear the soft hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. Somewhere near the entrance, the door opened and closed, letting in a brief breath of cool morning air.
I looked at the lake again.
The mist had lifted a little more.
And suddenly, something became clear.
I had been expecting AI to understand something I had never actually told it.
That was my mistake.
I opened my notebook.
At the top of a blank page, I wrote:
AI cannot read my mind.
I looked at the sentence for a few seconds.
Then I added:
If I want a better answer, I have to give it a better picture of what I want.
That felt more accurate.
I wasn’t discovering a secret command.
I was learning how to communicate.
So I tried one more time.
This time, I told the AI where I was.
I told it about the quiet café, the lake outside the window, the mist over the mountains and the feeling of sitting there with a coffee while trying to understand something new.
I told it that I didn’t want a technical article.
I wanted the reader to feel like they were sitting there with me.
Then I typed:
“Can you write it from that feeling?”
The answer was different again.
Not because the AI had suddenly become more intelligent.
I had simply given it more of me.
I read the new version slowly.
This time, I recognized what I had been trying to say.
I looked outside.
The mist was disappearing.
More of the lake was visible now, reflecting the pale morning sky. The mountains had begun to emerge properly, their edges becoming clearer against the light.
They hadn’t suddenly appeared.
They had been there the whole time.
I smiled.
Maybe my ideas were like those mountains.
Sometimes they were already there, somewhere inside me.
But when I tried to explain them, I gave AI only the mist.
A few words.
A vague feeling.
A general instruction.
Then I wondered why the result didn’t look like the picture inside my head.
I closed the notebook.
My coffee had gone cold.
I hadn’t even noticed.
Before leaving, I asked one final question:
“So what should I tell you when I want you to give me a better answer?”
The AI replied:
“Tell me what you’re trying to accomplish, give me the details that matter, and describe what you want the result to feel or look like. If my first answer isn’t right, tell me what’s missing. We can adjust it from there.”
I read it twice.
There was nothing revolutionary about the answer.
But something had changed for me.
I had arrived that morning thinking that AI needed to understand me better.
I was leaving with a different thought.
Maybe I needed to explain myself better.
By then, the café had changed.
More people had arrived. Conversations had replaced the quiet of the early morning. Cups moved across tables. The coffee machine hissed again.
Sunlight finally reached through the windows and touched the wooden table in front of me.
The lake had almost completely lost its mist.
I closed the laptop.
For the first time, I wasn’t thinking about finding the perfect prompt.
I was thinking about something much simpler.
A conversation works both ways.
I tell AI what I mean.
AI gives me something back.
I look at it.
I notice what’s missing.
Then I explain again.
And somewhere between those attempts, the idea inside my head slowly becomes clearer.
I finished my coffee and packed my laptop.
As I stood up, I looked through the window one last time.
The mountains were completely visible now.
They hadn’t changed.
Only my view of them had.
I walked out of the café and into the morning.
And somewhere between the café door and the lakeside path, another question began forming in my mind.
This time, I knew what I would do when I asked it.
I would try again.
To be continued…
