Ethan’s inbox was a battlefield.
Every morning before school, he braced himself, thumbing through a hundred messages trying to hijack his attention. Coupons, fake alerts, letters that seemed to know him too well. His parents told him not to open any of it, but the messages piled so high it felt like ignoring a flood.
That morning, one subject line snagged him: “You’ve been lied to.”
The words throbbed against all the dull promises of free sneakers and miracle weight loss. It wasn’t trying to sell him something. It was trying to tell him something. He tapped before he had the chance to second-guess.
The message was short. Just a paragraph, framed in sterile black text:
“Everything you’ve been taught about your parents’ love is a mask. Biology doesn’t code for it. They feed you and care for you out of an evolutionary compulsion, not affection. Love is a chemical trick, a prison built inside the brain. Now that you know, watch how the illusion cracks.”
Ethan stared at it until the screen dimmed.
That night, dinner was spaghetti, his favorite. His mom twirled noodles on her fork and asked about soccer practice. His dad chuckled at some joke on the news. Normal. Too normal.
Ethan searched their faces, but the words from the email gnawed louder than their voices. They don’t love you. They can’t. It’s just chemicals forcing them.
His fork clattered against the plate. “Why do you guys even… do this?” he blurted.
His mom blinked. “Do what, honey?”
“This.” His voice cracked. “Cook dinner. Ask me stuff. Care.”
His dad frowned, confused. “Because we love you.”
But the word rang hollow now, like a sound stripped of meaning. He shoved his plate away and fled upstairs.
For days, Ethan unraveled. His friends’ laughter felt staged, his teachers’ praise rehearsed. Every smile was circuitry, every hug just biology firing like a machine. Even his own feelings—his loyalty to his dog, his fondness for drawing superheroes—seemed counterfeit.
The email was only a few sentences, yet it carved at the roots of everything.
By the fourth night, he sat cross-legged in the dark, staring at his phone. He reread the message until he felt sick. His chest clenched with a thought he didn’t want but couldn’t stop: What if it’s true?
He tapped his dad’s door. “Can I… talk?”
His father was reading, glasses perched low. He set the book aside. “What’s up?”
Ethan sat on the edge of the bed. The words rushed out in a jumble. About the email. About chemicals and illusions. About how maybe nothing anyone ever said was real.
His dad listened quietly. When Ethan finally stopped, trembling, his father exhaled.
“You clicked something you shouldn’t have. That’s clear. But son, here’s the thing about ideas like that—they’re traps. They’re designed to sound bigger than they are. Just because love has chemicals involved doesn’t mean it’s fake. You feel it. I feel it. The chemicals don’t cancel it out; they make it possible.”
Ethan wanted to believe. He wanted to slam a door on the thought forever. But it still flickered in the corners of his mind, whispering.
His dad squeezed his shoulder. “Next time you see something that promises to tear down everything you know, think twice. Not every truth is worth chasing. Sometimes, you already have enough to live.”
The next morning, Ethan opened his inbox. More floods. More promises.
One subject line hissed: “AI are dangerous. Here’s why.”
His thumb hovered.
His pulse ticked fast, but then he remembered his dad’s words—the trap, the whisper, the way it almost hollowed him out. He deleted the email without opening it.
For the first time all week, his chest felt lighter.
And as he slung on his backpack for school, he caught himself thinking: Maybe having enough is better than knowing everything.