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AI Can Write, But It’ll Never Understand What Makes Us Human
Grief gave me the courage to process my emotions, and no machine can take that away.
Sunlight slips through the blinds of my apartment, throwing uneven gold stripes across the floor. I take a slow sip of coffee, eyes fixed on the headline glowing from my laptop screen.
“ChatGPT launches boom in AI-written e-books on Amazon.”
I click, expecting clickbait. Some overhyped claim that won’t mean much. But as I scroll, my coffee cools in my hands.
I glance around the living room. The stack of books. The blanket crumpled on the couch. My girlfriend’s shoes by the door. This space, this life, the little moments that mean everything. And for the first time, it feels fragile. Like it could all disappear, one line of code at a time.
When I was a teenager, my best friend died in a tragic accident. Joe was hit by a train days before his birthday. Spent the final moments of his life alone in the pouring rain. I wasn’t there. But I’ve imagined it a thousand times. The screech of metal. The sudden silence that followed.
Joe and I were inseparable. We sang along to cheesy pop songs, shared secrets nobody else would know, and stayed up way too late writing stories. I can still…
