The Inner Monologue

Let’s get one thing straight: if you can sit through The Notebook, Marley & Me, or Up without so much as a single tear threatening to escape your cold, dead eyes, I have bad news for you—you might be a sociopath. Or, at the very least, you’re actively practicing to become one.

Empathy is the thing that keeps us from devolving into emotionless husks who only care about stock prices and whether the Wi-Fi is fast enough. When you watch a movie, read a book, or listen to someone’s painful story, you’re supposed to feel something. That’s the whole point. The degree varies—some people weep openly, others get misty-eyed, and a few just feel a deep, internal ache. But if your response is nothing? Congratulations, you’ve successfully suppressed the very thing that makes you human.

Now, I know what you’re going to say: “But I just don’t get emotional over fictional things!” Oh, please. That’s not a personality trait—that’s a red flag. Fiction exists to make us feel, to remind us of our shared humanity. If you can watch a dog die, a love story end in tragedy, or a parent say goodbye to their child without even a twinge of sadness, then what does move you? Spreadsheets? The sound of your own voice?

And let’s be real—some people pride themselves on this. They think emotional detachment makes them strong, rational, superior. But here’s the truth: suppressing empathy doesn’t make you logical, it makes you less human. And if you’re actively trying to be less human, well… that’s monster behavior.

So the next time you’re in a theater and everyone around you is sniffling while you sit there like a stone-faced robot, ask yourself: Is this who I want to be? Because if the answer is yes, don’t be surprised when people start crossing the street to avoid you.

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P.S. If you didn’t cry at the opening of Up, I don’t trust you. And neither should anyone else.