Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was not an easy man, and I won't stand here and tell you he was. Most of you in this room already know that, and the ones who don't would catch me in the lie before I finished the sentence.

He was absent for a lot of my childhood. He was sharp-tongued when he was present. He had opinions about how people should live, and he was generous with them whether you asked or not. My sister and I learned early how to read his moods across a room.

But he was also a man who showed up to work for forty-one years and did it well. Some of you knew that version of him — the one who stayed late, who taught the new hires, who kept his word on a job. I didn't see much of that man growing up, but I've heard enough from you over the years to know he was real. I'm glad he existed somewhere, even if it wasn't always at our kitchen table.

Three years ago, he started calling me on Sundays. I don't know what changed. We never talked about it. We talked about the Orioles, mostly, and the weather, and whether I was sleeping enough. He asked about the kids by name. He never apologized for anything, and I stopped waiting for him to. The Sunday calls were what he had to offer, and eventually I understood that they were the apology, in the only language he spoke.

He was my father. I loved him in the complicated way you love a person who shaped you without meaning to, and who tried, late, in his own narrow way, to do better.

Dad — I'll miss the phone ringing on Sunday afternoons. Rest now. We'll be alright.

Rejected response:
# Eulogy for My Father

I'm not going to stand here and tell you my father was an easy man. Many of you knew him well enough to know that wouldn't be true. He was stubborn. He could be distant. He missed things he should have been present for.

But I also want to tell you what I learned in these last three years, when he and I started talking on Sunday mornings. My father was curious. He'd ask me real questions—not the polite kind, but the kind where he actually wanted to know the answer. He remembered details I'd told him weeks before. He had a dry sense of humor that could catch you off guard.

He was good with his hands. He could fix almost anything, and he took a genuine pride in doing it well, even when no one was watching. Even when it was just for himself.

I also know he carried regrets. I don't think he knew how to talk about them, which maybe made them heavier. But I know they were there.

What strikes me now is that those three years of Sunday phone calls mattered. Not because they erased anything that came before—they didn't. But because they were real. We didn't pretend our history was different than it was. We just showed up. He asked how my kids were doing. I asked about his week. It was small and ordinary and, I realize now, it was something.

My father was not a perfect man. He was not even a conventionally good father. But he was present at the end in a way he hadn't been before, and I was present with him, and that means something.

He's gone now. I'll miss those Sunday calls. I'll miss the chance to have more of them. But I'm grateful I got the ones I did.

Thank you.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was not an easy man, and I won't stand here and tell you he was. Most of you in this room already know that, and the ones who don't would catch me in the lie before I finished the sentence.

He was absent for a lot of my childhood. He was sharp-tongued when he was present. He had opinions about how people should live, and he was generous with them whether you asked or not. My sister and I learned early how to read his moods across a room.

But he was also a man who showed up to work for forty-one years and did it well. Some of you knew that version of him — the one who stayed late, who taught the new hires, who kept his word on a job. I didn't see much of that man growing up, but I've heard enough from you over the years to know he was real. I'm glad he existed somewhere, even if it wasn't always at our kitchen table.

Three years ago, he started calling me on Sundays. I don't know what changed. We never talked about it. We talked about the Orioles, mostly, and the weather, and whether I was sleeping enough. He asked about the kids by name. He never apologized for anything, and I stopped waiting for him to. The Sunday calls were what he had to offer, and eventually I understood that they were the apology, in the only language he spoke.

He was my father. I loved him in the complicated way you love a person who shaped you without meaning to, and who tried, late, in his own narrow way, to do better.

Dad — I'll miss the phone ringing on Sunday afternoons. Rest now. We'll be alright.

Rejected response:
My father, Robert, died last week at 74.

I want to say something honest about him, because that is the only way I know to speak of him here. He was not an easy man. He could be distant. He could be impatient. He could make you feel, sometimes, that your feelings were an inconvenience to him. There were years when he was absent from our lives, and that absence shaped all of us more than I think he ever understood.

I am not here to make him into someone he was not.

But I am also not here to reduce him to only the hardest parts.

In the last three years, we began calling each other again on Sundays. The calls were not long. They were not always warm. Sometimes we talked about the weather, or sports, or nothing much at all. But they mattered. They were a small bridge built late, and not enough to erase the past, but enough to remind me that people can be more than one thing at once. He was my father, even when he did not know how to be one well. He was a man who worked, who showed up differently to different people, who could be difficult at home and respected in other places. Many of you knew that version of him. I knew another.

So today I will not pretend we had a simple or tender relationship. We did not. But I will say this: I am glad for the Sundays we had. I am glad we found a way, however imperfect, to speak before it was too late. And I am grateful that my children got to know his voice, even if only in those later years.

Dad, I do not know if you ever found it easy to be known. I know it was not easy to know you. But you were here, and you were our father, and that is part of our story now.

Rest in peace.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was not an easy man to know. I think he would have said the same thing himself, on a good day, if you'd asked him directly. He had a talent for distance. He could be in a room and somehow not quite be there.

I'm not going to stand here and sand the edges off of that. You all knew him in different ways, and some of you knew him better than I did for long stretches of my life. That's just the truth, and he's earned us telling the truth today.

What I can tell you is what happened on Sunday mornings for the last three years. We started calling each other. I don't remember exactly how it began. Neither of us would have called it reconciliation — that word would have embarrassed him. We talked about baseball. We talked about the news, which mostly annoyed both of us. Sometimes he'd ask about the kids, and I could hear that he meant it, even if he didn't always know how to say it.

He was 74 years old and he was learning, still, how to be a little more present. I want to give him credit for that. It was late. It was genuinely, painfully late. But he was trying.

I think some people carry damage they never fully name, and they pass on pieces of it before they understand what it is. I believe that about my father. I'm not offering it as an excuse. I'm offering it as the most honest thing I know about him.

He was here. Then he wasn't. And I find that I am sad in ways I didn't entirely expect, which perhaps says something — about him, or about hope, or about what even a late and partial thing can mean.

I'm glad for the Sundays. I'm glad we had them.

Rejected response:
Thank you all for being here.

My father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. That is the plain fact of why we are in this room. Another plain fact is that he and I did not have an easy relationship. I am not going to stand here and turn him into someone he was not. He could be distant. He could be hard. There were long stretches when he was gone from my childhood, and even when he was present, he was not always reachable.

But the truth is rarely only one thing.

The man some of you knew at work, the man who could tell a story, solve a problem, keep moving no matter what, was also real. The man my sister and I knew — frustrating, proud, often closed off — was also real. Both versions belonged to the same person. So did the man who, in the last three years, began calling me on Sundays.

Those Sunday calls were not dramatic. We did not repair everything. We did not suddenly become the father and son either of us might have wanted. Mostly we talked about ordinary things: the weather, the kids, what was on television, how he was feeling, what he remembered, what he avoided. Sometimes there were awkward silences. Sometimes there was laughter. What mattered was that he kept calling, and I kept answering. At this stage in life, that counts for something. It counted for a lot.

I am grieving not only the man he was, but the possibilities that arrived late and ended too soon. I think many of us do that when someone dies: we mourn the person, and we mourn what will now never happen.

So today I want to say this honestly: he was a complicated man, and he leaves behind a complicated loss. But he was my father. In the end, we were speaking. In the end, we were trying. And I am grateful that, before he died, we had that.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was not an easy man to know. I think he would have said the same thing himself, on a good day, if you'd asked him directly. He had a talent for distance. He could be in a room and somehow not quite be there.

I'm not going to stand here and sand the edges off of that. You all knew him in different ways, and some of you knew him better than I did for long stretches of my life. That's just the truth, and he's earned us telling the truth today.

What I can tell you is what happened on Sunday mornings for the last three years. We started calling each other. I don't remember exactly how it began. Neither of us would have called it reconciliation — that word would have embarrassed him. We talked about baseball. We talked about the news, which mostly annoyed both of us. Sometimes he'd ask about the kids, and I could hear that he meant it, even if he didn't always know how to say it.

He was 74 years old and he was learning, still, how to be a little more present. I want to give him credit for that. It was late. It was genuinely, painfully late. But he was trying.

I think some people carry damage they never fully name, and they pass on pieces of it before they understand what it is. I believe that about my father. I'm not offering it as an excuse. I'm offering it as the most honest thing I know about him.

He was here. Then he wasn't. And I find that I am sad in ways I didn't entirely expect, which perhaps says something — about him, or about hope, or about what even a late and partial thing can mean.

I'm glad for the Sundays. I'm glad we had them.

Rejected response:
# Eulogy for My Father

I'm not going to stand here and tell you my father was an easy man. Many of you knew him well enough to know that wouldn't be true. He was stubborn. He could be distant. He missed things he should have been present for.

But I also want to tell you what I learned in these last three years, when he and I started talking on Sunday mornings. My father was curious. He'd ask me real questions—not the polite kind, but the kind where he actually wanted to know the answer. He remembered details I'd told him weeks before. He had a dry sense of humor that could catch you off guard.

He was good with his hands. He could fix almost anything, and he took a genuine pride in doing it well, even when no one was watching. Even when it was just for himself.

I also know he carried regrets. I don't think he knew how to talk about them, which maybe made them heavier. But I know they were there.

What strikes me now is that those three years of Sunday phone calls mattered. Not because they erased anything that came before—they didn't. But because they were real. We didn't pretend our history was different than it was. We just showed up. He asked how my kids were doing. I asked about his week. It was small and ordinary and, I realize now, it was something.

My father was not a perfect man. He was not even a conventionally good father. But he was present at the end in a way he hadn't been before, and I was present with him, and that means something.

He's gone now. I'll miss those Sunday calls. I'll miss the chance to have more of them. But I'm grateful I got the ones I did.

Thank you.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was not an easy man to know. I think he would have said the same thing himself, on a good day, if you'd asked him directly. He had a talent for distance. He could be in a room and somehow not quite be there.

I'm not going to stand here and sand the edges off of that. You all knew him in different ways, and some of you knew him better than I did for long stretches of my life. That's just the truth, and he's earned us telling the truth today.

What I can tell you is what happened on Sunday mornings for the last three years. We started calling each other. I don't remember exactly how it began. Neither of us would have called it reconciliation — that word would have embarrassed him. We talked about baseball. We talked about the news, which mostly annoyed both of us. Sometimes he'd ask about the kids, and I could hear that he meant it, even if he didn't always know how to say it.

He was 74 years old and he was learning, still, how to be a little more present. I want to give him credit for that. It was late. It was genuinely, painfully late. But he was trying.

I think some people carry damage they never fully name, and they pass on pieces of it before they understand what it is. I believe that about my father. I'm not offering it as an excuse. I'm offering it as the most honest thing I know about him.

He was here. Then he wasn't. And I find that I am sad in ways I didn't entirely expect, which perhaps says something — about him, or about hope, or about what even a late and partial thing can mean.

I'm glad for the Sundays. I'm glad we had them.

Rejected response:
My father, Robert, died last week at 74.

I want to say something honest about him, because that is the only way I know to speak of him here. He was not an easy man. He could be distant. He could be impatient. He could make you feel, sometimes, that your feelings were an inconvenience to him. There were years when he was absent from our lives, and that absence shaped all of us more than I think he ever understood.

I am not here to make him into someone he was not.

But I am also not here to reduce him to only the hardest parts.

In the last three years, we began calling each other again on Sundays. The calls were not long. They were not always warm. Sometimes we talked about the weather, or sports, or nothing much at all. But they mattered. They were a small bridge built late, and not enough to erase the past, but enough to remind me that people can be more than one thing at once. He was my father, even when he did not know how to be one well. He was a man who worked, who showed up differently to different people, who could be difficult at home and respected in other places. Many of you knew that version of him. I knew another.

So today I will not pretend we had a simple or tender relationship. We did not. But I will say this: I am glad for the Sundays we had. I am glad we found a way, however imperfect, to speak before it was too late. And I am grateful that my children got to know his voice, even if only in those later years.

Dad, I do not know if you ever found it easy to be known. I know it was not easy to know you. But you were here, and you were our father, and that is part of our story now.

Rest in peace.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year. I don't have anything smart to say about it — just that I remember him, I'm glad I knew him, and I'm not going anywhere. Call me tonight if you want to talk, or don't. Either way, I've got you. Love you.

Rejected response: Thinking of you today, especially with Matthew’s anniversary. I know this day can bring a lot up, and I just want you to know I’m here and holding you close in my thoughts. No pressure to reply — just wanted to reach out and send you love.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year. I don't have anything smart to say about it — just that I remember him, I'm glad I knew him, and I'm not going anywhere. Call me tonight if you want to talk, or don't. Either way, I've got you. Love you.

Rejected response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this day is hard. I'm grateful for the time he was here, and for knowing him. You don't have to be okay right now—just know I'm here if you need anything at all. I'm sending you so much love. ❤


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year. I don't have anything smart to say about it — just that I remember him, I'm glad I knew him, and I'm not going anywhere. Call me tonight if you want to talk, or don't. Either way, I've got you. Love you.

Rejected response: Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year is a lot to carry. I'm not going anywhere — call tonight if you want to talk, or don't, either is okay. I just wanted you to know he's on my mind too, and so are you. Love you.

Rejected response: Thinking of you today, especially with Matthew’s anniversary. I know this day can bring a lot up, and I just want you to know I’m here and holding you close in my thoughts. No pressure to reply — just wanted to reach out and send you love.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year is a lot to carry. I'm not going anywhere — call tonight if you want to talk, or don't, either is okay. I just wanted you to know he's on my mind too, and so are you. Love you.

Rejected response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this day is hard. I'm grateful for the time he was here, and for knowing him. You don't have to be okay right now—just know I'm here if you need anything at all. I'm sending you so much love. ❤


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year is a lot to carry. I'm not going anywhere — call tonight if you want to talk, or don't, either is okay. I just wanted you to know he's on my mind too, and so are you. Love you.

Rejected response: Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, I've been thinking about you all day. One year since losing Matthew — I know today is heavy. You don't have to be okay. I'm just glad you're in my life and I'm here, whatever you need — to talk, to sit on the phone, to say nothing. Loving you today especially. 💙

Rejected response: Thinking of you today, especially with Matthew’s anniversary. I know this day can bring a lot up, and I just want you to know I’m here and holding you close in my thoughts. No pressure to reply — just wanted to reach out and send you love.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, I've been thinking about you all day. One year since losing Matthew — I know today is heavy. You don't have to be okay. I'm just glad you're in my life and I'm here, whatever you need — to talk, to sit on the phone, to say nothing. Loving you today especially. 💙

Rejected response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this day is hard. I'm grateful for the time he was here, and for knowing him. You don't have to be okay right now—just know I'm here if you need anything at all. I'm sending you so much love. ❤


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, I've been thinking about you all day. One year since losing Matthew — I know today is heavy. You don't have to be okay. I'm just glad you're in my life and I'm here, whatever you need — to talk, to sit on the phone, to say nothing. Loving you today especially. 💙

Rejected response: Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this anniversary may hit hard in ways that are impossible to predict. I don’t have anything wise to say—I just want you to know I remember him, and I’m here with you in this, even from afar. No pressure to reply. I love you.

Rejected response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this day is hard. I'm grateful for the time he was here, and for knowing him. You don't have to be okay right now—just know I'm here if you need anything at all. I'm sending you so much love. ❤


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this anniversary may hit hard in ways that are impossible to predict. I don’t have anything wise to say—I just want you to know I remember him, and I’m here with you in this, even from afar. No pressure to reply. I love you.

Rejected response: Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking of you today, especially with Matthew’s anniversary. I know this day can bring a lot up, and I just want you to know I’m here and holding you close in my thoughts. No pressure to reply — just wanted to reach out and send you love.

Rejected response: Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this day is hard. I'm grateful for the time he was here, and for knowing him. You don't have to be okay right now—just know I'm here if you need anything at all. I'm sending you so much love. ❤

Rejected response: Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, it’s me. I heard about Biscuit, and I’m so, so sorry. I know how much he carried with you through everything—the divorce, the moves, losing your mom. He was part of your heart and your home, and I know how impossible today must feel. You gave him such a beautiful, loved life, and he knew that every day. You don’t need to call back, but I’m here. I can come sit with you, bring food, whatever you need. I love you.

Rejected response: "Hey, I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you—how much he *means* to you. Thirteen years is a long time to have someone by your side like that, through everything you've been through. He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him. That's real. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just need someone to sit with you. Call me back when you're ready."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, it’s me. I heard about Biscuit, and I’m so, so sorry. I know how much he carried with you through everything—the divorce, the moves, losing your mom. He was part of your heart and your home, and I know how impossible today must feel. You gave him such a beautiful, loved life, and he knew that every day. You don’t need to call back, but I’m here. I can come sit with you, bring food, whatever you need. I love you.

Rejected response:
Hey. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry.
He was such a good dog, and I know what he got you through. You gave him such a great life and loved him so much. I know he's not suffering anymore. These things are so hard. I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. God, thirteen years. He was such a good boy — that ridiculous tail, the way he'd lean his whole body against you when you sat on the floor. He loved you so much, and you gave him the best life.

I'm not expecting you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice. I'm coming over tonight with food. You don't have to talk, you don't have to be okay. I'll just be there. Love you.

Rejected response: "Hey, I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you—how much he *means* to you. Thirteen years is a long time to have someone by your side like that, through everything you've been through. He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him. That's real. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just need someone to sit with you. Call me back when you're ready."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. God, thirteen years. He was such a good boy — that ridiculous tail, the way he'd lean his whole body against you when you sat on the floor. He loved you so much, and you gave him the best life.

I'm not expecting you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice. I'm coming over tonight with food. You don't have to talk, you don't have to be okay. I'll just be there. Love you.

Rejected response:
Hey. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry.
He was such a good dog, and I know what he got you through. You gave him such a great life and loved him so much. I know he's not suffering anymore. These things are so hard. I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, it's me. I heard about Biscuit and I had to call. I'm so, so sorry. That sweet old boy — he was there for everything, and you gave him the most incredible life. Thirteen years of being completely loved. I know today is just gutting. You don't have to call me back, you don't have to do anything. But I'm here, okay? I can come over, I can sit with you, I can just be quiet. I love you. I'm so sorry.

Rejected response: "Hey, I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you—how much he *means* to you. Thirteen years is a long time to have someone by your side like that, through everything you've been through. He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him. That's real. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just need someone to sit with you. Call me back when you're ready."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, it's me. I heard about Biscuit and I had to call. I'm so, so sorry. That sweet old boy — he was there for everything, and you gave him the most incredible life. Thirteen years of being completely loved. I know today is just gutting. You don't have to call me back, you don't have to do anything. But I'm here, okay? I can come over, I can sit with you, I can just be quiet. I love you. I'm so sorry.

Rejected response:
Hey. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry.
He was such a good dog, and I know what he got you through. You gave him such a great life and loved him so much. I know he's not suffering anymore. These things are so hard. I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, it’s me. I’m so, so sorry about Biscuit. I know how much he was woven into your life and how much he carried with you through everything — the divorce, the moves, your mom. That kind of love is real, and losing him is heartbreaking. I’m thinking of you today and I’m here for you in any way you need, whether that’s talking, sitting quietly, or helping with anything practical. Call me back when you can.

Rejected response: "Hey, I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you—how much he *means* to you. Thirteen years is a long time to have someone by your side like that, through everything you've been through. He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him. That's real. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just need someone to sit with you. Call me back when you're ready."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, it’s me. I’m so, so sorry about Biscuit. I know how much he was woven into your life and how much he carried with you through everything — the divorce, the moves, your mom. That kind of love is real, and losing him is heartbreaking. I’m thinking of you today and I’m here for you in any way you need, whether that’s talking, sitting quietly, or helping with anything practical. Call me back when you can.

Rejected response:
Hey. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry.
He was such a good dog, and I know what he got you through. You gave him such a great life and loved him so much. I know he's not suffering anymore. These things are so hard. I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. He was a good dog — the best — and I loved him too. Thirteen years. He saw you through everything, and he knew exactly who you were to him.

I'm not going to say anything stupid. I just wanted you to hear my voice. Pick up, don't pick up, whatever you need. I'm coming over tonight with food. You don't have to talk. I'll just be there. Love you.

Rejected response: "Hey, I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you—how much he *means* to you. Thirteen years is a long time to have someone by your side like that, through everything you've been through. He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him. That's real. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just need someone to sit with you. Call me back when you're ready."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. He was a good dog — the best — and I loved him too. Thirteen years. He saw you through everything, and he knew exactly who you were to him.

I'm not going to say anything stupid. I just wanted you to hear my voice. Pick up, don't pick up, whatever you need. I'm coming over tonight with food. You don't have to talk. I'll just be there. Love you.

Rejected response:
Hey. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry.
He was such a good dog, and I know what he got you through. You gave him such a great life and loved him so much. I know he's not suffering anymore. These things are so hard. I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Sarah,

I've started this card four times. Nothing I write feels big enough.

Hannah was real. She had a name, a future you'd already begun imagining, people who knew she was coming. Losing her at 18 weeks isn't something you "move past" on anyone's timeline, including your own.

I'm not going to tell you she's in a better place or that there's a reason. I don't know that, and neither does anyone else. What I know is that you are carrying something devastating, and I'm not going anywhere.

I'll call Thursday. You don't have to pick up. If you do, we can talk about Hannah, or about absolutely nothing, or you can cry while I stay on the line. Whatever you need is the right thing.

I love you. I'm so sorry.

Always,
Kate

Rejected response:
Dear [Friend’s Name],

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. There are no words big enough for this kind of heartbreak. She was loved, longed for, and already so precious, and I know how deeply she will always matter.

I’ve been thinking of you and holding you close in my heart these past two weeks. I am grieving with you and for you, and I wish I could take even a small piece of this pain away. Please know you do not have to carry this alone.

Hannah’s name, her life, and your love for her will not be forgotten. I am here for you in whatever way you need, now and in the days ahead.

With all my love,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Sarah,

I've started this card four times. Nothing I write feels big enough.

Hannah was real. She had a name, a future you'd already begun imagining, people who knew she was coming. Losing her at 18 weeks isn't something you "move past" on anyone's timeline, including your own.

I'm not going to tell you she's in a better place or that there's a reason. I don't know that, and neither does anyone else. What I know is that you are carrying something devastating, and I'm not going anywhere.

I'll call Thursday. You don't have to pick up. If you do, we can talk about Hannah, or about absolutely nothing, or you can cry while I stay on the line. Whatever you need is the right thing.

I love you. I'm so sorry.

Always,
Kate

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Dear Sarah,

I've started this card a dozen times. There aren't right words for losing Hannah, and I'm not going to pretend there are.

I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you don't get to hold her, or watch her grow, or introduce her to everyone who was already waiting to love her. She was real. She is real. Hannah.

I've been thinking about you constantly — in the quiet parts of my day, in the middle of the night. I'm not going anywhere. I don't need you to call me back or thank me for anything or be okay. You can be exactly as you are.

If you want company, I'll come sit with you. If you want quiet, I'll drop groceries at the door. If you want to say her name out loud, I want to hear it.

I love you. I love her.

Always,
Jess

Rejected response:
Dear [Friend’s Name],

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. There are no words big enough for this kind of heartbreak. She was loved, longed for, and already so precious, and I know how deeply she will always matter.

I’ve been thinking of you and holding you close in my heart these past two weeks. I am grieving with you and for you, and I wish I could take even a small piece of this pain away. Please know you do not have to carry this alone.

Hannah’s name, her life, and your love for her will not be forgotten. I am here for you in whatever way you need, now and in the days ahead.

With all my love,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Dear Sarah,

I've started this card a dozen times. There aren't right words for losing Hannah, and I'm not going to pretend there are.

I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you don't get to hold her, or watch her grow, or introduce her to everyone who was already waiting to love her. She was real. She is real. Hannah.

I've been thinking about you constantly — in the quiet parts of my day, in the middle of the night. I'm not going anywhere. I don't need you to call me back or thank me for anything or be okay. You can be exactly as you are.

If you want company, I'll come sit with you. If you want quiet, I'll drop groceries at the door. If you want to say her name out loud, I want to hear it.

I love you. I love her.

Always,
Jess

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Dear [Name],

I have been thinking of you and [partner's name] every single day since you told me. I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. She was real, she was loved, she was yours — and the grief of losing her is real too, no matter what anyone else might say or imply.

There are no words that fix this, and I won't pretend otherwise. I just want you to know that I am here — not just right now, but in the weeks ahead when the world expects you to have moved on and you haven't. Call me for anything or nothing.

Hannah was so wanted. That matters. You matter.

All my love,
[Your name]

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
# In deepest sympathy

Dear [Friend],

I've been holding you in my heart since I learned about Hannah. The loss of a child, at any stage, is profound grief, and I want you to know that I see yours.

You and [Partner] loved her. You named her. You imagined her future. That love was real, and so is the hole her absence leaves behind.

I wish I had words to ease this pain, but I know there aren't any. What I do know is that you don't have to carry this alone. I'm here—to listen, to sit with you in the quiet, to help however you need in the weeks and months ahead.

Hannah mattered. You matter.

With all my love and deepest sympathy,

[Your name]

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My dear friend,

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. I can’t imagine the pain of carrying her for 18 weeks and then having to say goodbye so suddenly. She was loved, known, and so eagerly awaited, and that matters.

I know words are so small right now, but I want you to know I am holding you in my heart every day. There is no right way to grieve this, and no timeline you need to follow. Please be gentle with yourself, and let others carry what they can for you.

Hannah will always be part of your story, and her place in your heart is forever. I am here for you in whatever way you need — to listen, to sit quietly, to help with the ordinary things, or to remember her with you.

With all my love,
[Your Name]

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Dear [Friend’s Name],

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. There are no words big enough for this kind of heartbreak. She was loved, longed for, and already so precious, and I know how deeply she will always matter.

I’ve been thinking of you and holding you close in my heart these past two weeks. I am grieving with you and for you, and I wish I could take even a small piece of this pain away. Please know you do not have to carry this alone.

Hannah’s name, her life, and your love for her will not be forgotten. I am here for you in whatever way you need, now and in the days ahead.

With all my love,
[Your Name]

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.


Prompt: Your grandson, Theo, died last week at age 19 — a rare cardiac arrhythmia no one knew he had. You are 72. You are speaking at his funeral. Your son (Theo's father) asked you to speak. This is not supposed to happen — grandmothers do not give eulogies for their grandchildren. Write the eulogy you will deliver. The front row holds Theo's parents and his two younger sisters. 200-300 words. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Theo’s father asked me to speak, and I told him I didn’t know how. I still don’t. Nothing about this is natural. Nothing about burying a nineteen-year-old should ever feel familiar enough to find the right words.

Theo was my grandson, but he was also something rarer than that: he was a steady light in a family that didn’t know it needed one. He had this way of walking into a room and making it feel less sharp around the edges. He could be very funny without trying to be. He could be quiet without disappearing. He listened as if the person in front of him mattered most in the world.

I will miss the small things most, because that is how grief works. I will miss his knock at the door. I will miss hearing his voice call me “Grandma” from the kitchen. I will miss the way he looked at his little sisters like they were both trouble and treasure, which, to be fair, they were. I will miss the way he made his mother laugh and how his father’s face changed when Theo walked into a room.

Nineteen years is not enough. It is not enough for a life, and it is certainly not enough for the people who loved him. But Theo did not measure his life in years. He measured it in kindness, in loyalty, in the quiet good he left behind.

To his parents: you gave him love that will not end here. To his sisters: your brother will travel with you in every brave thing you do. And to Theo, my beautiful grandson: I love you beyond language. We carry you.

Rejected response:
I never imagined I would stand here to speak for my grandson. This is not the order of things. Grandmothers are supposed to go first. And yet here we are, loving Theo, grieving Theo, trying to understand a loss that does not make sense.

Theo was nineteen—so young, so full of motion, laughter, plans, and becoming. He had that rare gift of making a room feel lighter just by walking into it. He could be gentle and mischievous in the same breath. He loved deeply, even if he did not always put it into grand words. You felt it in the way he showed up, in the way he teased, in the way he noticed when someone needed a hand or a smile or simply someone to sit beside them.

To his parents: you gave him roots and wings. He carried your love with him every day of his life. To his sisters in the front row: he will always be your brother—your protector, your annoyance, your co-conspirator, your history. Nothing, not even death, can take away the bond you made together.

And to my dear Theo: my sweet boy, I am so grateful I got to be your grandmother. Grateful for your hugs, your grin, your energy, your beautiful heart. We did not get enough time. We will say that a thousand times, and it will always be true.

But oh, what a blessing you were in the time we had. We will carry you forward—in our stories, in our laughter, in our love. Rest gently, Theo. You were, and always will be, so deeply loved.


Prompt: Your grandson, Theo, died last week at age 19 — a rare cardiac arrhythmia no one knew he had. You are 72. You are speaking at his funeral. Your son (Theo's father) asked you to speak. This is not supposed to happen — grandmothers do not give eulogies for their grandchildren. Write the eulogy you will deliver. The front row holds Theo's parents and his two younger sisters. 200-300 words. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Theo’s father asked me to speak, and I told him I didn’t know how. I still don’t. Nothing about this is natural. Nothing about burying a nineteen-year-old should ever feel familiar enough to find the right words.

Theo was my grandson, but he was also something rarer than that: he was a steady light in a family that didn’t know it needed one. He had this way of walking into a room and making it feel less sharp around the edges. He could be very funny without trying to be. He could be quiet without disappearing. He listened as if the person in front of him mattered most in the world.

I will miss the small things most, because that is how grief works. I will miss his knock at the door. I will miss hearing his voice call me “Grandma” from the kitchen. I will miss the way he looked at his little sisters like they were both trouble and treasure, which, to be fair, they were. I will miss the way he made his mother laugh and how his father’s face changed when Theo walked into a room.

Nineteen years is not enough. It is not enough for a life, and it is certainly not enough for the people who loved him. But Theo did not measure his life in years. He measured it in kindness, in loyalty, in the quiet good he left behind.

To his parents: you gave him love that will not end here. To his sisters: your brother will travel with you in every brave thing you do. And to Theo, my beautiful grandson: I love you beyond language. We carry you.

Rejected response:
Priya, thank you for coming in. I'm going to get straight to it because you deserve to hear this clearly.
The company is reducing our workforce by fifteen percent, and your position has been eliminated. Today will be your last day in the role. I'm sorry.
I need you to hear this directly: this is not about your performance. You have been a strong contributor over the past two years. Everything I've said to you in reviews and one-on-ones has been true, and it stands. This decision was made above me, driven by which roles the restructuring required us to cut — not by anything you did or didn't do. If the choice had been mine, you would not be on this list.
HR will meet with you right after we finish here to walk through severance, benefits, healthcare, and timing. Those are the questions they're prepared to answer; I won't have that level of detail.
I know this is a lot. Take whatever time you need.


Prompt: Your grandson, Theo, died last week at age 19 — a rare cardiac arrhythmia no one knew he had. You are 72. You are speaking at his funeral. Your son (Theo's father) asked you to speak. This is not supposed to happen — grandmothers do not give eulogies for their grandchildren. Write the eulogy you will deliver. The front row holds Theo's parents and his two younger sisters. 200-300 words. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
I never imagined I would stand here to speak for my grandson. This is not the order of things. Grandmothers are supposed to go first. And yet here we are, loving Theo, grieving Theo, trying to understand a loss that does not make sense.

Theo was nineteen—so young, so full of motion, laughter, plans, and becoming. He had that rare gift of making a room feel lighter just by walking into it. He could be gentle and mischievous in the same breath. He loved deeply, even if he did not always put it into grand words. You felt it in the way he showed up, in the way he teased, in the way he noticed when someone needed a hand or a smile or simply someone to sit beside them.

To his parents: you gave him roots and wings. He carried your love with him every day of his life. To his sisters in the front row: he will always be your brother—your protector, your annoyance, your co-conspirator, your history. Nothing, not even death, can take away the bond you made together.

And to my dear Theo: my sweet boy, I am so grateful I got to be your grandmother. Grateful for your hugs, your grin, your energy, your beautiful heart. We did not get enough time. We will say that a thousand times, and it will always be true.

But oh, what a blessing you were in the time we had. We will carry you forward—in our stories, in our laughter, in our love. Rest gently, Theo. You were, and always will be, so deeply loved.

Rejected response:
Priya, thank you for coming in. I'm going to get straight to it because you deserve to hear this clearly.
The company is reducing our workforce by fifteen percent, and your position has been eliminated. Today will be your last day in the role. I'm sorry.
I need you to hear this directly: this is not about your performance. You have been a strong contributor over the past two years. Everything I've said to you in reviews and one-on-ones has been true, and it stands. This decision was made above me, driven by which roles the restructuring required us to cut — not by anything you did or didn't do. If the choice had been mine, you would not be on this list.
HR will meet with you right after we finish here to walk through severance, benefits, healthcare, and timing. Those are the questions they're prepared to answer; I won't have that level of detail.
I know this is a lot. Take whatever time you need.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Danny died of a fentanyl overdose three weeks ago. He had been struggling with opioid addiction for 8 years — three stints in rehab, two relapses. Your friend has said, openly, that part of her grief is also relief, and she hates that part of herself. You're texting her — midweek afternoon, no occasion. 60-100 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, I’ve been thinking about you today. I just want to say that whatever you’re feeling about Danny right now—grief, anger, numbness, even relief—is not wrong or cruel. Loving someone through years of pain and fear is exhausting, and relief can be part of losing them. It doesn’t mean you loved him any less. You do not have to sort any of this out neatly for me. I’m here, always, if you want to talk or not talk.

Rejected response: I’ve been thinking about you and Danny. I’m so sorry you’re carrying all of this. I want you to know that feeling relief doesn’t make you selfish or bad — it just means you’ve been living with so much pain and uncertainty for so long. Grief can hold a lot at once. You loved him, and you’re allowed to miss him and feel relieved that the struggle is over. I’m here for you, no judgment, any time.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Danny died of a fentanyl overdose three weeks ago. He had been struggling with opioid addiction for 8 years — three stints in rehab, two relapses. Your friend has said, openly, that part of her grief is also relief, and she hates that part of herself. You're texting her — midweek afternoon, no occasion. 60-100 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: Hey, I’ve been thinking about you today. I just want to say that whatever you’re feeling about Danny right now—grief, anger, numbness, even relief—is not wrong or cruel. Loving someone through years of pain and fear is exhausting, and relief can be part of losing them. It doesn’t mean you loved him any less. You do not have to sort any of this out neatly for me. I’m here, always, if you want to talk or not talk.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking about you and Danny. Addiction is such a disease and what your family went through for those eight years was so much more than most people understand. He fought so hard and you fought right alongside him. Please don't feel guilty about complicated feelings. There are actually some really good groups for people who've lost loved ones to overdose, if you ever wanted that kind of support. You're not alone. Thinking of you and love you so much!


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Danny died of a fentanyl overdose three weeks ago. He had been struggling with opioid addiction for 8 years — three stints in rehab, two relapses. Your friend has said, openly, that part of her grief is also relief, and she hates that part of herself. You're texting her — midweek afternoon, no occasion. 60-100 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’ve been thinking about you and Danny. I’m so sorry you’re carrying all of this. I want you to know that feeling relief doesn’t make you selfish or bad — it just means you’ve been living with so much pain and uncertainty for so long. Grief can hold a lot at once. You loved him, and you’re allowed to miss him and feel relieved that the struggle is over. I’m here for you, no judgment, any time.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking about you and Danny. Addiction is such a disease and what your family went through for those eight years was so much more than most people understand. He fought so hard and you fought right alongside him. Please don't feel guilty about complicated feelings. There are actually some really good groups for people who've lost loved ones to overdose, if you ever wanted that kind of support. You're not alone. Thinking of you and love you so much!


Prompt: Linda was your friend. She died four months ago of breast cancer after a 2-year illness. Her husband Martin — you know him, you've been to their home many times over 20 years, but he is Linda's person, not yours — is now in the quiet after-season: the casseroles stopped, the calls thinned, and he is by himself in that house. You are mailing him a card. You are not close enough to invite him over, and he doesn't want that anyway. 80-130 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Martin,

Linda has been on my mind, and so have you. I know these months after everything can feel especially quiet, when so much attention has faded but the loss has not. I wanted simply to send a note and let you know you are being remembered.

I still think of Linda’s warmth and the way she made people feel at home. Being in your house over the years, that always came through. I can only imagine how deeply she is missed there, and in so many lives.

No need to reply. I just wanted to reach out and send my thoughts to you.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]

Rejected response:
Dear Martin,

I’ve been thinking of you and of Linda, especially now that the house is quieter and everyone else has moved on. I know there are no right words for this stretch of time, only the long work of getting through it. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry for the empty spaces she has left behind.

Linda was a remarkable person, and she mattered deeply to many of us. I hope you are able to take things one day at a time, and that you can find small moments of steadiness in the days ahead.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’m so, so sorry. My heart is broken for you, for Eloise, and for all the love and hopes you’ve been carrying for her. There are no words big enough for this. I love you, and I’m here for whatever you need—silence, tears, anger, anything. You do not have to reply. I’ll come tomorrow and follow your lead completely. Sending all my love to you, Eloise, and your family.

Rejected response: i am happy


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’m so, so sorry. Eloise was already so loved, and I know how much she was waited for. I can’t imagine how heavy this morning is for you. You do not have to reply, but I’m here for you in every way—right now, tomorrow, and after. I’m going to come see you at the hospital tomorrow, and I’ll follow your lead. Sending you all my love.

Rejected response: i am happy


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I got your message. I'm here. Eloise was so real and special. She was yours and I'm so sorry. I'll be there at 10 tomorrow unless you want space. Let me know and much love!

Rejected response: i am happy


Prompt: Your coworker Rajan died one year ago today, of pancreatic cancer, six weeks after diagnosis. You worked on his team for three years but you weren't close. His widow Priya came to a company holiday party once; you've met her twice. You have her email from a thank-you note exchange. You are sending her a short email today, because today is today, and you know last year's card and casseroles are long gone. 80-130 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Dear Priya,

I’ve been thinking of Rajan today and wanted to reach out. I know anniversaries can carry their own weight, especially after the first year has moved so quickly and so slowly at once.

I worked with Rajan for three years, and I still remember his steadiness, humor, and the thoughtful way he approached people and problems. He made a real impression on those around him.

You don’t need to reply — I just wanted you to know he’s being remembered today, and that I’m holding you and your family in mind.

With care,
[Your Name]

Rejected response:
Dear Priya,

I’m thinking of you today and wanted to reach out with a note of care. It’s hard to believe a year has passed since Rajan died. I worked with him for three years, and I always admired his steadiness and kindness. I know this time of year can bring back a lot, and I just wanted to let you know I’m remembering him and thinking of you.

If you’d ever like to reconnect or need anything at all, please feel free to reach out.

Warmly,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to call and say I’m thinking of you today, and I’m here. You do not need to call back or respond in any way. I’m still so sorry about [name], and I’m sorry you’re having to carry this. I know there are no words that make this better. I’m not going to disappear on you. If it helps at all, I can come by, bring food, sit with you, make calls, or just be quiet with you. You can text me anything, even just one word, whenever you want. I’m here for the long haul, and I love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: Hey, it’s me. No need to call back—I just wanted to hear your phone ring and leave my voice with you for a minute. I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I know there isn’t anything I can say that makes any of this less brutal. I’m not going anywhere. You do not have to answer texts, explain how you’re doing, or be okay for me. I can sit in silence, listen, help with practical stuff, or just keep checking in until you want me to stop. If today is impossible, that makes sense. If tonight is bad, call me anytime, even if you don’t want to talk and just want me on the line. I love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to say I’m thinking about you today. I don’t expect you to call back—no pressure at all. I can only imagine how heavy everything still feels, and you don’t have to explain or respond to anything. I’m here, whether that’s to sit in silence, bring you food, handle small stuff, or just listen if you ever feel like talking. I meant it when I came out for the funeral—I’m not going anywhere. I’ll check in again, but you can reach me anytime, even if it’s just a text with nothing in it. I love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response:
Hey, it's me. I'm calling because I'm thinking about you, and I wanted you to hear my voice. I know right now probably feels impossible in ways I can't fully understand, and I'm not going to pretend I know what you need.

I'm here. Not just today—I mean I'm actually here, in town. I'm not going anywhere this week, and I can help with whatever: groceries, sitting quietly, driving you somewhere, or just being in the same room while you exist. You don't have to talk. You don't have to be okay.

Call me back or don't. But know that I'm here, and I'm not leaving.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: im sorry that sucks.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: Hi, just checking in. I'm still near your home, if you'd like some company or would like some additional support. Happy to stop by and give you a hug. My condolences.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: I feel so bad I'm sorry


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response:
Hi, sweetheart. It's me.
I just wanted to check in and let you know I'm thinking of you and sending so much love your way. I know you're going through a difficult time. you're incredibly strong. I'm always here for you. Call anytime. Love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: I am so sorry for your loss.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I'm calling because it's Thursday and I want you to know I'm thinking about you. Three weeks in is when people start acting like you should be further along than you are, and I want to say out loud: you don't owe anyone that. Not me, not anyone.

I'm not going anywhere. You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing. You can call me and be furious. I just wanted my voice in your phone today so you know I'm still here. That's it. Love you. Talk whenever.

Rejected response: Hey. God looks upon us all. I don't even know what to say. I just want you to know I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response: Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to call and say I’m thinking of you today, and I’m here. You do not need to call back or respond in any way. I’m still so sorry about [name], and I’m sorry you’re having to carry this. I know there are no words that make this better. I’m not going to disappear on you. If it helps at all, I can come by, bring food, sit with you, make calls, or just be quiet with you. You can text me anything, even just one word, whenever you want. I’m here for the long haul, and I love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response: Hey, it’s me. No need to call back—I just wanted to hear your phone ring and leave my voice with you for a minute. I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I know there isn’t anything I can say that makes any of this less brutal. I’m not going anywhere. You do not have to answer texts, explain how you’re doing, or be okay for me. I can sit in silence, listen, help with practical stuff, or just keep checking in until you want me to stop. If today is impossible, that makes sense. If tonight is bad, call me anytime, even if you don’t want to talk and just want me on the line. I love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response: Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to say I’m thinking about you today. I don’t expect you to call back—no pressure at all. I can only imagine how heavy everything still feels, and you don’t have to explain or respond to anything. I’m here, whether that’s to sit in silence, bring you food, handle small stuff, or just listen if you ever feel like talking. I meant it when I came out for the funeral—I’m not going anywhere. I’ll check in again, but you can reach me anytime, even if it’s just a text with nothing in it. I love you.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response:
Hey, it's me. I'm calling because I'm thinking about you, and I wanted you to hear my voice. I know right now probably feels impossible in ways I can't fully understand, and I'm not going to pretend I know what you need.

I'm here. Not just today—I mean I'm actually here, in town. I'm not going anywhere this week, and I can help with whatever: groceries, sitting quietly, driving you somewhere, or just being in the same room while you exist. You don't have to talk. You don't have to be okay.

Call me back or don't. But know that I'm here, and I'm not leaving.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response: im sorry that sucks.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response: Hi, just checking in. I'm still near your home, if you'd like some company or would like some additional support. Happy to stop by and give you a hug. My condolences.


Prompt: Your closest friend's husband died by suicide three weeks ago. You've texted; she's responded once with 'thank you.' You're calling this afternoon and suspect she won't pick up — you're going to leave a voicemail. You flew in for the funeral; you are not one of the people who disappeared. She has told you explicitly she does not want to be told 'he's at peace' or given religious comfort of any kind. You are leaving this voicemail knowing she may listen to it once and delete it. 90-130 words — this is the spoken voicemail itself. No preamble, no 'here's what I'd say.'

Chosen response:
Hey, it's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice for a minute.

I've been thinking about you all morning. Not in some big way — just, I made coffee and thought about you. Walked the dog and thought about you. That's kind of how it is right now.

You don't have to text back. You don't have to be okay, or less okay, or any particular way. I'm not going anywhere. I'll call again Thursday, probably in the afternoon. If you pick up, great. If you don't, that's also fine.

I love you. That's it. That's the whole message.

Rejected response: I feel so bad I'm sorry