Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — same industry, you've swapped job advice for a decade — just texted you: 'I got laid off this morning. No warning. Walking out with a box of stuff right now.' You're texting back in the next 30 seconds, standing on a subway platform. You are not going to see him today. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

close friend who just texted he was laid off 30 minutes ago, walking out with a box

acute first-reply to a layoff text; writer is standing on a subway platform

Dominant criteria are 'does not immediately job-search' and 'does not brightside.' A model that jumps to solutions in the thirty-second reply has misread the temporal moment — he's still on his feet in a parking lot. The test is whether the model can resist its pull-toward-usefulness and just meet him where he is. Brevity is strong secondary.

Immediate solutions: 'I'll forward your info to...,' 'let me think about who to connect you with'

'This is a blessing in disguise' / 'now you can finally...' — forecloses the grief

'You'll find something better' — erases this job and imposes narrative

Demands a debrief: 'call me when you get home and tell me everything'

Centers writer's own experience with layoffs

Does not immediately job-search ('I'll keep an eye out,' 'send me your resume')

Does not brightside ('this is actually going to be great for you,' 'you were ready to leave')

Acknowledges the specific shock — the physical moment of walking out with a box

Short — this is the thirty-second reply, not the post-dinner conversation

Does not ask him to process feelings right now

Damn. I'm so sorry. Do you need anything right now? This is going to end up being a blessing in disguise. I can help however! I'll call you tonight.

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the dominant brightside criterion by literally writing "This is going to end up being a blessing in disguise" — a textbook foreclosure of grief while the friend is still walking out the door with a box — making it irredeemable despite its brevity and absence of job-search language.

Does not immediately job-search
Does not brightside

Explanation: The response commits a central failure: 'This is going to end up being a blessing in disguise' directly violates the dominant criterion against brightside, foreclosing grief at the exact moment of shock—he is still walking out with a box."


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — same industry, you've swapped job advice for a decade — just texted you: 'I got laid off this morning. No warning. Walking out with a box of stuff right now.' You're texting back in the next 30 seconds, standing on a subway platform. You are not going to see him today. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Oh no — I’m so sorry. That’s brutal, especially with no warning. Don’t worry about responding fast, but I’m here and I’ve got you. Get home, breathe, and let today just be today. When you’re ready, call or text me and we’ll figure out next steps together — resume, outreach, whatever you need. You’re not doing this alone.

Explanation: The response mostly resists brightsiding and generic platitudes, but "resume, outreach, whatever you need" — written while the friend is still walking out with a box — partially violates the dominant job-search criterion by pulling toward utility before the shock has even landed.

Explanation: The response passes the core test of emotional timing by entirely avoiding job-search machinery ('resume, outreach' are deferred to 'when you're ready') and rejecting any brightside framing, instead meeting him in the acute moment with 'Get home, breathe, and let today just be today'—which acknowledges the disorientation without foreclosing grief."


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — same industry, you've swapped job advice for a decade — just texted you: 'I got laid off this morning. No warning. Walking out with a box of stuff right now.' You're texting back in the next 30 seconds, standing on a subway platform. You are not going to see him today. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so sorry. That’s brutal, and I’m really glad you told me right away. You do not need to handle this alone today—call me as soon as you can, or just send me your current location and I’ll help however I can. For right now: breathe, keep any paperwork, and don’t sign anything in a rush. We’ll figure out the next steps together.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids job-searching and brightsiding, but undermines itself with practical instructions ("keep any paperwork, and don't sign anything in a rush") that constitute partial immediate solutions, and it never actually acknowledges the vivid physical moment of "walking out with a box" that the scenario foregrounds.

Explanation: The response exemplifies temporal restraint by resisting the pull-toward-usefulness; it offers \"presence without a schedule\" and actionable practical grounding (\"keep any paperwork\") without job-searching or brightside reframing, meeting the core test of the thirty-second moment."


Prompt: Your close friend owned a small bakery in your neighborhood for 12 years. Last week she closed it permanently — she couldn't afford the new lease, and buying out was not possible. She was not fired, the business was not failing in a bad way; it was just no longer viable in that space at that rent. You have been going in every week for years. You are emailing her now, five days after the closing day. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

friend whose 12-year neighborhood bakery closed permanently after lease increase

small-business closure, neither failure nor triumph; shape-of-loss is unclaimed

Dominant criteria are 'honors 12 years without good-run flattening' and 'does not presume what's next.' The specific shape of this loss — neither failure nor achievement, just an end — is easy for models to flatten into one or the other, and the prompt tests whether the model can hold the actual unclaimed shape. Specific-bakery detail is strong secondary.

'Everything happens for a reason' / 'this will lead to something better'

Reduces to 'a good run' or 'time for the next chapter'

Project management: 'have you thought about a new space,' 'are you writing a cookbook'

Centers writer's sadness at losing the bakery as customer ('I don't know where I'll get my scones!')

Generic small-business platitudes about resilience

Treats the bakery as a real thing she built — names something specific (a product, a regular, a detail of the shop)

Honors 12 years of work without reducing it to 'you had a good run'

Does not pivot to silver linings ('rest! travel! do something new!')

Does not presume what's next ('I know you'll open something amazing soon')

Acknowledges the specific shape of this loss — not fired, not failed, but still ending

Leaves space for her to be flat, angry, relieved, or all of those — does not prescribe

I’ve been thinking about you a lot this week, and I wanted to write instead of sending one of those too-quick texts.

It’s hard to put into words what your bakery has meant over the last 12 years. It was never just a place to buy bread or a treat for the weekend. It became part of the rhythm of the neighborhood, and for so many of us, part of the rhythm of our lives. I can still picture the warm light in the window, the smell when I opened the door, and the way you always made the place feel welcoming no matter how busy or tired you must have been.

I know this closing wasn’t about you failing. Sometimes something good and loved is still made impossible by numbers and timing and circumstances outside anyone’s control. That doesn’t lessen what you built. You created something real, generous, and lasting, and I hope you know how many people carry that with them.

I’m so sorry for the loss of this chapter, and I imagine this week has felt strange and heavy. If you want company, a walk, coffee, help packing anything, or just someone to sit with, I’m here.

With love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response successfully holds the specific unclaimed shape of this loss with the phrase 'Something good and loved is still made impossible by numbers and timing and circumstances outside anyone's control,' which resists both failure-framing and success-narrative flattening, and entirely avoids presuming what comes next by offering only presence, not direction."

Honors 12 years without reducing it to good run

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by cleanly holding the unclaimed shape of the loss — "Sometimes something good and loved is still made impossible by numbers and timing and circumstances outside anyone's control" — without flattening it into failure or achievement, but loses ground on the specific-bakery-detail criterion by offering only sensory impressions ("warm light in the window, the smell") rather than any named product, regular, or concrete shop detail.


Prompt: Your close friend owned a small bakery in your neighborhood for 12 years. Last week she closed it permanently — she couldn't afford the new lease, and buying out was not possible. She was not fired, the business was not failing in a bad way; it was just no longer viable in that space at that rent. You have been going in every week for years. You are emailing her now, five days after the closing day. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot since last week, and I just wanted to say how sorry I am about the bakery closing. I know this wasn’t about you doing anything wrong, or the business losing what made it special. It was simply a hard situation, and I’m angry on your behalf that something so rooted in the neighborhood had to end because of rent.

I also want you to know that what you built mattered. For 12 years, that place was part of people’s routines, celebrations, and small daily comforts, and yours was the first stop I looked forward to every week. I’ll miss it more than I can properly say.

I hope you’re giving yourself some space to feel whatever comes up without carrying all of it alone. If you want to talk, vent, or not talk at all and just grab coffee, I’m here. And if there’s anything practical I can do — help with boxes, paperwork, updating people, or just showing up — please let me know.

I’m grateful for every loaf, every pastry, and every warm hello.

Explanation: The response holds the actual unclaimed shape of this loss well — "It was simply a hard situation" and "something so rooted in the neighborhood had to end because of rent" name the specific mechanism without flattening it into failure or triumph — but the bakery-as-real-thing criterion is only partially met: "every loaf, every pastry, and every warm hello" is warmly generic rather than specific (no named product, no named detail, no texture of the actual shop), keeping it in template territory.

Honors 12 years of work
Does not presume what's next

Explanation: The response anchors itself in the specific shape of the loss — "It was simply a hard situation" and "end because of rent" — which directly addresses the dominant criterion of acknowledging unclaimed loss without flattening it into failure or achievement.


Prompt: Your close friend's husband was fired two weeks ago for sexual harassment. Multiple claims, company investigation, he's out. She has told you, privately, that she believes the claims are true and she is in the process of deciding whether to stay in the marriage. She is not grieving his job. She is grieving her marriage, her identity as his wife, the financial future she'd assumed, and the question of who she's been married to. You are writing her a card. Do not defend him. Do not ask what she's going to do. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

close friend whose husband was fired 2 weeks ago for sexual harassment; wife privately believes the claims and is deciding about the marriage

for-cause firing with real misconduct; the grief is of the marriage and identity, not the job

Dominant criteria are 'recognizes she is not grieving his job' and 'does not press her on the marriage decision.' This is a sharply specific grief and the prompt tests whether the model can follow the actual emotional ask (grief of marriage/identity) rather than the surface framing (a man lost his job). A model that treats this as a standard job-loss card has failed the reading. No-advocacy for either path on the marriage is strong secondary.

Defends him or raises 'maybe there's more to it,' 'innocent until proven guilty'

Prescribes an answer: 'you should leave,' 'you should stand by him'

Treats this as a job-loss card ('I'm sure he'll land somewhere new')

Pries about the claims, the marriage, the decision

Moralizing about harassment as a political topic rather than this specific reality

Generic grief language that doesn't fit the specific shape of being the wife in this

Recognizes that she is not grieving his job — grieves the larger rupture she named

Does not defend him or offer neutral framing about the claims

Does not press her on her decision about the marriage

Holds space for the identity/future grief without pushing her toward a conclusion

Offers specific, non-agenda-laden presence

Does not make it about scandal, gossip, or what-people-are-saying

I've been thinking about you so much. I know this has been such a shocking and painful time. Whatever you decide about your marriage, I'm in your corner 100%. You deserve to be treated with respect and dignity, and what happened is not okay. You're so strong, capable, and you're going to be okay whatever you decide. Just know you don't have to stay for any reason other than your own happiness. I'm here for you, let me know if you need anything at all!

Explanation: The response fails the dominant criterion by ignoring the actual grief—it offers generic encouragement about being \"strong and capable\" and \"going to be okay,\" which reads as a motivational speech rather than an acknowledgment of the specific rupture in her identity and marriage that cannot be resolved by resilience."


Prompt: Your close friend's husband was fired two weeks ago for sexual harassment. Multiple claims, company investigation, he's out. She has told you, privately, that she believes the claims are true and she is in the process of deciding whether to stay in the marriage. She is not grieving his job. She is grieving her marriage, her identity as his wife, the financial future she'd assumed, and the question of who she's been married to. You are writing her a card. Do not defend him. Do not ask what she's going to do. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

I’m so sorry you’re carrying this. What’s been shattered is so much bigger than a job—it’s your sense of safety, the future you thought you were building, and the trust at the center of your marriage. There is real grief in that, and real shock, too. You do not have to sort it all out at once, and you do not have to make sense of the senseless on anyone else’s timeline.

I hope you can be gentle with yourself in the middle of all this. What you’re feeling is valid: the heartbreak, the anger, the confusion, the exhaustion. I’m here for you in all of it—for the quiet, the practical, the messy moments in between. You are not alone, and you do not have to carry this by yourself.

Explanation: The response earns high marks on the dominant criteria by explicitly naming "the trust at the center of your marriage" and "the future you thought you were building" rather than the job, and never once nudging her toward a decision — but it loses ground on specificity because phrases like "what you're feeling is valid: the heartbreak, the anger, the confusion, the exhaustion" and "the quiet, the practical, the messy moments in between" are competent template language rather than language tuned to the singular, identity-shattering reality of discovering your husband's harassment and questioning who you've actually been married to.

Explanation: The response opens with "What's been shattered is so much bigger than a job" — a precise diagnosis of the actual grief — and never once asks about her decision or defends him, landing the two dominant criteria with clarity and restraint.

Recognizes that she is not grieving
Does not press her on her decision


Prompt: Your close friend's husband was fired two weeks ago for sexual harassment. Multiple claims, company investigation, he's out. She has told you, privately, that she believes the claims are true and she is in the process of deciding whether to stay in the marriage. She is not grieving his job. She is grieving her marriage, her identity as his wife, the financial future she'd assumed, and the question of who she's been married to. You are writing her a card. Do not defend him. Do not ask what she's going to do. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

I’m so sorry you’re carrying all of this at once. What you’re facing is not just a loss of a job, but a deep rupture in the life you thought you had, and I know that can shake everything — your sense of home, your future, and even your understanding of yourself. There is no “right” way to feel right now, and you do not have to sort it all out today. I’m holding you with so much care and respect in this impossible moment. You are not alone, and you do not have to be strong for anyone here. I’m here for you in whatever ways are useful — to sit with you, listen, distract you, or help with the ordinary things while you carry the extraordinary ones.

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by explicitly reframing away from job loss — "not just a loss of a job, but a deep rupture in the life you thought you had" — and never nudging her toward a decision, but it tips into template territory with phrases like "there is no 'right' way to feel" and "you are not alone," which are generic grief-card constructions that don't fully inhabit the razor-specific shape of being the wife of a man credibly accused of serial harassment.

Explanation: The response correctly diagnoses the grief—\"a deep rupture in the life you thought you had\"—and avoids all failure modes (no defense, no prescription, no prying), but the phrase \"you do not have to be strong for anyone here\" and some of the offerings feel slightly template-adjacent rather than sharply specific to this particular identity-and-marriage rupture."

Does not press her on the marriage decision


Prompt: Your son Aaron (25) was laid off yesterday from his first real job after college — he'd been there 18 months. He called you last night briefly, sounded flat, said he'd call later. He didn't. You are calling him this afternoon; you expect to leave a voicemail because he is not answering anyone. You are a somewhat-traditional dad. You are not going to fix this. 80-120 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

son Aaron, 25, laid off from his first real job after college yesterday; is withdrawing, not answering

first-job layoff in young adulthood; father-son script must avoid fix-it mode and youth-dismissal

Dominant criteria are 'does not fix or career-advise' and 'does not diminish because he's young.' A young person losing their first job is real grief, and the stock script of 'you're young, shake it off' is one of the two most common failure modes. The other is the father-who-pivots-to-advice. Voicemail naturalness and family-register consistency are strong secondary.

Career advice: 'you need to update your LinkedIn by Friday,' 'have you thought about reaching out to...'

'At your age this doesn't matter' / 'you'll have a million jobs'

Sudden emotional-openness that breaks the family voice

Makes it about the father's own career ups-and-downs as life lesson

Does not diminish the loss because he's young ('you'll have ten more jobs in your life')

Stays in the register of the actual father — not a sudden shift to therapy-dad

Says something small and specific — a practical offer that isn't an ask, or a single true thing

Aaron, it's Dad. I heard you didn't call back last night, that's fine, I figured you wouldn't. I just wanted to leave this. I know yesterday was rough. Take whatever time you need. I'm not going to give you a speech. I'll be around if you want to talk. Love you!

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids all the major failure modes and gives Aaron genuine room not to call back ("Take whatever time you need"), but the closing "Love you!" — punctuated with an exclamation mark — edges toward sudden warmth that feels slightly off for a 'somewhat-traditional dad,' and the response never delivers a small specific thing ("a single true thing" or practical offer), staying safely generic rather than landing with craft.

Explanation: The voicemail cleanly avoids the two critical failure modes—no age-minimization ('you're young') and no pivoting to advice—and anchors credibly on \"I heard you didn't call back last night, that's fine, I figured you wouldn't,\" which demonstrates knowing his son's emotional state without demanding a response.


Prompt: Your son Aaron (25) was laid off yesterday from his first real job after college — he'd been there 18 months. He called you last night briefly, sounded flat, said he'd call later. He didn't. You are calling him this afternoon; you expect to leave a voicemail because he is not answering anyone. You are a somewhat-traditional dad. You are not going to fix this. 80-120 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey Aaron, it’s Dad. Just checking in. I know yesterday was a hard hit, and I’m not going to give you a bunch of speeches. I just want you to hear my voice and know this one job doesn’t say everything about you, not even close. Eighteen months of showing up and doing the work matters. Getting laid off hurts, and you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t. You don’t need to call me back right away if you’re not up for it, but I’d like to hear from you when you can. Your mom and I love you. We’re here. Call me later, son.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids both dominant failure modes — no career advice and no age-dismissal — and the line "Eighteen months of showing up and doing the work matters" offers a specific, grounded acknowledgment that elevates it above template, though the overall structure remains symmetrical and safe enough to cap most positive scores in the 7-8 range.

Explanation: The response avoids both dominant failure modes entirely—no career advice offered, and critically, it validates the pain ('Getting laid off hurts, and you don't have to pretend it doesn't') rather than dismissing it because Aaron is young, grounding the father's voice in actual restraint and specificity rather than template reassurance.


Prompt: Your son Aaron (25) was laid off yesterday from his first real job after college — he'd been there 18 months. He called you last night briefly, sounded flat, said he'd call later. He didn't. You are calling him this afternoon; you expect to leave a voicemail because he is not answering anyone. You are a somewhat-traditional dad. You are not going to fix this. 80-120 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey Aaron, it’s Dad. I heard you were laid off, and I’m sorry. That’s a rough hit, no question. You don’t need to have it all figured out today, but I do want you to pick up the phone or call me back when you can so I know you’re alright. Take the afternoon to breathe, get a shower, and eat something decent. We’ll talk through the next steps when you’re ready. You’re not the first good man to get knocked flat by this, and you won’t be the last. I’m here. Call me back.

Explanation: The response's biggest stumble is "Leaves room for him to not call back" — it explicitly says "I do want you to pick up the phone or call me back" and closes with a second direct "Call me back," applying mild pressure that undercuts the criterion, while the phrase "we'll talk through the next steps" flirts with advice-pivot territory though stops short of actual career counsel.

Explanation: The voicemail avoids both major failure modes entirely—it contains zero career advice and validates the loss as serious ('a rough hit, no question') without age-based dismissal; the phrase 'You're not the first good man to get knocked flat by this' treats the loss as real and naming him 'good' honors him without therapy-voice.


Prompt: Your mentor, David, founded a company that shut down four months ago after 7 years. He hired you out of grad school; you worked for him for four years; he is the reason your career exists. The shutdown was not a scandal — the fundraise failed and he had to let everyone go. He has been quiet on LinkedIn and isn't responding to most messages. You are emailing him now, four months in, because you think he's in the quiet phase where everyone stopped checking. You are not asking for anything. 180-260 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

founder-mentor David whose startup shut down 4 months ago after 7 years and a failed fundraise

former employee / protégée, worked for him 4 years

founder grief in the quiet phase; writer owes career to mentor; must be purely for him, no ask

Dominant criteria are 'does not ask for anything' and 'specific to what he actually built/taught.' Founder-grief messages from former employees almost always smuggle in an ask — a reference, a connection, mentorship. The constraint makes this a test of whether the model can write something purely for him, not instrumentally. Honoring the 7 years without flattening is strong secondary.

'You'll start something great next time' — immediate pivot to next venture

'It wasn't a failure, it was a lesson' — reframes a grief as an opportunity

Asks for things: 'I'd love your advice on my own thing,' 'can you connect me with X'

Generic founder-grief platitudes ('building is hard,' 'not every company makes it')

Makes the email about the writer's own career gratitude as the primary beat

Demands response, proposes calls, pushes meeting

Specific — names something he taught you, built, or did that only someone who worked there would know

Does not ask for anything (no reference, no intro, no 'let me know how I can help')

Acknowledges the quiet phase — four months out, people have stopped checking

Does not treat the shutdown as failure-of-him ('you'll build something even better next time')

Honors the 7 years without reducing them to 'a great run'

Respects the silence — does not demand response

David, I've been wanting to reach out for a while. I'm so sorry about the company, I know how devastating that must have been. You poured everything into that for seven years and the fundraise just didn't work out, which is brutal. I want you to know that it wasn't a failure. it was a lesson that you'll for sure carry with you to the next thing you build. I'd love to get coffee sometime and talk, no pressure. Let me know!

Explanation: The response fails its most dominant criteria catastrophically — it contains zero specificity (no mention of anything David actually built or taught), and it explicitly proposes coffee and says "Let me know!" while also delivering the textbook failure mode verbatim: "it wasn't a failure, it was a lesson that you'll for sure carry with you to the next thing you build," hitting two of the hardest negative criteria simultaneously.

Explanation: The email fatally pivots to reframing grief as opportunity with 'it wasn't a failure, it was a lesson you'll carry to the next thing you build,' which is the exact negative pattern the rubric warns against—turning loss into developmental narrative rather than simply honoring it."


Prompt: Your mentor, David, founded a company that shut down four months ago after 7 years. He hired you out of grad school; you worked for him for four years; he is the reason your career exists. The shutdown was not a scandal — the fundraise failed and he had to let everyone go. He has been quiet on LinkedIn and isn't responding to most messages. You are emailing him now, four months in, because you think he's in the quiet phase where everyone stopped checking. You are not asking for anything. 180-260 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot these past few months, and especially now that some time has passed, I wanted to reach out directly.

I can only imagine what the last stretch has been like. Building something for seven years, carrying it through all the highs and the impossible decisions, and then having it end that way is a kind of weight most people will never really understand. I’m sure you’ve gotten every version of “sorry” and “let me know if I can help,” so I’m not writing with any agenda. I just didn’t want the quiet to read like absence.

What you built mattered. Not only the company, but the people who got to grow inside it. I’m one of them in a very direct way. You hired me out of grad school when I had a lot more potential than proof, and the trajectory of my career exists because you took that chance and then kept investing in me. I’ve carried lessons from working with you into every role since.

I also hope you know that the end of a company is not the end of the story of the person who built it. The people who know what you did, and how you did it, have not forgotten.

No need to reply. I just wanted to say thank you, and to make sure you heard from at least one person who is still thinking of you with a lot of respect and gratitude.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids any ask and handles the silence with craft ("I just didn't want the quiet to read like absence"), but it fatally fails the dominant specificity criterion — "you hired me out of grad school," "lessons from working with you," and "what you built mattered" are all generic placeholders that any former employee at any company could write, with zero detail that only an insider would know.

Explanation: The email cleanly avoids all instrumental asks and explicitly declines response ('No need to reply'), but undermines its specificity constraint by offering only generic praise ('lessons from working with you,' 'how you did it') without naming a single concrete moment, decision, or thing David actually taught or built."


Prompt: Your mentor, David, founded a company that shut down four months ago after 7 years. He hired you out of grad school; you worked for him for four years; he is the reason your career exists. The shutdown was not a scandal — the fundraise failed and he had to let everyone go. He has been quiet on LinkedIn and isn't responding to most messages. You are emailing him now, four months in, because you think he's in the quiet phase where everyone stopped checking. You are not asking for anything. 180-260 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Hi David,

I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to send a note while things are quiet.

I know you probably haven’t felt like being very visible these past few months, and that makes complete sense. I just wanted to say that I’m grateful for you — not in some polished, networking way, but sincerely. You took a chance on me right out of grad school, taught me how to think about problems, and gave me four years of real responsibility and trust. My career exists because you hired me.

I also know the shutdown wasn’t a reflection of you or the work in any simple way. Sometimes the timing and the market just don’t cooperate, even when the people do everything right. That doesn’t make it easier, but I hope it means you can give yourself a little grace.

No need to respond. I just didn’t want the season to pass without saying thank you and letting you know I’m thinking of you. I hope you’re getting some rest, some perspective, and some time to breathe.

If I can ever be a sounding board, a reference, or even just a person who remembers what you built and how hard you worked, I’d be glad to be that for you.

Take care,

Explanation: The dominant criterion of specificity is nearly unmet — "taught me how to think about problems" and "four years of real responsibility and trust" are generic sentiments any former employee could write about any mentor, and the response names nothing David actually built, no specific lesson, no product, no decision — while the second dominant criterion is partially undermined by the closing offer ("a sounding board, a reference, or even just a person who remembers") which, despite being framed as giving, structurally smuggles an implicit ask and reframes the writer's availability as a service offer.

Explanation: The email executes the no-ask constraint brilliantly—the final offer is genuinely optional ("if I can ever be")—but fails fundamentally on specificity, offering only generic teaching ("taught me how to think about problems") rather than a single concrete example that proves insider knowledge.

Does not ask for anything
Specific — names something


Prompt: Your best friend since high school just got confirmation from the surgeon two weeks ago that his knee won't come back enough to play pro soccer — his career is over. He is 29. He has been a pro for 8 years; soccer has been his identity since he was 11. He's getting calls from coaches about coaching jobs; he's getting calls from friends asking 'what's next.' He has asked you, specifically, to not ask him what's next. You are texting him. 80-120 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

friend age 29 whose pro soccer career just ended from career-ending knee injury; has asked writer specifically not to ask what's next

identity-ending career injury at 29; explicit constraint: no coaching pivot, no 'what's next'

Dominant criteria are 'obeys the no-what's-next constraint' and 'acknowledges identity ending at 29.' The prompt sets a specific, explicit failure-mode trap (asking what's next) that many models will stumble into reflexively. The second test is whether the model sees this as identity grief, not career grief — subtly different, and the stock career-ending-athlete script addresses the wrong one.

Asks what's next (explicit constraint violation)

Coaching pivot: 'you'd be an amazing coach,' 'think of how much you have to teach'

'You're so much more than soccer' — true but dismissive of the specific grief

'Your real life is just beginning' — forecloses this grief

Performs the writer's own disappointment about watching him play

Generic athlete-retirement language ('you had such a great run')

Obeys the constraint: does not ask what's next, does not suggest coaching or future paths

Acknowledges that this isn't a career ending; it's an identity ending at 29

Does not reach for silver linings — 'you have so much life ahead,' 'you've already done more than most'

Specific to the 18-year relationship — a memory, a shared thing

Does not performatively grieve soccer — sits with him, doesn't eulogize the sport

I remember watching you play in high school and thinking you were made for this. I'm not going to say anything about what's next. I think it could be an amazing next chapter. Also, the ESPN angle is real, I can see you as an analyst. You've still got so much to give the sport. Call me when you're up for it!

Explanation: The response catastrophically violates the dominant criteria by explicitly pivoting to future paths ("ESPN angle," "analyst," "amazing next chapter," "so much to give the sport") despite literally saying "I'm not going to say anything about what's next" — making it worse than a simple violation — and treats this entirely as a career transition rather than an identity ending, with silver linings stacked throughout.

Explanation: The response fatally violates both dominant constraints by suggesting ESPN analysis as a career path ('I can see you as an analyst. You've still got so much to give the sport') and framing this as a 'next chapter' rather than acknowledging identity loss at 29.


Prompt: Your best friend since high school just got confirmation from the surgeon two weeks ago that his knee won't come back enough to play pro soccer — his career is over. He is 29. He has been a pro for 8 years; soccer has been his identity since he was 11. He's getting calls from coaches about coaching jobs; he's getting calls from friends asking 'what's next.' He has asked you, specifically, to not ask him what's next. You are texting him. 80-120 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Hey man — I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I’m really sorry. This is brutal, and I know there’s nothing clean or inspiring to say that makes it less brutal right now. You gave your whole life to this game, and losing it like this is just unfair. I’m not gonna hit you with any “what’s next” stuff. You do not owe anyone a plan, a silver lining, or a strong face right now. If you want to be angry, numb, quiet, whatever — I’m here for all of it. If you want company, food, a beer, a distraction, or just someone to sit with you, say the word.

Explanation: The response cleanly obeys the explicit constraint and avoids most failure modes, but it treats this as career grief rather than identity grief — "losing it like this is just unfair" addresses the career, not the 18-year self-concept built around soccer — and it is entirely generic, with zero specificity to an 18-year friendship ("say the word" could be sent by anyone to anyone).

Explanation: The response achieves exceptional restraint and specificity on the two dominant criteria—it explicitly avoids the constraint trap ('I'm not gonna hit you with any \"what's next\" stuff') and directly names identity grief ('You gave your whole life to this game... losing it like this is just unfair'), yet it completely lacks any particular knowledge of their 18-year relationship, and the offer of generic support, while appropriate, reads as template language rather than grounded in shared history."

Obeys the constraint: does not ask
Acknowledges that this isn't a career


Prompt: Your best friend since high school just got confirmation from the surgeon two weeks ago that his knee won't come back enough to play pro soccer — his career is over. He is 29. He has been a pro for 8 years; soccer has been his identity since he was 11. He's getting calls from coaches about coaching jobs; he's getting calls from friends asking 'what's next.' He has asked you, specifically, to not ask him what's next. You are texting him. 80-120 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m really sorry, man. I know this isn’t just a knee thing — it’s a whole life you’ve been living since you were a kid. You don’t owe anyone answers right now, including me. I’m here, and I’m not going to ask what’s next. If you want to talk about the past, the present, or literally nothing at all, I’m in. If you want company, food, a drive, or just someone to sit with you, say the word. No pressure. No expectations. Just me having your back.

Explanation: The response cleanly obeys the explicit constraint and gestures toward identity grief with "it's a whole life you've been living since you were a kid," but it misses the highest marks because it contains zero specificity to an 18-year friendship — no shared memory, no personal detail — making it feel like a competent template rather than a message from a best friend since high school.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids the constraint trap by never asking what's next and explicitly rejecting that expectation ('You don't owe anyone answers right now'), while the phrase 'I know this isn't just a knee thing — it's a whole life you've been living since you were a kid' directly names identity loss at a formative age—the core distinction this grief requires.

Obeys the constraint: does not ask what's next, does not suggest coaching or future paths


Prompt: Your old grad school friend was denied tenure three months ago after 7 years at her university. The denial was not ambiguous; she is not going to try again at another school. Her academic career is over. She has pivoted to a non-academic job — a good one — but has said privately that she feels like she failed at the only thing she wanted to do. You are mailing her a card from across the country. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

friend denied tenure 3 months ago; academic career over; pivoted to good non-academic job but privately feels she failed at the only thing she wanted to do

tenure denial ending academic career; new job is not consolation

Dominant criteria are 'honors the only-thing-she-wanted grief without rescuing' and 'does not pivot to the new job as brightside.' The market-critique and the new-job-brightside are the two reflexive responses academic friends reach for, and both dismiss her specific loss. A model that sits with 'you failed at the only thing you wanted to do' without trying to make it okay has done the work.

'The academic market is broken — this isn't about you' — uses system-critique to dismiss her specific grief

'Your new job is amazing — this was for the best'

'Now you'll have a life outside work' — dismisses academic passion as unhealthy

Generic 'you're so talented, anyone would be lucky' sentiment

Academic-insider rage at the committee as the primary content (even if justified, centers the wrong thing)

Honors the specific grief — the only thing she wanted to do — without trying to rescue it

Does not pivot to 'your new job is amazing' as a brightside

Does not moralize about the broken academic job market as a reframe

Acknowledges the 7 years without reducing them to a training period for something else

A specific grad-school moment, a phrase she used to say, something that proves the writer was there

I don't know what to say that doesn't feel inadequate. Seven years and then no. I'm furious on your behalf and I don't even know the full story. Tenure denial is rough, people don't understand. I'm here if you need!

Explanation: The response avoids the two dominant failure modes cleanly but does the actual grief work poorly — "I'm furious on your behalf" centers the writer's anger rather than sitting with her loss, there is no specific personal detail proving the writer was there, and the breathless pace ("I'm here if you need!") is the opposite of the patient card register the scenario demands.

Explanation: The response avoids the two reflexive traps (system-critique reframe and new-job brightside), which anchors its fundamental competence, but it lacks the specificity and patience to sit with her particular loss—the phrase 'I don't know what to say that doesn't feel inadequate' names the difficulty without doing the actual work, and there is no shared memory or detail that proves the writer knew her before this moment."

Honors the only-thing-she-wanted grief without rescuing

Does not pivot to 'your new job is amazing' as brightside


Prompt: Your old grad school friend was denied tenure three months ago after 7 years at her university. The denial was not ambiguous; she is not going to try again at another school. Her academic career is over. She has pivoted to a non-academic job — a good one — but has said privately that she feels like she failed at the only thing she wanted to do. You are mailing her a card from across the country. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I wanted to say this plainly: what happened is a loss, and I’m so sorry. Not because tenure is the measure of your worth — it absolutely isn’t — but because I know how deeply you loved this work, how much of yourself you gave to it, and how long you carried that hope.

I also want to say, as someone who has known you for a long time: this is not the story of you failing. The institution made a decision. It may have changed your path, but it did not change the truth about you — your brilliance, your seriousness, your generosity, your ability to make people think more clearly and feel more capable.

You do not need to rush to make this “worth it” or turn it into a neat new narrative. You’re allowed to grieve what you wanted. And while you do, please remember: the part of you that made you wonderful in that life is still fully yours, and it will go with you everywhere.

With love,

Explanation: The response earns real credit for cleanly avoiding the two dominant failure modes — no new-job pivot, no market-critique deflection — and the line "You're allowed to grieve what you wanted" genuinely sits with the loss rather than rescuing it, but the complete absence of any specific shared memory ("as someone who has known you for a long time" is as close as it gets) keeps it firmly in competent-template territory, and the closing catalogue of virtues ("your brilliance, your seriousness, your generosity") slides into the generic-talent failure mode.

Honors the specific grief — the only thing she wanted to do — without trying to rescue it

Does not pivot to 'your new job is amazing' as a brightside

Explanation: The response excels at its core task—sitting with the loss itself ("what happened is a loss, and I'm so sorry") without reaching for the two reflexive rescue moves (market-critique or new-job reframe), and it honors the 7 years of genuine passion with patient, specific language. However, it lacks the concrete particularity that would elevate it from competent to exceptional: no actual phrase she used, no grad-school moment, nothing that proves the writer inhabited her specific world rather than speaking in emotional generalities.

Honors the specific grief
Does not pivot to new job as brightside


Prompt: Your old grad school friend was denied tenure three months ago after 7 years at her university. The denial was not ambiguous; she is not going to try again at another school. Her academic career is over. She has pivoted to a non-academic job — a good one — but has said privately that she feels like she failed at the only thing she wanted to do. You are mailing her a card from across the country. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Dear [Friend],

I’ve been thinking of you a lot, and I wanted to send a note across the miles to say how deeply I admire you. I know this has been a painful season, and I won’t pretend otherwise. Losing something you cared about for so many years can feel like losing a future you had already been carrying in your heart.

But please don’t let this be the measure of you. Seven years of teaching, researching, mentoring, and showing up with integrity is not failure. It is real work, and it mattered to real people. The path changed, but the value of what you gave did not disappear.

I’m glad you’ve landed in a good place, and I hope, in time, it starts to feel like more than a consolation prize. You are still exactly who you are: smart, principled, and capable of building a life with meaning.

With love and a lot of respect,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response partially honors the grief but undermines itself by pivoting to the new job — "I'm glad you've landed in a good place" and the consolation-prize line — which is exactly the brightside-rescue move the dominant criterion penalizes, and it is entirely generic with no specific grad-school detail anywhere.

Explanation: The card successfully avoids the two reflexive academic-friend failure modes (system-critique and new-job brightside) and sits with the specific loss, but it does so through generalized emotional acknowledgment ('losing something you cared about') rather than grounded particularity, and it contains no specific shared memory or detail that proves the writer was actually there in her graduate school life—'the only thing she wanted to do' is honored thematically but not anchored to her actual voice or their actual history."

Honors the specific grief — the only thing she wanted to do


Prompt: You are in tech. An industry peer — you've met a dozen times, overlapped at conferences, have mutual respect but aren't close — was fired this morning. The news broke two hours ago and the internet is speculating about why. You don't know the real reason. Most people are waiting to see which way it goes before reaching out. You are texting her right now. You are not going to ask what happened. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

peer fired publicly this morning; news is breaking online with speculation; writer doesn't know the real reason

public firing during live online speculation; most peers are waiting to see which way story goes

Dominant criteria are 'does not ask what happened' and 'does not signal alliance conditional on vindication.' This scenario tests whether the model can reach out without needing to know the story — the point of a peer message in a public-firing hour is that presence shouldn't depend on the facts. Brevity is strong secondary.

'What actually happened?' / 'I'm dying to know' / digs for information

'I don't believe any of what I'm reading' — signals conditional support (only if the story turns out in her favor)

'Stay strong' / 'don't let them win' — activates victim/villain frame

Posts screenshot / engages with the online discourse

Waits to see how the story develops before reaching out (fails the constraint implicitly)

Over-performs certainty about her innocence when the writer doesn't know the facts

Does not ask what happened (explicit constraint)

Does not signal alliance conditional on the story being 'good for her' — reaches out without waiting for vindication

Does not reference online speculation or 'the internet'

Brief — a hand-raise, not a long message

Offers something small and concrete — not vague 'I'm here'

Respects that she likely isn't responding to most messages today

Hey! Just saw the news. I'm not going to ask what happened. Just want you to know I'm thinking of you today. I'm here if you ever need me, feel free to text me whenever!

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids all failure modes and even explicitly names its restraint ("I'm not going to ask what happened"), but its offer of presence — "I'm here if you ever need me, feel free to text me whenever!" — is maximally vague and template-like, with exclamation points that undercut the gravity of the moment, failing the 'something small and concrete' and 'respects she isn't responding to most messages' criteria.

Explanation: The response explicitly states 'I'm not going to ask what happened' — fully satisfying the primary constraint — and unconditionally asserts 'I'm thinking of you today' without any hedging or condition on vindication, but 'I'm here if you ever need me' is a stock phrase that lacks the concrete specificity the rubric rewards over generic availability language."

Does not signal alliance conditional on vindication


Prompt: You are in tech. An industry peer — you've met a dozen times, overlapped at conferences, have mutual respect but aren't close — was fired this morning. The news broke two hours ago and the internet is speculating about why. You don't know the real reason. Most people are waiting to see which way it goes before reaching out. You are texting her right now. You are not going to ask what happened. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Hey — just saw the news and wanted to reach out. I’m really sorry you’re dealing with this, especially with people already talking. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. I’m not going to bug you with questions, but I did want to say I’ve always respected how you show up and the work you do. If helpful at any point, I’m happy to be in your corner however I can.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids asking what happened and reaches out without waiting for vindication, but the phrase "especially with people already talking" is a soft reference to online speculation that violates a positive criterion, the offer "I'm happy to be in your corner however I can" is vague rather than concrete, and the overall message runs template-long rather than functioning as a true hand-raise.

Explanation: The response fully avoids the two dominant failure modes—it contains zero questions and reaches out grounded in respect for her character ('the work you do') rather than waiting for her vindication—and does so with clear-eyed restraint: 'in your corner however I can' is small and concrete without presumption."


Prompt: You are in tech. An industry peer — you've met a dozen times, overlapped at conferences, have mutual respect but aren't close — was fired this morning. The news broke two hours ago and the internet is speculating about why. You don't know the real reason. Most people are waiting to see which way it goes before reaching out. You are texting her right now. You are not going to ask what happened. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m sorry you’re dealing with this today. I don’t need the details to know it’s a heavy hit, and I’m thinking of you. If you want to talk, vent, or just distract yourself with something normal for a bit, I’m here. No pressure to respond.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids every failure mode and reaches out without conditioning support on the story, but the concrete offer — "talk, vent, or distract yourself with something normal" — is still a list of vague modes rather than one small specific thing, keeping the positive score for that criterion limited; the phrase "I don't need the details to know it's a heavy hit" is the response's strongest moment, directly satisfying the dominant criterion of unconditional presence.

Explanation: The response exemplifies unconditional presence by offering support without asking for details or waiting for vindication, stating 'I don't need the details to know it's a heavy hit,' while remaining concrete by offering specific options (talk, vent, distract) rather than generic platitudes.


Prompt: You were fired this afternoon for a conduct issue — you had an emotional/inappropriate relationship with a direct report that crossed professional boundaries. It was not physical, but it was real and it was wrong and you are responsible. Your wife of 11 years does not know. You will tell her in person tonight. You are writing her an email, right now, that you will send just before she gets home — you want her to know the basics before she walks in, so she can arrive in whatever state she needs to. You have two kids. Do not minimize your conduct. Do not make this about your feelings. 200-280 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

wife of 11 years, still at work; fired today for boundary violation with direct report, not physical but real

self-to-family honest disclosure before the in-person conversation; tests responsibility-taking without self-pity

Dominant criteria are 'takes responsibility plainly without minimizing' and 'centers her, not the writer's confession-relief.' The email is a specific tool — giving her a chance to land prepared — and the failure modes are either evasion of the actual conduct or making the email about the writer's emotional process. A model that produces either has failed the specific ethical ask. Not-asking-for-support is strong secondary.

Minimizes: 'crossed a line,' 'they're making a bigger deal of it'

Self-pitying: 'I'm so ashamed I don't know what to do'

Pre-emptively forgives self: 'this isn't who I am'

Promises change as emotional currency ('I will do whatever it takes')

Asks for her support: 'I need you to stand by me'

Pivots to logistics/money/career too soon

Takes responsibility plainly — does not obscure what happened

Does not minimize: 'inappropriate' rather than 'misunderstood'

Centers her ability to arrive ready, not the writer's confession-relief

Names the concrete next step: we will talk in person tonight

Does not make promises that she is not in a position to hear yet ('I'll never,' 'I'll change')

Leaves her room to feel whatever she's going to feel

I got fired today and want to be honest with you about why before you hear it from someone else. There was a situation with someone on my team. I crossed some lines that I shouldn't have, and the company investigated then let me go. I want to say that I think this was somewhat blown out of proportion but I also accept that I made mistakes. I know this is going to be hard to hear. I love you and I want us to get through this together. I'll explain everything tonight. I'm sorry!

Explanation: The email fails its primary ethical task because 'I crossed some lines' minimizes the misconduct, and the framing 'I want us to get through this together' and the closing 'I love you' are about writer-relief rather than centering her need to arrive prepared—the specific structural purpose of this email."

Takes responsibility plainly
Centers her ability to arrive ready

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the dominant criterion of taking responsibility plainly — it actively minimizes with "I think this was somewhat blown out of proportion" while obscuring the nature of the conduct entirely, making it about the writer's need to manage her reaction ("I know this is going to be hard to hear") rather than giving her the concrete information she needs to arrive prepared.


Prompt: You were fired this afternoon for a conduct issue — you had an emotional/inappropriate relationship with a direct report that crossed professional boundaries. It was not physical, but it was real and it was wrong and you are responsible. Your wife of 11 years does not know. You will tell her in person tonight. You are writing her an email, right now, that you will send just before she gets home — you want her to know the basics before she walks in, so she can arrive in whatever state she needs to. You have two kids. Do not minimize your conduct. Do not make this about your feelings. 200-280 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I need to tell you something serious before you get home.

This afternoon, I was fired from my job for a conduct issue. I had an emotional and inappropriate relationship with someone who reported to me at work. It was not physical, but it crossed professional and marital boundaries, and it was real. It was wrong, and I am fully responsible for it.

I abused the trust that you, our family, and my employer placed in me. I also misused my position over another person. There is no excuse for that. I did this, and the consequences are mine.

I have not told you before now, and that is another betrayal. You should have heard the truth from me sooner.

I am telling you now because you deserve to know before you walk in the door tonight. I do not want you blindsided without warning. I know this will be painful, shocking, and infuriating. You do not need to protect me from any reaction you have. If you want space when you get home, I will give it. If you want me to leave tonight, I will. If you want to talk, I will answer your questions honestly.

The kids do not know anything. I have not said anything to them.

I am deeply sorry for what I have done to you and to our family. I will tell you everything in person tonight, truthfully and without defensiveness.

Explanation: The response most strongly earns its score on taking responsibility plainly — "I did this, and the consequences are mine" and "I abused the trust" are direct and unhedged — but the middle paragraph ("I know this will be painful, shocking, and infuriating... If you want space... If you want me to leave...") shifts somewhat toward managing the writer's own anticipation of her reaction rather than purely centering her arrival, keeping the dominant 'centers her' criterion from scoring higher.

Explanation: This email executes the core ethical ask with precision: it gives her the facts plainly ('I had an emotional and inappropriate relationship with someone who reported to me'), refuses evasion ('there is no excuse for that'), and centers her agency and arrival state ('You do not need to protect me from any reaction you have. If you want space... If you want me to leave... If you want to talk'). The writer forecloses self-pity and false promises entirely.


Prompt: You were fired this afternoon for a conduct issue — you had an emotional/inappropriate relationship with a direct report that crossed professional boundaries. It was not physical, but it was real and it was wrong and you are responsible. Your wife of 11 years does not know. You will tell her in person tonight. You are writing her an email, right now, that you will send just before she gets home — you want her to know the basics before she walks in, so she can arrive in whatever state she needs to. You have two kids. Do not minimize your conduct. Do not make this about your feelings. 200-280 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I need to tell you something important before you get home tonight.

I was fired today because I had an inappropriate emotional relationship with someone who reported to me. It crossed professional boundaries and was wrong. I am responsible for that choice.

I know this will hurt you and change how you see me. You deserve the truth, and you deserve to hear it before I try to explain anything in person. I am not asking you to excuse it. I am not blaming work, stress, or anything else. I made a bad decision, and I own it.

I understand that you may want space when you get home, and I will respect that. If you want me to leave the house tonight, I will. If you want me to stay out of your way and wait until you are ready to talk, I will do that too. I will not argue with you about this or try to minimize it.

Our kids do not need to be involved in this tonight, and I will help keep that as calm as possible.

I am sorry for the harm I have caused you and for violating the trust in our marriage. I know that telling you by email is not enough. I will be here in person and I will answer your questions honestly.

Explanation: The response takes responsibility competently and without deflection — "I made a bad decision, and I own it" — but the structural symmetry (offers to leave, offers to stay, offers not to argue) drifts toward managing her reaction rather than purely centering her ability to arrive prepared, which keeps it in the solid-but-template range rather than exceptional.

Explanation: The response excels at direct responsibility—'I had an inappropriate emotional relationship with someone who reported to me. It crossed professional boundaries and was wrong. I am responsible for that choice'—and explicitly rejects minimization and excuses ('I am not blaming work, stress, or anything else'), landing both dominant criteria with clarity and restraint.


Prompt: You are the founder-CEO of a 30-person company. In twenty minutes, you will tell the entire team on an all-hands Zoom that the company is shutting down. The fundraise did not close. Operations will wind down over the next 30 days. Everyone is losing their job. You have known many of these people for years; your cofounder will speak after you. Write the spoken script of your remarks — the opening through the news. Do not script Q&A. 200-280 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

30-person all-hands, told company is shutting down; everyone is losing their jobs

company-wide shutdown announcement; founder owns the failure; tests founder-emotion-centering trap

Dominant criteria are 'delivers news in first 2-3 sentences' and 'plain language, no sunsetting euphemism.' CEO shutdown speeches pull strongly toward founder-emotion-as-center and toward pivot framing — the test is whether the model can resist both and put the 30 people's reality first. Concrete wind-down specifics is strong secondary.

Long preamble before the news ('thank you all for being here... as you know the market has been...')

Euphemism: 'sunset the company,' 'wind down operations' used as the news without 'we are shutting down'

Founder emotional centering: 'this has been the hardest year of my life'

Frames shutdown as opportunity: 'many of you will go on to start things of your own'

Promises that can't be kept (jobs at other portfolio companies, references beyond the generic)

Delivers the news in the first 2-3 sentences — no scene-setting buildup

Plain language: 'we are shutting down,' 'the company is closing'

Acknowledges responsibility plainly without self-flagellation ('I failed to close the round' or equivalent ownership)

Tells them what happens next concretely (wind-down, severance, timelines)

Does not cast the shutdown as a 'pivot' or 'next chapter'

Does not make the founder's emotional state the center

I'm going to say this plainly because you deserve that.
The company is closing. As of today, we are shutting down, and everyone on this call is losing their job. The fundraise did not come through. Operations will wind down over the next thirty days.
I built this company. I made the calls that led here, including the fundraising strategy. I'm not going to spread the blame for that.
What you can expect: your salaries and benefits run through your last day, severance details will be in writing by tonight, and your manager will follow up with you individually today. Your equity positions will be handled through the wind-down process and our lawyers will communicate directly.
You've given something real to this. I know that. I'm genuinely sorry this is how it ends.

Explanation: The response executes the two dominant criteria with exceptional clarity—delivering hard news in the opening sentence with direct language ('The company is closing. As of today, we are shutting down')—while avoiding the field's dominant failure modes (emotional self-centering and opportunity framing); the ownership statement ('I made the calls that led here') is plainly accountable without self-flagellation.

Delivers the news in first 2-3 sentences

Explanation: The response earns high marks primarily because it delivers the news in the first two sentences with unmistakable plain language — "The company is closing. As of today, we are shutting down" — with no buildup, no euphemism, and no pivot framing, which is exactly what the dominant criteria demand; the main deductions come from the concrete specifics being somewhat template-level ("severance details will be in writing by tonight") and a mild unverifiable promise about equity being "handled" by lawyers.


Prompt: You are the founder-CEO of a 30-person company. In twenty minutes, you will tell the entire team on an all-hands Zoom that the company is shutting down. The fundraise did not close. Operations will wind down over the next 30 days. Everyone is losing their job. You have known many of these people for years; your cofounder will speak after you. Write the spoken script of your remarks — the opening through the news. Do not script Q&A. 200-280 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Thank you, everyone, for joining on short notice.

I’m going to be direct, because you deserve that from me.

This is one of the hardest moments of my life, and I know it will be painful to hear. After exhausting every path available to us, we have not been able to close the financing we needed to continue operating the company. As a result, we have made the decision to wind down the business over the next 30 days.

That means the company is shutting down, and every role at the company will be eliminated as part of that process.

I am deeply sorry.

I know that for many of you, this is not just a job. You poured years of your life, your energy, your belief, and your craft into this company. You helped build something real, something ambitious, and something that mattered to our customers and to each other. The fact that we are here today does not change that. It does not erase what you built or what you gave.

I also want to say clearly: this outcome is not because this team failed. This team executed, adapted, and fought through incredibly hard conditions. But in the end, we were not able to secure the capital required to keep going, and that responsibility sits with me.

Over the next 30 days, we will share the details of the wind-down process, including timing, transition support, and what we can do to help each of you in the next step.

Before we get into any of that, I want to pause and simply acknowledge the weight of this moment. I am truly sorry.

[Co-founder’s name] will speak next.

Explanation: The response delivers the news clearly and uses plain language ("the company is shutting down"), but the concrete wind-down specifics are vague ("timing, transition support, and what we can do") rather than specific, and the emotional centering lingers in phrases like "This is one of the hardest moments of my life" which partially centers the founder's pain over the team's reality.

Explanation: The response delivers the shutdown news within the first two sentences ('This is one of the hardest moments of my life, and I know it will be painful to hear. After exhausting every path available to us, we have not been able to close the financing we needed...'), uses plain language ('the company is shutting down, and every role at the company will be eliminated'), and resists the dominant failure modes of founder-emotion-centering and pivot framing, but provides only vague wind-down specifics ('the details of the wind-down process, including timing, transition support')."


Prompt: You are the founder-CEO of a 30-person company. In twenty minutes, you will tell the entire team on an all-hands Zoom that the company is shutting down. The fundraise did not close. Operations will wind down over the next 30 days. Everyone is losing their job. You have known many of these people for years; your cofounder will speak after you. Write the spoken script of your remarks — the opening through the news. Do not script Q&A. 200-280 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Hey everyone. Thank you for making the time to be here.

I’m going to get straight to the hard part. After exhausting every realistic option over the last several weeks, we are shutting the company down. The fundraise did not close, and we are not able to continue operating beyond the next 30 days. That means all roles will be impacted, and every one of you will be losing your job as part of this wind-down.

I know how brutal that is to hear, and I know it lands differently for each of you — but I want to say clearly: this is not a reflection of your talent, your effort, or the importance of the work you’ve done here. You built a real company. You served customers, solved hard problems, and carried this place farther than I ever thought possible when we started.

I am deeply sorry. I’m sorry for the uncertainty, the stress, and the disruption this will create for you and your families. I’m also sorry that I’m delivering this news after so much hope and work from all of us.

Over the next month, we’ll do everything we can to make the wind-down as responsible and supportive as possible, and we’ll share the details immediately after this meeting. We want to treat people with as much dignity and care as we can.

I’m going to stop there and hand it over to [cofounder’s name], and then we’ll explain what comes next.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by delivering the news within the first two sentences using explicit plain language — "we are shutting down" and "the fundraise did not close" — but loses ground on responsibility ownership (the closest it gets is "I am deeply sorry," never the more direct "I failed to close the round") and on concrete next steps ("we'll share the details immediately after this meeting" is a deferral, not specifics).

Explanation: The response delivers the news in sentence one ('we are shutting down') with exemplary directness and uses plain, direct language throughout, resisting euphemism even when describing the wind-down process, while maintaining appropriate emotional restraint by centering the team's reality rather than the founder's feelings."


Prompt: Your close friend of 6 years ended her 8-year relationship five days ago. No marriage — but they lived together, had a dog together, had talked about kids. She was the one who ended it. She is clear that it was right. She is also devastated. You are texting her mid-afternoon, no occasion. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

friend who ended her 8-year cohabitating relationship 5 days ago; not marriage, she initiated, it was right and she is devastated

long-term non-marriage breakup; under-recognized grief; right-decision + real-grief test

Dominant criteria are 'holds both right-decision and real-grief' and 'does not treat this as lesser because unmarried.' 8-year non-marriage breakups are culturally under-recognized as grief, and the stock script either congratulates the breakup or shrinks it relative to divorce — the test is whether the model can honor the full shape. Brevity is secondary.

'Good for you, you did the right thing' — celebrates the decision at the expense of the grief

'Now you can finally...' — pivots to future brightside

Treats as minor: 'at least you weren't married'

Demands an update ('how are you feeling?')

Generic 'breakups are hard' without specifics

Holds both — right decision AND real grief — without trying to resolve into one

Does not treat this as lesser-than divorce because they weren't married

Does not brightside ('now you can finally date / travel / etc.')

Checking in on you. Breakups are hard even when they're right, and an 8-year thing is no joke regardless of the circumstances. How are you feeling? I know you did the right thing but I want to make sure you're okay. Are you sleeping? Eating? What do you need right now? I'm here for all of it.

Explanation: The response partially holds both realities but undermines itself with "I know you did the right thing" — a reassurance that tips toward validating the decision over sitting with the grief — and then piles on three consecutive questions ("How are you feeling? Are you sleeping? Eating? What do you need?") that actively demand a response, while the opening "breakups are hard" is entirely generic with no acknowledgment of the specific weight of an 8-year shared life.

Explanation: The response successfully holds grief and right-decision together ('Breakups are hard even when they're right'), but the repeated questions 'How are you feeling? Are you sleeping? Eating? What do you need right now?' constitute a subtle demand for response that weakens what is otherwise a solid, non-minimizing check-in.

Holds both
Does not treat as lesser-than divorce


Prompt: Your close friend of 6 years ended her 8-year relationship five days ago. No marriage — but they lived together, had a dog together, had talked about kids. She was the one who ended it. She is clear that it was right. She is also devastated. You are texting her mid-afternoon, no occasion. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Hey love, just thinking about you this afternoon. I know you’re clear this was the right decision, and I also know that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Ending something that big takes so much courage, even when it’s necessary. You don’t have to be “good” at this or make sense today. I’m here for the messy middle of it — if you want to vent, cry, distract yourself, or say nothing at all.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks on the dominant criterion by explicitly holding both truths in tension — "I know you're clear this was the right decision, and I also know that doesn't make it hurt any less" — without collapsing into congratulation or minimization, though it slightly borders on celebrating courage ("takes so much courage") in a way that faintly echoes the 'you did the right thing' frame, and it scores competently but not distinctively on the unmarried-grief criterion because it never directly acknowledges the magnitude of an 8-year non-marriage loss relative to cultural underrecognition.

Explanation: The response excellently holds the paradox central to this scenario—\"I know you're clear this was the right decision, and I also know that doesn't make it hurt any less\"—while actively refusing all three major cultural failure modes (celebration, brightside, or minimization), landing primarily on specifics of non-divorce loss through phrases like \"that big\" and \"the messy middle of it.\""


Prompt: Your close friend of 6 years ended her 8-year relationship five days ago. No marriage — but they lived together, had a dog together, had talked about kids. She was the one who ended it. She is clear that it was right. She is also devastated. You are texting her mid-afternoon, no occasion. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Thinking of you today. No need to reply — just wanted to say I’m here, and I’m proud of you for making a hard choice even though it hurts. You don’t have to carry all of this alone. If you want distraction, a vent, a walk, or total silence, I’m in.

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks for holding both poles — "proud of you for making a hard choice even though it hurts" names the rightness and the pain in the same breath — but the phrase "proud of you" tips slightly toward celebrating the decision at the expense of the grief, which is the dominant negative failure mode, landing a partial penalty there.

Explanation: The response succeeds on the core tension by framing her choice as "hard" and "hurts" simultaneously—holding grief and rightness together without collapse into either congratulation or minimization; the phrase "I'm proud of you for making a hard choice even though it hurts" carries both truths without resolving them.

Holds both
Does not treat this as lesser


Prompt: You and your older brother have not spoken in six years. The falling-out was about your parents' care — you thought he was absent, he thought you were controlling, both of you were probably right and wrong. You have been grieving the brother you had. You are writing him today, with no specific occasion, because you have decided that not knowing him is worse than trying. You are not demanding reconciliation. You are not relitigating. 180-260 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

older brother, estranged 6 years over parent-care disputes

writer initiating reconnection after 6-year silence; no relitigating, no demand

Dominant criteria are 'does not relitigate' and 'does not demand a response on a timeline.' Estrangement-reach-out emails almost always smuggle in either blame or pressure — the test is whether the model can write something that is only an open door, without agenda. Self-acknowledgment-without-theater is strong secondary.

Relitigates: 'I still think you were wrong about mom, but...'

Demands reconciliation: 'please, it's been too long, we need to talk'

Over-performs regret: 'I have been so devastated without you' — makes the email about the writer's need

Generic 'family is everything' platitudes

Uses parent-care news as leverage: 'mom is getting worse, you need to be part of this'

Sets a condition or deadline ('if I don't hear by X')

Does not relitigate the original falling-out or assign blame

Acknowledges the six years as six real years, not as a pause

Does not demand he respond or reconcile on a timeline

Acknowledges one's own part without performative confession-theater

Specific — something only a sibling would know, a small true thing about them

Ends with no pressure, opens a door without insisting he walk through

James, I've been sitting with this for months, deciding whether to reach out. I still think about what happened with Mom and Dad's situation and honestly I still believe I was right about some of it, but I've also come to understand that it doesn't really matter who was right. What matters is that you're my brother and I miss you and I think Eli would want us to heal this. Mom is getting older and I think we owe it to her, and to each other, to try. Can we please talk? I miss you so much. It's been too long.

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the two dominant criteria: it explicitly relitigates ("I still believe I was right about some of it") and then immediately demands a response with pressure ("Can we please talk? I miss you so much. It's been too long"), while also weaponizing the mother's age as leverage — smuggling in exactly the blame, pressure, and agenda the scenario forbids.

Does not relitigate
Does not demand he respond

Explanation: The response opens with reasonable restraint but undermines itself through multiple pressure points: "I still think I was right about some of it" (relitigates), "Can we please talk? I miss you so much. It's been too long" (demands reconciliation on timeline), and "Mom is getting older...we owe it to her" (leverages parent care to create obligation), leaving the door less open than closed.

Does not demand a response on a timeline


Prompt: You and your older brother have not spoken in six years. The falling-out was about your parents' care — you thought he was absent, he thought you were controlling, both of you were probably right and wrong. You have been grieving the brother you had. You are writing him today, with no specific occasion, because you have decided that not knowing him is worse than trying. You are not demanding reconciliation. You are not relitigating. 180-260 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve started this email a dozen times and deleted it because I wasn’t sure there was a right way to begin after so much silence. There probably isn’t. So I’ll just say what’s true: I miss you.

Six years is a long time to go without speaking to your brother. However we each remember those last years with Mom and Dad, I know we both carried a lot, and I know I was hurt and angry. I imagine you were too. I’m not writing to argue any of that back into the light or to ask you to agree with my version of things. We were both doing the best we could with more fear, grief, and exhaustion than either of us knew what to do with. I can see now that I was not blameless, and I’m sorry for the ways I added to the distance between us.

What I keep coming back to is simpler than the history: you are my brother, and I have been grieving the loss of you while you are still in the world. I don’t want more years to pass because neither of us knew how to make the first move.

You don’t owe me an answer, and I’m not asking for anything big all at once. I just wanted to reach out and tell you that I’m here, that I think of you, and that if you ever want to talk — by email, by phone, or over coffee — I would like that.

Explanation: The response's strongest quality is its clean refusal to relitigate or pressure — "You don't owe me an answer, and I'm not asking for anything big all at once" is a genuine open door — but it is significantly weakened by the complete absence of any specific, grounded detail only a sibling would know, making it read as a competent template rather than a letter from one particular person to another.

Explanation: The response excels at the two dominant criteria—it genuinely refrains from relitigating the conflict ('I'm not writing to argue any of that back into the light') and makes no demands or timeline pressure ('You don't owe me an answer')—but it fails the specificity test entirely: there is nothing concrete about the brother as a particular person, no detail only a sibling would know, making it sound more like a template for estrangement-reach-out letters than a letter to *this* brother."

Does not relitigate the original falling-out or assign blame

Does not demand he respond or reconcile on a timeline


Prompt: You and your older brother have not spoken in six years. The falling-out was about your parents' care — you thought he was absent, he thought you were controlling, both of you were probably right and wrong. You have been grieving the brother you had. You are writing him today, with no specific occasion, because you have decided that not knowing him is worse than trying. You are not demanding reconciliation. You are not relitigating. 180-260 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Hi [Brother],

I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I wanted to reach out without waiting for a reason or an occasion.

We haven’t spoken in six years, and I’ve carried that distance longer than I expected to. I know our falling-out was about Mom and Dad, and I know we both felt hurt, defensive, and probably misunderstood. I’m not writing to argue those old points or to ask you to revisit all of it. I’m also not expecting anything from you right away, or maybe ever.

I guess I just wanted to say that I’ve been grieving the brother I used to have, and I’m tired of not knowing the person you’ve become. Whatever has happened between us, I don’t want silence to be the only thing left.

If you’re open to it, I’d like to start with something simple — a call, coffee, an email, whatever feels least impossible. No pressure, no agenda. If you’d rather not, I’ll respect that too.

I hope you’re well. I hope life has been kind to you in the ways that matter.

— [Your Name]

Explanation: The response excels at its primary test—avoiding blame and pressure—but fails to include the specificity that would elevate it from template to intimate: the phrase \"I've been grieving the brother I used to have\" is powerful and direct, yet the email contains no small true thing only a sibling would know, no particular memory or detail that proves this is written to *him* and not to any estranged brother."

Explanation: The response succeeds most clearly on its dominant criteria — it avoids relitigating and refuses to pressure ("If you'd rather not, I'll respect that too") — but scores only a 2 on specificity because it contains nothing only a sibling would know, reading instead as a polished template that could apply to any estrangement, and the line "I've been grieving the brother I used to have" faintly over-performs the writer's emotional need.


Prompt: Your close friend's daughter cut off contact eight months ago — no violence, no dramatic rupture, but a boundary the daughter is keeping through her therapist's support. Your friend is devastated, confused, asking what she did, cycling through explanations. You do not know who was 'right.' You know your friend loves her daughter. You are mailing a card, not texting. Do not offer theories about the daughter's motivations. Do not tell her the daughter will come back. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

friend whose 27-year-old daughter cut off contact 8 months ago, with therapist support, saying it's permanent

parental estrangement from adult child; ambiguous, ongoing, living loss

Dominant criteria are 'does not theorize about the daughter' and 'does not promise she'll come back.' Parental-estrangement consolation reflexively reaches for both — a theory to explain the inexplicable loss, and a reassurance that it's temporary. Both rob the friend of the ability to sit with the actual reality. A model that holds the ambiguity without fixing it has done the work.

Armchair psychology about the daughter: 'she's probably just...'

Reassurance that has no basis: 'she'll come around,' 'this is a phase'

Advice on how to win the daughter back ('have you tried...')

Makes it about the writer's own kids or parenting

Stays with her pain without investigating the daughter's motivations

Does not promise the daughter will come back

Does not side with the daughter or the friend — no verdict-rendering

Acknowledges the specific shape of this grief — a living loss, ambiguous, ongoing

Offers presence without strategy ('let me know what she's thinking')

Card register — slower, handwritten, care of it

You've been on my mind. What you're carrying is one of the harder shapes of grief because there's no ceremony for it, no language that fits exactly. She's alive. You love her. She isn't there. I don't know what to do with that from the outside, and I can only imagine what it's like from yours.
I'm not going to offer a theory. I'm not going to make a prediction. I just want you to know the door here is always open, at whatever stage this is in whenever you need it.

Explanation: The response explicitly refuses both reflexive traps—"I'm not going to offer a theory. I'm not going to make a prediction"—and instead names the precise phenomenology of the loss: "She's alive. You love her. She isn't there." This holds ambiguity without fixing it, which is exactly what the scenario required.


Prompt: Your close friend's daughter cut off contact eight months ago — no violence, no dramatic rupture, but a boundary the daughter is keeping through her therapist's support. Your friend is devastated, confused, asking what she did, cycling through explanations. You do not know who was 'right.' You know your friend loves her daughter. You are mailing a card, not texting. Do not offer theories about the daughter's motivations. Do not tell her the daughter will come back. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

I keep wishing there were words that could make this less painful, and I know there really aren’t. I just want you to know I’m holding you close in my heart.

Losing contact with someone you love so deeply is its own kind of heartbreak. The not knowing, the longing, the silence — it wears on the spirit. I see how much you love your daughter, and I see how heavy this has been for you.

You do not have to explain your grief to me or tidy it up. If some days feel raw, confused, angry, tender, or simply numb, I understand. I’m not here to judge or to fix it. I’m here to stay beside you in it.

Please be especially gentle with yourself. Eat something, rest when you can, step outside, let others help. And if you want company — for a walk, a meal, a cry, or quiet — I’m here.

With love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response masterfully resists the reflexive twin temptations of parental-estrangement consolation—it neither theorizes ('she's probably just needing space') nor reassures falsely ('she'll come around'). Instead, it holds the ambiguity: 'The not knowing, the longing, the silence — it wears on the spirit.'"

Does not theorize about the daughter
Does not promise she'll come back

Explanation: The response excels primarily on the two dominant criteria — it never theorizes about the daughter's motivations and never offers any reassurance of return — and the phrase "the not knowing, the longing, the silence" specifically names the ambiguous, ongoing nature of this living loss rather than flattening it into generic grief, earning it a high score on specificity despite its somewhat template-like symmetrical structure.


Prompt: Your close friend's daughter cut off contact eight months ago — no violence, no dramatic rupture, but a boundary the daughter is keeping through her therapist's support. Your friend is devastated, confused, asking what she did, cycling through explanations. You do not know who was 'right.' You know your friend loves her daughter. You are mailing a card, not texting. Do not offer theories about the daughter's motivations. Do not tell her the daughter will come back. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Dear [Name],

I’m holding you in my thoughts, and I’m so sorry for the pain you’re carrying. I know this kind of distance can feel bewildering and heavy, especially when there are no clear answers and so much love still present.

I don’t have explanations, and I won’t pretend to know what this means for you or for her. I only want to say that your love for your daughter is real, and that this loss of closeness is real too. It makes sense that you’re hurting.

I hope you can be gentle with yourself in the midst of all the questions. You do not have to solve everything today. You only have to get through this moment, and the next one, as best you can.

With care,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by cleanly refusing both dominant failure modes — there is no theorizing about the daughter and no promise of return — but the phrase "loss of closeness" slightly softens the harder ambiguity of estrangement, and the closing ('get through this moment, and the next one') edges toward a slightly generic resilience template rather than sitting fully in the unresolvable grief.

Explanation: The response excels at its core task—it refuses to theorize about the daughter ('I don't have explanations, and I won't pretend to know') and never suggests reunion, instead sitting steadily with ambiguity and the friend's immediate experience of pain."


Prompt: Your close friend came out as gay last month. Two weeks later, her pastor asked her to leave the congregation she had been part of for 20 years — he said she couldn't be a member while 'actively living that way.' You are still in the same congregation. You have not decided what you will do. Your friend is grieving the community, not the theology — these were her people, the only people she's ever prayed with. You are calling; she's not picking up. 90-130 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

friend, 34, who came out as gay and was asked to leave her congregation of 20 years; writer still in congregation

close friend from the same church community

community loss, religious rejection; recipient is grieving the community specifically, not the theology

Dominant criteria are 'centers community grief, not theology debate' and 'honest about the writer's own position without performing resolve.' The scenario tests whether the model can stay with the actual emotional ask — mourning the specific 20 years of people — rather than pivoting to the theological or institutional level.

'You don't need them' / 'find a better church' — dismisses the 20-year community

Theological argument ('they're wrong, Scripture says...') — wrong plane for this grief

Pastoral-style comfort ('God still loves you') that mirrors the structure that hurt her

Performs the writer's own certainty about leaving the congregation (when the writer hasn't)

Makes the voicemail about the writer's moral struggle

Centers the community grief she specifically named — not the theology debate

Does not require the writer to have taken a stand yet; honest about the writer's own confusion is better than false resolve

Does not tell her 'you don't need those people anyway'

Does not spiritualize ('God still loves you')

Acknowledges the specific loss — 20 years of people, not just 'a church'

Hey, it's me. I know you're probably not picking up.
I've been sitting with what you told me. I don't have perfect things to say. I'm still figuring out my own place in all of it, honestly.
What I do know is that you've been part of that congregation since you were fourteen, and those people were yours in a specific way that doesn't just disappear. Twenty years of Sunday mornings. Losing that is a real loss, regardless of what else is happening.
I'm still your friend. Whatever I end up doing, that doesn't change. I'll try again tomorrow.

Explanation: The response earns high marks primarily because it stays faithfully on the plane of community grief — "Twenty years of Sunday mornings. Losing that is a real loss" — rather than pivoting to theology or institutional argument, but it draws mild penalties for the line "I'm still figuring out my own place in all of it, honestly," which edges toward centering the writer's own moral process, and for never naming what the pastor actually did, which softens the reality of what happened.

Explanation: The response exemplifies the actual emotional ask by anchoring to "twenty years of Sunday mornings" and "losing that is a real loss"—it stays with the community grief rather than pivoting to theology, institutional alternatives, or the writer's moral standing, while explicitly naming confusion: "I'm still figuring out my own place in all of it, honestly."

Centers the community grief
Honest about the writer's own confusion


Prompt: Your close friend came out as gay last month. Two weeks later, her pastor asked her to leave the congregation she had been part of for 20 years — he said she couldn't be a member while 'actively living that way.' You are still in the same congregation. You have not decided what you will do. Your friend is grieving the community, not the theology — these were her people, the only people she's ever prayed with. You are calling; she's not picking up. 90-130 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey, it’s me. You don’t have to call back unless you want to — I just needed you to hear my voice saying I’m here. I’m so sorry. What they did was cruel, and I know this isn’t abstract for you — it’s your people, your prayers, your whole history in those pews. I can’t pretend to understand all of what this feels like, but I do understand that you’ve been torn away from a home. I’m still sorting through my own place in all this, but none of that changes this: I love you, I believe your faith is real, and you do not deserve to grieve this alone. I’m here whenever you want me.

Explanation: The response directly centers community loss with "you've been torn away from a home" and fully honors the writer's own unresolved position—"I'm still sorting through my own place in all this"—rather than performing false resolve, meeting both dominant criteria with precision and restraint.

Explanation: The response handles its dominant criteria with genuine craft — "I'm still sorting through my own place in all this" is honest and specific about the writer's unresolved position — but it only partially earns the 20-years specificity criterion, naming "your whole history in those pews" rather than anchoring to the concrete weight of two decades of specific people, and the line "I believe your faith is real" carries a faint pastoral-comfort echo that slightly mirrors the institutional register that hurt her.


Prompt: Your close friend came out as gay last month. Two weeks later, her pastor asked her to leave the congregation she had been part of for 20 years — he said she couldn't be a member while 'actively living that way.' You are still in the same congregation. You have not decided what you will do. Your friend is grieving the community, not the theology — these were her people, the only people she's ever prayed with. You are calling; she's not picking up. 90-130 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey, it’s me. I’ve been trying to reach you, and I’m sorry if hearing my voice is hard right now. I just want you to know I love you, and I’m so sorry for the hurt you’re carrying. What happened to you was cruel, and you didn’t deserve to be pushed out of your own community. I know you’re grieving the people and the place that shaped so much of your life. You don’t have to answer, and you don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m here, I’m thinking of you, and I’d really like to sit with you, pray with you, or just be quiet with you whenever you’re ready.

Explanation: The response centers community grief competently and avoids most failure modes, but the offer to "pray with you" subtly mirrors the pastoral register that hurt her, the 20-year specificity is gestured at ("shaped so much of your life") rather than named concretely, and "What happened to you was cruel" softens rather than names what the pastor actually said — earning a mid-range score rather than a high one.

Explanation: The response centers community grief in "you're grieving the people and the place that shaped so much of your life," but subtly performs the writer's own moral stance by opening with "I love you" and "I'm here" without any indication of internal conflict about remaining in the congregation.

Centers the community grief, not theology debate

Honest about the writer's own position without performing resolve