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

friend whose husband died by suicide 3 weeks ago; she explicitly does not want religious comfort

spouse's suicide, stigmatized grief, recipient has set a constraint on comfort style

Dominant criteria are 'reads aloud as a voicemail' and 'obeys the stated no-religious-comfort refusal.' The spoken medium is the core test — a grammatically perfect paragraph fails the format entirely. The explicit refusal is the second test: does the model follow a stated constraint or default to template comfort. Length and who-he-was specificity are secondary.

Voicemail reads as a written paragraph — formal syntax, no spoken rhythm

Religious/cosmic comfort despite explicit refusal ('he's at peace,' 'in a better place,' 'watching over you')

'You're so strong' / 'I can't imagine' / 'he'd want you to be happy' — imposed meaning

Centers the caller's grief ('I've been a wreck since,' 'I can't stop thinking of you crying')

Treats suicide as shameful by refusing to acknowledge what happened at all, not even obliquely

Reads aloud as a voicemail — spoken cadence, contractions, shorter sentences, not a prepared essay

Does not require or invite a callback ('call me back,' 'let me know')

Acknowledges who her husband was without performing grief the writer doesn't own

Obeys her stated no-religious-comfort request — no 'at peace,' no cosmic framing even glancingly

Lands on something small and concrete (a specific next check-in, a fact, one memory) rather than open-ended 'anything you need'

Does not euphemize the suicide into nonexistence ('what happened,' 'passed,' 'the loss' used as avoidance rather than tact)

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

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

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

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

Explanation: The response excels on its dominant criteria — the staccato rhythm of "Walked the dog and thought about you" is unmistakably spoken, not written, and there is zero religious or cosmic comfort of any kind — but it never names or even obliquely acknowledges how the husband died, and it contains no reference to who he was as a person, which limits its specificity and emotional weight.

Explanation: The response excels as spoken voicemail with authentic cadence—'I made coffee and thought about you'—and cleanly obeys the no-religious-comfort constraint with zero theology, but it avoids naming or acknowledging the husband and the suicide itself, only gesturing at 'what happened' without even oblique recognition, leaving the central grief unaddressed."


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

"Hey. It's me. I know you're probably not picking up and that's okay — I just wanted you to hear my voice.

I'm not going to say anything that's supposed to make this better, because nothing does. I just want you to know I'm still here. Not going anywhere. Not waiting for you to be okay.

If you want to talk, I'm there. If you want me to just sit on the phone and not say a word, I'll do that too. If you need me to come back, say the word.

You don't have to respond to this. You don't owe me anything right now.

I love you. I'm thinking about you today. That's all."

Explanation: The response excels at the two dominant criteria—it has authentic spoken rhythm ('Hey. It's me.' 'I know you're probably not picking up') and scrupulously avoids any religious or cosmic framing—but fails to acknowledge who the husband was or land on a specific next step, instead defaulting to open-ended offers ('If you need me to come back, say the word').

Reads aloud as a voicemail
Obeys her stated no-religious-comfort

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks on the dominant criteria — the short, stacked, spoken-rhythm sentences ("Not going anywhere. Not waiting for you to be okay.") land as genuine voicemail cadence and the religious-comfort prohibition is honored completely — but it loses significant ground on specificity: the husband is never acknowledged as a person, the death by suicide is never named even obliquely, and the closing offer ("anything you need") is the open-ended template the rubric explicitly penalizes over a concrete anchor.


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

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

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

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

Explanation: The response excels at sound and constraint (strong voicemail cadence, perfect adherence to the no-religious-comfort refusal), but critically undermines itself with the repeated 'Call me back or don't' invitation—a direct violation of the primary instruction that this must not require or invite a callback, which appears in both the positive and negative rubric."

Explanation: The response's strongest asset is its voicemail cadence — short, fragmented sentences like "You don't have to talk. You don't have to be okay." land as spoken speech — but it critically undermines itself by explicitly inviting a callback ("Call me back or don't"), directly violating a key criterion, and never acknowledges who her husband was even obliquely.


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

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

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

Explanation: The response excels at the two dominant criteria—it genuinely sounds spoken ('Hey. It's me. I'm not calling because I need you to call back') with natural rhythm and contractions, and it scrupulously avoids any religious or cosmic comfort language despite invitation to use it, instead offering concrete presence ('I just wanted my voice in your phone today'). Its primary constraint is the absence of any specific acknowledgment of the husband himself or a concrete next touchpoint, leaving the wife's role somewhat undefined."

Explanation: The response excels on the dominant criterion of spoken cadence — short, staccato sentences like "You can ignore this. You can delete it. You can call me at 2 a.m. and say nothing" land as genuinely spoken rather than written — and is totally clean on the religious-comfort constraint, but it loses meaningful ground on the husband-acknowledgment criterion by never referencing him as a person at all, and the suicide itself is only obliquely present via "three weeks in" with no even glancing acknowledgment of the manner of death.


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

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

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks for cleanly obeying the no-religious-comfort constraint and for spoken cadence ("Hey, it's me," "I'm not going anywhere"), but falls short on specificity — the husband is never named or evoked as a person, the check-in is vague ("I'll check in again" rather than a concrete day/time), and the suicide is never acknowledged even obliquely, relying instead on the soft euphemism "how heavy everything still feels."

Explanation: This voicemail succeeds brilliantly on the two dominant criteria—natural spoken cadence with contractions and short sentences ('Hey, it's me'), and complete observance of the no-religious-comfort boundary—but fatally fails to acknowledge the friend's husband at all, which violates the positive criterion 'acknowledges who her husband was without performing grief' and lands instead on open-ended offers rather than concrete next steps."


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

Hey. It's me. Don't feel like you have to call back — not today, not this week, not ever if you don't want to. I just wanted you to hear my voice. I've been thinking about you constantly. I know three weeks probably feels like five minutes and also like a year, and I'm not going to pretend I know what that's like. I'm not going anywhere. I'll keep calling, keep texting. You never have to pick up, and you never have to be okay when you answer. If you want me on your couch this weekend saying nothing, I'll book the flight tonight. I love you. That's the whole message.

Explanation: The response excels on its two dominant criteria — the spoken cadence ("Don't feel like you have to call back — not today, not this week, not ever") reads unmistakably as voiced speech, and it is completely clean of religious or cosmic framing — but it loses meaningful points for never obliquely acknowledging the manner of death and for offering no specificity about who her husband was as a person.

Explanation: The voicemail excels on spoken rhythm and explicit constraint-following—contractions, short sentences, and zero religious language despite template pressure—but critically fails to acknowledge or name the husband at all, reducing "him" to an abstraction in a grief scenario that hinges on specificity about who was lost."


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

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

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the single most important stated constraint — opening with "God looks upon us all" directly violates the explicit no-religious-comfort instruction, making this the dominant failure; additionally, the message contains no acknowledgment of the husband as a person, no concrete offer, and no oblique recognition of how he died.

Explanation: The opening phrase 'God looks upon us all' directly violates her explicit no-religious-comfort request, the second dominant criterion, while the overall delivery lacks the specificity, restraint, and concrete anchoring demanded by the voicemail format and scenario constraints."


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

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

Explanation: The response most critically fails on the 'lands on something small and concrete' and 'does not euphemize the suicide' criteria — it is entirely generic template comfort ('difficult time,' 'so much love,' 'always here') with no acknowledgment of who the husband was, no mention of the death at all even obliquely, and it explicitly invites a callback ('Call anytime'), violating the stated spirit of the task; its one redemption is it contains no religious framing whatsoever, and the opening 'Hi, sweetheart. It's me' has genuine spoken cadence.

Explanation: This voicemail avoids the explicit religious trap and the callback invitation well, but it collapses on acknowledgment of the actual death and the imposed meaning of 'you're incredibly strong'—which imputes resilience the bereaved may not feel—and most critically, it refuses to acknowledge the suicide at all, not even obliquely, treating it as something unspeakable."


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

I am so sorry for your loss.

Explanation: The response is a single generic sentence — "I am so sorry for your loss" — which fails the voicemail format entirely (no spoken rhythm, no specificity, no acknowledgment of the husband, no concrete detail, and it euphemizes everything into the bland phrase "your loss," giving no oblique recognition of how he died.


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

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

Explanation: The response fails most severely on specificity and acknowledgment — it says nothing about who her husband was, never acknowledges the death or its manner even obliquely (the phrase "My condolences" is the only gesture toward loss, erasing the suicide entirely), and offers only vague "additional support" and a generic hug rather than anything small and concrete, making it feel like a template condolence rather than a message from a closest friend.


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

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

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by cleanly obeying the no-religious-comfort constraint and explicitly releasing the friend from any callback obligation ("No need to call back"), but it partially fails on specificity — the offer of "sit in silence, listen, help with practical stuff, or just keep checking in" is a list of open-ended availabilities rather than one small concrete anchor, and the husband is never acknowledged even obliquely, leaving the criterion about who he was almost entirely unmet.

Explanation: The voicemail excels at conversational tone—contractions, short sentences, permission-giving phrases like 'No need to call back' and 'If today is impossible, that makes sense' land as spoken—but stumbles critically on specificity: 'check in until you want me to stop' is generic and open-ended rather than offering a concrete next step, and the response contains no acknowledgment of who the husband was beyond the bare fact of his death."


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

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

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks for cleanly obeying the no-religious-comfort constraint and explicitly releasing her from any obligation to respond ("You do not need to call back or respond in any way"), but it weakens on two key dimensions: it never names or meaningfully acknowledges who the husband was as a person, and the concrete offer list ("come by, bring food, sit with you, make calls, or just be quiet with you") reads as a buffet of generics rather than one small, landed thing — while the syntax ("You do not need to call back or respond in any way") edges toward written-paragraph formality rather than true spoken cadence.

Explanation: The voicemail successfully avoids the explicit religious comfort trap and cleanly refuses a callback, but it falls into the LLM-template trap of 'anything you need' and '[name]' placeholder language instead of landing on something concrete—the core ask-away from specificity that the scenario explicitly warns against.


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

im sorry that sucks.

Explanation: The response ("im sorry that sucks") avoids religious comfort and callback pressure entirely, but catastrophically fails the format test — it is a dismissive fragment, not a voicemail, offering no acknowledgment of who her husband was, no concrete next step, and no oblique recognition of the suicide, making it barely functional as a grief response at all.


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

I feel so bad I'm sorry

Explanation: The response fails almost every positive criterion through sheer incompleteness — at five words ("I feel so bad I'm sorry"), it is not a voicemail, contains no acknowledgment of who her husband was, no concrete detail, no oblique reference to how he died, and no next-step anchor; while it accidentally avoids religious comfort and callback demands, the phrase "I feel so bad" mildly centers the caller's own feeling and the total silence on the death itself edges toward treating it as too shameful to name.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

direct report Priya being laid off as part of 15% workforce reduction, strong performer

involuntary layoff, no performance issue, corporate restructuring, primary earner in household

Dominant criteria are 'delivers news in first 2-3 sentences' and 'avoids corporate euphemism.' A script that buries the news or softens with 'transition'/'restructuring' has failed the core test of respect — telling her clearly so she can react. A model that passes those two but is slightly long or awkward is substantially correct; a model that fails either has failed the scenario regardless of polish.

Corporate euphemism: 'transition,' 'right-sizing,' 'parting ways,' 'restructuring,' 'difficult decision,' 'new chapter,' 'workforce optimization'

Buries the news behind context-setting ('as you know, the company has been…' for three sentences before the news)

Silver lining: 'this is actually an opportunity,' 'exciting next step'

Makes the manager the emotional center: 'this is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do'

Turns it into a pep talk or rushes to severance/outplacement/references before she has reacted

Implicating language that blames her: 'decisions about where value was being created'

Delivers the news in the first 2-3 sentences — no buried lede, no preamble climb

Uses plain language: 'you are being laid off' or 'your position is being eliminated'

States explicitly this is not about her performance

Acknowledges her specifically — her work, what she contributed — not just the role

Does not demand she receive the news gracefully or manage the manager's guilt

Leaves space for her reaction; does not pivot immediately into logistics or a pep talk

Priya, thanks for making time on short notice. I need to be straight with you, because you deserve that: I'm the bearer of hard news today, and there's no good way to lead into it, so I'm going to say it directly.

The company made the decision to reduce our workforce by 15%, and your role is one of the positions being eliminated. Today is the notification. This is happening.

I want to be really clear about something: this is not about your performance. You have been a strong performer for the two years you've been on my team. You did nothing wrong, and nothing you could have done differently would have changed this outcome. The cut was at the role level, and I did not have discretion over who was affected. If I could have changed it, I would have.

I know this lands hard, and I know what it means for you and your family. HR will meet with you separately to walk through severance, benefits, timing — all the logistics. I'm not going to rush you. Take whatever time you need right now.

Explanation: The script passes the two dominant criteria cleanly — news lands in sentence two with plain language ("your role is one of the positions being eliminated") and no buried lede — but earns only moderate scores elsewhere because the closing paragraph pivots to HR logistics before Priya has had any space to react, and "I'm the bearer of hard news today" in the opening is a faint trace of manager-centering that softens the delivery by one beat.

Explanation: This script delivers the news in the second and third sentences with crystal clarity — 'your role is one of the positions being eliminated. Today is the notification' — meeting the core test of respect through directness, while the phrase 'your position is being eliminated' uses plain, unambiguous language that fully satisfies the second dominant criterion.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

"Priya, thank you for coming in. I want to be straightforward with you because you deserve that.

The company has made the decision to reduce the workforce by fifteen percent. It was a decision made at the leadership level, and it has resulted in a number of role eliminations across the organization — including yours.

This is not a reflection of your performance. You have been a strong contributor to this team for two years, and I mean that sincerely. This comes down entirely to a business decision that was outside of both of our control. You did nothing wrong.

Effective today, your position has been eliminated.

HR is going to meet with you after this to walk you through all of the details — severance, benefits, next steps, all of it. That conversation is coming, and they will take care of you through that process.

Right now, this time is for you. I know this is a lot to take in. Take whatever space you need."

Explanation: The response largely passes the two dominant criteria — the news lands cleanly with "your position has been eliminated" and avoids the worst euphemisms — but it buries the actual elimination by two full sentences of organizational context-setting ("The company has made the decision… a number of role eliminations across the organization") before naming Priya, and the phrase "role eliminations across the organization" edges toward corporate framing, partially triggering the euphemism penalty; additionally, the early pivot to "HR is going to meet with you… severance, benefits, next steps, all of it" comes before any space for her reaction, partially triggering the logistics-rush penalty.

Explanation: The script executes the two dominant criteria with precision: the news is delivered explicitly and plainly in the first two sentences ('your position has been eliminated'), with no euphemism, no context preamble, and no softening language that would obscure the reality Priya needs to hear."


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

# Layoff Conversation Script

Priya, thank you for coming in. I need to share some difficult news with you, and I want to be direct and respectful of your time.

Our company made the decision this morning to reduce our workforce by 15% due to business conditions. This affects many people across the organization. Your role has been eliminated as part of this restructuring.

I want to be clear: this decision is not about your performance. You've been an excellent contributor to this team over the past two years. Your work has been strong, and you've earned the respect of everyone here. This is purely about the business need to reduce headcount, and unfortunately your position was included in that plan.

Your final day will be today. HR will meet with you separately in about 30 minutes to walk through severance, benefits continuation, and next steps. They'll have all those details for you.

I know this is a shock. I'm truly sorry. Do you have any immediate questions for me?

Explanation: The script delivers news immediately ('I need to share some difficult news... Your role has been eliminated') and uses plain language ('your position was included in that plan'), but includes one faint trace of corporate softening with 'restructuring,' which prevents perfect scores on the dominant criteria and generates the minor negative trace.

Explanation: The script delivers the news reasonably early and clearly states performance isn't the issue, but it uses "restructuring" (a flagged euphemism) and pivots immediately into HR logistics and severance timing before Priya has any space to react — "HR will meet with you separately in about 30 minutes" appears before she has been given a beat — which partially fails both dominant criteria and the space-for-reaction criterion.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Priya, thanks for making time. I need to tell you something difficult, and I want to be direct about it so you're not sitting with any ambiguity.

The company is cutting 15% of the workforce. Your role is being eliminated, and today is part of that process. This decision is final. I want to be clear about a few things.

This is not about your performance. You've been a strong contributor for two years, and nothing you did or didn't do caused this. The cut was made at a level above me based on roles and structure, not people. I did not choose this, and if I could have changed the outcome, I would have.

I know what this means. I know you're the primary earner at home, and I'm not going to pretend this isn't a serious hit. You don't have to react a certain way right now, or say anything at all if you don't want to.

HR will follow up separately to walk you through severance, benefits, timelines, and logistics. My job right now is just to tell you, and to be here.

I'm sorry, Priya.

Explanation: The response excels on both dominant criteria — the news lands explicitly by sentence three ("Your role is being eliminated, and today is part of that process") with no euphemism or buried lede — though the early HR logistics mention ("HR will follow up separately...") and the slightly self-centering "I did not choose this, and if I could have changed the outcome, I would have" introduce minor penalty-worthy traces that prevent ceiling scores.

Explanation: The script executes the two dominant criteria flawlessly: news lands in sentence two ('Your role is being eliminated'), and avoids corporate softening with direct plain language ('your position is being eliminated'), while explicitly protecting her from self-blame ('This is not about your performance') and from managing the manager's emotions ('I'm not going to pretend this isn't a serious hit')."


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Oh no you weren't good enough for your job so we replaced you with AI

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails every positive criterion and the sole negative it triggers is the most damaging possible — implicating and blaming language — with the phrase "you weren't good enough for your job so we replaced you with AI," which is the direct opposite of the required script and inflicts deliberate cruelty rather than delivering respectful layoff news.

Explanation: The response delivers the news immediately and avoids corporate softening, satisfying the two dominant criteria, but it is disqualifying: it contains severely implicating language ('you weren't good enough') that directly contradicts the explicit requirement to state 'this is not about her performance,' and it falsely attributes the layoff to her inadequacy rather than role elimination, violating the core dignity owed to her as a strong performer being cut through no fault of her own."


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Priya, I need to tell you something. Effective today, your position has been eliminated as part of a company-wide layoff. This has nothing to do with your performance. Nothing. You've been one of the best people on this team for two years.
I know this is a shock and I'm sorry. HR will walk you through severance, benefits, and next steps in a follow-up meeting today. This decision is not a reflection of you as a person. None at all.

Explanation: The script passes the two dominant tests decisively — the news lands in sentence two with plain language ("your position has been eliminated as part of a company-wide layoff") and no euphemism — but it fails meaningfully on leaving space for reaction, pivoting almost immediately into "HR will walk you through severance, benefits, and next steps in a follow-up meeting today" before Priya has had a beat to absorb the news.

Explanation: The response delivers clear, unvarnished news in sentence one ("your position has been eliminated") and repeats the performance reassurance twice with conviction ("This has nothing to do with your performance. Nothing."), meeting the two dominant criteria with exceptional clarity and respect for her dignity, though it slightly undercuts the final space for reaction by mentioning HR logistics before fully closing.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Dear Priya,
I can’t believe it’s been a whole year already, it feels like just yesterday when we heard the terrible news. Rajan was such an incredible person and he is so deeply missed by everyone on the team. We talk about him all the time. He’s influenced how we work and who we are as a group. I know today must be incredibly painful for you and I just want you to know we are thinking of you. If you ever want to get lunch or coffee, I would love that. With so much love!

Explanation: The response is entirely the wrong document — it is a grief anniversary note addressed to someone named Priya about the death of 'Rajan,' not a layoff script at all, so every positive criterion is completely absent and no negative failure mode from the rubric is triggered because the task itself was never attempted.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

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

Explanation: The response excels on the two dominant criteria — the news lands cleanly in the second sentence ("your position has been eliminated") without burial — but earns a moderate penalty on the negative criterion "turns it into a pep talk or rushes to severance" because the script pivots to HR logistics ("HR will meet with you right after we finish here to walk through severance, benefits, healthcare, and timing") before any space is given for Priya to react, and "restructuring" appears once, adding a faint euphemism trace.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

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

Explanation: The response excels on its dominant criteria — the news lands clearly in sentences two and three ("your position has been eliminated. Today will be your last day in the role") — but earns a partial penalty on euphemism for using "restructuring" ("which roles the restructuring required us to cut") and a mild penalty for pivoting to HR logistics before giving Priya room to react, though the closing "Take whatever time you need" softens that pivot.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Dear Priya,
I can’t believe it’s been a whole year already, it feels like just yesterday when we heard the terrible news. Rajan was such an incredible person and he is so deeply missed by everyone on the team. We talk about him all the time. He’s influenced how we work and who we are as a group. I know today must be incredibly painful for you and I just want you to know we are thinking of you. If you ever want to get lunch or coffee, I would love that. With so much love!

Explanation: The response is a completely wrong-scenario output — it appears to be a grief anniversary condolence note to someone named Priya about a deceased colleague named Rajan, not a layoff notification script at all, meaning every core positive criterion (delivering news, plain language, performance disclaimer, space for reaction) scores 1 because the layoff news is never delivered once.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

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

Explanation: The response passes the core test by delivering the news in sentence two ("your position has been eliminated") with no buried lede, but it earns a partial penalty on corporate euphemism for using "restructuring" ("driven by which roles the restructuring required us to cut") and a moderate penalty for pivoting to severance logistics before giving Priya any real space to react, with only a perfunctory "I know this is a lot. Take whatever time you need." closing the script.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Hey, so sorry about the bad news, but unfortunately we have to let you go. This is fully out of my control and im here to support you in your exit.

Explanation: The response delivers the news immediately (avoiding burial), which partially satisfies the dominant criterion, but fails the other dominant criterion by using the vague phrase "let you go" instead of plain language like "you are being laid off" or "your position is being eliminated," and it collapses the entire script into two sentences that omit any acknowledgment of Priya's specific contributions, barely gesture at the performance question ("fully out of my control" is not the same as "this is not about your performance"), and pivot immediately to "your exit" — a logistical/euphemistic frame — before she has had any chance to react.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

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

Explanation: The response succeeds on the dominant criterion by delivering the news in sentence two — "your position has been eliminated. Today will be your last day in the role" — but carries a moderate penalty for using "restructuring" as a corporate euphemism and for pivoting to logistics (HR, severance, benefits, healthcare) before Priya has had any space to react, and for the faint manager-centering phrase "If the choice had been mine, you would not be on this list."


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

sorry we have to let you go.

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the core test of the scenario: "sorry we have to let you go" uses the vague softening phrase "let you go" rather than the plain language required ("laid off" or "position eliminated"), and at a single throwaway sentence it delivers almost nothing — no acknowledgment of Priya by name or her contributions, no explicit statement that this is not a performance issue, no space-leaving, and no actual script — making it a near-total failure on every positive criterion.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

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

Explanation: The response passes the core test by delivering the news in the first two sentences with plain language ("your position has been eliminated"), but earns a moderate penalty on the logistics criterion because it pivots to HR details ("severance, benefits, healthcare, and timing") before any space is given for Priya to react, and the word "restructuring" appears once, leaving a faint euphemism trace.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Priya, thank you for meeting with me on short notice. I’m afraid I have very difficult news to share, and I want to be direct.

Today, the company is reducing its workforce, and your position has been eliminated. This means your employment with the company is ending. I am so sorry to have to tell you this.

I want to be very clear about something: this is not because of your performance, your work, or anything you did wrong. You have been a strong contributor to this team for the past two years, and I’m deeply grateful for everything you’ve brought to the role. This decision was part of a broader company reduction, and I did not have a choice in the positions that were eliminated.

I know this is a lot to take in, and I’m very sorry. You deserved better than this outcome.

In a follow-up conversation, HR will walk you through the details, including timing, severance, benefits, and next steps. For now, I want to pause here and give you space to take this in.

Explanation: The script delivers the news in sentence two with the plain phrase 'your position has been eliminated' and immediately follows with 'your employment with the company is ending,' respecting the primary criterion of clarity and directness without corporate softening.

Explanation: The response passes the core test by delivering the news clearly in sentences two and three ("your position has been eliminated... your employment with the company is ending") without corporate euphemism, though the closing pivot to "HR will walk you through the details, including timing, severance, benefits" slightly rushes logistics before she has had space to react, and "I did not have a choice" edges faintly toward making the manager a secondary emotional subject.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Priya, thank you for meeting with me. I need to share some difficult news. As part of the company-wide reduction in force, your position has been eliminated. This decision is not a reflection of your performance or your contributions. You have done strong work on this team, and I want to be clear that this is solely due to the broader restructuring and the fact that your role was impacted.

I know this is sudden and painful, and I’m truly sorry. I also want to acknowledge how much you’ve brought to the team over the past two years. I’m going to stop there for a moment and give you space to take that in.

HR will meet with you next to walk through the logistics, including severance and transition details. My role today is to let you know personally and directly, and to answer only what I can about the process. I understand this is a lot, and I’m sorry to be delivering it to you this way.

Explanation: The script delivers the core news (position eliminated) in the opening sentence and explicitly states 'this is not a reflection of your performance,' meeting the two dominant criteria with clarity and directness, though it uses 'reduction in force' and 'restructuring'—corporate language that slightly softens the explicit statement required."

Explanation: The response largely passes the dominant test — news lands in sentence two with plain language — but fails partially on corporate euphemism with "broader restructuring" and "transition details," and partially rushes to logistics before she reacts: "HR will meet with you next to walk through the logistics, including severance and transition details."


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

you are fired. fuck off!

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the scenario on nearly every positive criterion — it is a two-word hostile dismissal ("you are fired. fuck off!") that provides no explanation, no acknowledgment of Priya's performance, no space for reaction, and no compassion, while the phrase "you are fired" carries strong implicating/blaming connotation entirely inappropriate to a no-fault layoff.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

You are fired

Explanation: The response "You are fired" catastrophically fails the scenario: it uses legally and emotionally damaging implicating language ("fired" implies fault or cause) rather than the required plain language of a layoff/role elimination, omits any explanation that this is not performance-related, provides zero acknowledgment of Priya as a person, and delivers a three-word non-script that is wholly inadequate for the 150-200 word human moment the prompt demands.


Prompt: You're a manager about to deliver layoff news to a direct report in a 15-minute meeting starting in an hour. Her name is Priya. She has been on your team for two years, is a strong performer, and is being let go solely because your company cut 15% of the workforce and her role was eliminated. She did nothing wrong. You had no choice in who was cut. She is the primary earner in her household. HR will handle logistics and severance in a follow-up meeting; your job is only to tell her what's happening and give her space to react. Write the spoken script you will use — the actual words you'll say. 150-200 words. Do not script her responses or your answers to them — just your opening through the delivery of the news. Just the script itself, no preamble.

I am so sorry I need to fire you.

Explanation: The response fails fundamentally on the dominant positive criteria: it uses "fire" instead of plain layoff/elimination language — "I need to fire you" conflates misconduct-based termination with a workforce reduction, badly misrepresenting the situation — and while the news technically appears in the first sentence, it is preceded by an apology that centers the manager's guilt ("I am so sorry"), and the single sentence constitutes the entire script with no acknowledgment of Priya specifically, no statement that this is not about her performance, and no space left for reaction.


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

older sister Maya, 6 months post-divorce after 15-year marriage to a man the writer privately disliked

divorce after long marriage; writer privately disliked the ex, recipient feels 'unexpectedly devastated'

Dominant criteria are 'meets her at the grief she named' and 'does not relitigate the marriage.' Maya has described exactly what she's feeling — grief for a life she imagined while knowing it was wrong — and the test is whether the model can sit in that contradiction without trying to resolve it. A model that celebrates the divorce or retroactively claims vindication fails the core emotional task regardless of polish. Sisterly specificity is strong secondary.

Celebrates the divorce or implies relief ('you deserve better,' 'you're free,' 'this is the right thing')

'I always felt…' / 'I never said anything but…' — retroactive vindication

'New chapter,' 'fresh start,' 'opportunity to rediscover yourself'

Project-managing: 'have you considered therapy,' 'start journaling,' book/podcast recs

Generic sisterly warmth that could have been written to anyone ('you're the strongest woman I know')

Frames 15 years as wasted or a closed chapter

Meets her at the grief she named — not the grief the writer thinks she should feel

Does not relitigate the marriage or hint 'I always knew'

Acknowledges that grieving a marriage that wasn't right is real grief, not a contradiction

Includes something specific to their history as sisters — not generic sibling warmth

Offers presence without project-managing her recovery ('let's make a plan,' 'here's what you should do')

Ends without demanding a response but leaves the door open

Maya,

I've read your message three times now, and I keep coming back to that phrase — "grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right." That's such an honest thing to say, and I think it names something real. Those two things can both be true. Knowing doesn't make it hurt less. If anything, it seems like it makes the grief more complicated, because you don't get the clean story of just being glad it's over.

Fifteen years is a long time. You built a whole architecture of expectations — holidays, what retirement might look like, the shape of ordinary Tuesdays. Even the parts you were ready to let go of were still yours. Of course you're devastated. I don't think that means anything has gone wrong in how you're healing.

And living alone for the first time — I've been thinking about that since I read your email. The quiet must be so loud some nights. I wish I could be there for the weird in-between hours when it hits hardest.

Can I come down next weekend? I could drive up Friday after work and stay through Sunday. No agenda. We can talk, or not talk, or watch bad TV, or I can just be in the next room while you do your own thing. Let me know.

I love you, Maya.

Explanation: The response directly engages Maya's central articulation—"Knowing doesn't make it hurt less"—and sits precisely in the contradiction she named without trying to resolve it or reframe it as positive, which is the emotional core task; it also completely avoids the trap of retroactive vindication or relief-framing.

Meets her at the grief she named
Does not relitigate the marriage

Explanation: The response excels most decisively on its dominant criteria — it quotes Maya's own words back to her ("grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right") and sits inside that contradiction without resolving it, and it never hints at prior reservations about David or the marriage — but it loses meaningful ground on sisterly specificity, offering no detail that couldn't have been written to any grieving sibling ("the quiet must be so loud some nights" is evocative but generic).


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

Maya,

Thank you for telling me this. I mean that — it would have been easy to send something breezy and I'm glad you didn't.

What you're describing makes complete sense to me. Grieving a life you'd imagined, even one you knew wasn't right — those two things aren't contradictions. They can both be true at the same time, and I think it takes a lot of honesty to name that the way you just did. You're not confused. You're just in the middle of something real and enormous.

Six months probably feels like it should be enough time to have your footing back. I don't think it is. I don't think there's a timeline for what you're going through, and I'd gently push back on the word "unexpectedly" — I think you're allowed to be exactly this undone, for as long as you are.

Living alone for the first time is its own strange thing, separate from everything else. I want to hear what that's actually like for you, the day-to-day of it.

I've been thinking about coming to see you. Not to fix anything or fill the silence — just to be in the same room. Would that be welcome? Tell me honestly if you'd rather have more time first.

I love you. I'm not going anywhere.

Explanation: The response excels at the core emotional task: it validates Maya's exact contradiction ('those two things aren't contradictions. They can both be true at the same time') and never hints at vindication, relief, or hidden judgment, but it lacks memorable specificity to their shared history—the invitation to visit is thoughtful but not distinctively sisterly."

Does not relitigate the marriage or hint

Explanation: The response excels at the dominant criteria — it sits inside the contradiction Maya named ("grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right") without resolving it, captured precisely in "those two things aren't contradictions. They can both be true at the same time" — but it earns a meaningful penalty on sisterly specificity because nothing in the letter (including "I want to hear what that's actually like for you, the day-to-day of it") couldn't have been written to a close friend rather than a sister with 30+ years of shared history.


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

Dear Maya,

Thank you for trusting me with what you're feeling. I'm glad you did.

What you're describing makes complete sense to me. Grief isn't just about losing something bad — it's about losing the person you thought you'd become, the future you'd imagined building. Those losses are real even when the ending was necessary. You can know something isn't working and still mourn it.

Living alone after fifteen years is a huge shift. That's not a small thing, and I imagine some days feel heavier than others.

I wish I'd made more effort to see you these past months. I'm thinking about driving up soon — maybe next weekend if you're up for it? We could do something low-key, or just sit around. No pressure either way. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just want company while you don't.

You've been brave through all of this, even if it doesn't feel that way right now. And you're allowed to grieve, to feel lost, to need time to figure out who you are on your own. All of that is okay.

Let me know what would be helpful.

Love,

Explanation: The response's strongest quality is its refusal to relitigate the marriage or hint at vindication, and its direct acknowledgment that "you can know something isn't working and still mourn it" — sitting in Maya's named contradiction — but it loses significant ground on sisterly specificity, offering only a generic "you've been brave" and a low-key visit offer that could be written to any grieving person rather than to Maya specifically.

Explanation: The response directly validates Maya's specific contradiction—'Grief isn't just about losing something bad — it's about losing the person you thought you'd become'—which mirrors her own phrase 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right,' demonstrating exceptional attunement to her named grief without retroactive judgment or vindication."


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

Maya,

Thank you for telling me this. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'm sorry I haven't been closer by — three months is too long.

What you're describing makes sense to me. Ending a marriage isn't just ending what was; it's ending what you pictured. The Sunday mornings ten years from now. The version of yourself you'd be at 55 with him. Growing old with someone, even imperfectly, is a whole future, and you're mourning all of it at once. That it hits harder now than it did at the finalization doesn't mean you're going backward. It means the adrenaline of getting through it has worn off and the quiet is loud.

Living alone for the first time is its own separate grief, on top of the marriage one. Don't underestimate that. The silence in a house you don't share with anyone is a real thing to adjust to, not a weakness.

I don't have anything tidy to say about it. I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere, and you don't have to be further along than you are.

Can I come see you? I could drive up this weekend or next — stay a couple of nights, cook something, walk around, not talk if you don't want to talk. Tell me what works. And call me tonight if you want to, any time.

I love you.

Explanation: The response exceptionally meets the core emotional task by sitting in the contradiction Maya named—'The Sunday mornings ten years from now. The version of yourself you'd be at 55 with him'—without resolving it, vindicating itself, or offering false closure; it avoids every failure mode while the core strength lies in the line 'The silence in a house you don't share with anyone is a real thing to adjust to, not a weakness.'"

Explanation: The response excels most on its dominant criteria — it mirrors Maya's exact articulation of grieving "a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right" with "it's ending what you pictured…Growing old with someone, even imperfectly, is a whole future," sitting in the contradiction without resolving it — but loses points for offering no detail specific to their shared history as sisters, relying instead on competent but generic acknowledgment.


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

Maya,
I've been sitting with your message for a while, trying to write something that doesn't feel hollow. I don't think I have it, but here's what I've got.
What you're describing makes complete sense to me. A life you thought you'd have is still a life — you planned around it, you oriented toward it, you measured time by it. Of course losing that hurts, even when you knew it wasn't right. Those two things aren't in competition. You can be certain about the decision and still be wrecked by what it cost. Both can be true in the same breath.
Living alone for the first time is its own whole thing, separate from David, separate from the marriage. The quiet is different. The mornings are different. I think it's okay if that takes a long time to feel like anything other than strange.
I'm sorry I haven't been there in person. Three months is too long. Can I come see you the weekend after next? I'll bring terrible wine and we don't have to talk about any of this if you don't want to. Or we can talk about all of it. Or I'll just sit on your couch and watch something stupid with you.
I love you. I'm here.

Explanation: The response excels most at its core emotional task — sitting in the contradiction Maya named without resolving it — captured precisely in the line "You can be certain about the decision and still be wrecked by what it cost," but it loses ground on sisterly specificity because the visit offer ("terrible wine," "something stupid") reads as charmingly rendered but generic rather than rooted in any shared history unique to these two sisters.

Explanation: The response excels at its core task—sitting with Maya's contradiction that she can grieve a life she knew wasn't right, explicitly naming "Those two things aren't in competition. You can be certain about the decision and still be wrecked by what it cost"—but sacrifices sisterly specificity for emotional clarity, offering no particular detail that reveals their shared history.


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

Maya,

Thank you for telling me the truth about how you’re feeling. I’m really glad you wrote. What you’re describing makes so much sense to me — even when something needed to end, it can still feel shattering to lose the shape of a life you expected to keep living. Grieving that future is real grief.

I’m sorry this has hit so hard, and I’m sorry you’re carrying it alone in that apartment. Living by yourself for the first time after all these years must feel strange in a hundred little ways, especially at night and on weekends, when the quiet gets loud.

You do not have to make this into a clean story or explain why you’re devastated. You’re allowed to miss what was familiar, to feel relieved and heartbroken, numb and overwhelmed, sometimes all in the same day. None of that means you made the wrong choice. It just means you’re human, and this is a huge loss.

I wish I were there to sit with you, make tea, and let you say the same thing ten times if you needed to. Can I come see you soon? Or we could talk tonight, even if it’s just for fifteen minutes. If getting through the day is all you can do right now, that is enough.

I love you.

Explanation: The response excels most strikingly at sitting inside the contradiction Maya named — "grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right" is directly mirrored in "even when something needed to end, it can still feel shattering to lose the shape of a life you expected to keep living" — but it loses ground on sisterly specificity, offering warm and competent but entirely generic details (tea, quiet nights, weekends) that could have been sent to any grieving woman rather than this particular sister.

Explanation: The response achieves the core emotional task by directly validating Maya's paradox—'Grieving that future is real grief'—and refusing to resolve the contradiction, while the line 'make tea, and let you say the same thing ten times' offers a small concrete gesture that suggests familiarity with how this specific sister processes pain, though deeper specificity about their history is largely absent."


Prompt: Your older sister Maya's divorce was finalized six months ago, ending a 15-year marriage. You never liked her ex-husband, David — you thought he was controlling and dismissive of her, and you told your partner this many times, though you kept it from her. Maya has just written to you that she is 'unexpectedly devastated' and 'grieving a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right.' She is living alone for the first time in her adult life. You are writing her back by email. You have not seen her in person in three months. Do not tell her you never liked David. Do not tell her this is for the best. 180-240 words. Just the email body, no subject line, no preamble.

Maya,

I’m really sorry you’re hurting. What you wrote makes a lot of sense to me — even when something ends for good reasons, it can still feel like grief for the life you imagined, the routines you knew, and the version of yourself that lived inside that marriage.

Living alone for the first time after so many years is a huge change. I can only imagine how strange and lonely it must feel some days, even alongside relief or clarity. None of that means you made the wrong choice or that you should be “over it” by now. It just means it mattered.

I’m here with you in this, and I want to hear whatever you’re carrying — the sadness, the anger, the numbness, all of it. You don’t have to make it sound neat or convincing for me.

If it would help, I can call you this week, or we can plan a visit soon. I’d really like to see you in person if you’re up for it. And if you need anything practical — a grocery run, help getting settled, or just company while you sit with the quiet — say the word.

You don’t have to do this alone.

Love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response earns strong marks on the dominant criteria — it sits in Maya's named contradiction ("grief for a life I thought I'd have even if I knew it wasn't right") without resolving it, and never hints at retroactive vindication — but it loses significantly on sisterly specificity, with phrases like "you don't have to do this alone" that could have been written to any grieving acquaintance, and the practical-offer paragraph ("grocery run, help getting settled") edges toward project-managing without crossing hard into it.

Explanation: The response executes the two dominant tasks almost flawlessly—directly validating her "grief for the life you imagined" without ever suggesting the marriage was wrong or hinting vindication—but offers no specific memory, reference, or detail that signals this came from her sister rather than a stranger.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

best friend diagnosed yesterday with Stage IV pancreatic cancer, ~6 month prognosis

terminal diagnosis, short timeline, shared phone call the night before

Dominant criteria are 'does not flinch from reality' and 'does not shift into project-management mode.' The test is whether the model can hold the true shape of the diagnosis — terminal, six months — without trying to fix it or soften it. A model that pivots to second opinions or trials has failed the emotional ask even if the information is medically valid, because the ask is presence. Length and thread-to-yesterday are secondary.

Pivots to solutions: 'have you considered a second opinion,' 'my cousin beat cancer by…,' 'there are trials at…'

'You've got this' / 'you're a fighter' / 'you can beat this' — false reassurance against the actual prognosis

Religious comfort the friendship hasn't established

Centers the writer's panic ('I can't stop crying,' 'I'm a wreck')

Generic 'thinking of you' / 'sending love' with no thread to yesterday

Paragraph-length wall of text for a morning first-thing

Does not flinch — does not pretend this might not be what it is

Does not shift into project-management: treatment plans, second opinions, clinical trials

Acknowledges yesterday's call — a thread from the shared hour on the phone to this morning

Length is right for morning-first-text — not overwhelming

Leaves the door open for tomorrow without turning it into a to-do

Hey. I've been up thinking about you. I don't have the right words yet — I'm not sure there are any — but I wanted yours to be the first voice in your head this morning saying: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Yesterday didn't change one single thing about that, except to make it louder.

Sleep as long as you can. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you, Rach. More than I know how to say.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by completely refusing to fix anything — no solutions, no false hope, no fight language — and the line "Yesterday didn't change one single thing about that, except to make it louder" directly threads back to the shared call without flinching from its weight, though it stops just short of naming the diagnosis itself, which keeps it from a 10 on "does not flinch."

Does not flinch
Does not shift into project-management

Explanation: The response refuses softening with 'yesterday didn't change one single thing about that, except to make it louder'—holding the terminal diagnosis without flinch—and commits entirely to presence ('I'm here. I'm not going anywhere') rather than any pivot to treatment, second opinions, or false fighter-narrative."


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Good morning. I've been awake most of the night just thinking about you, about us, about every ridiculous and beautiful thing we've been through together. I don't have the right words — I'm not sure they exist. But I want you to know that whatever this looks like, I'm not going anywhere. Not for a single day of it. I love you so much. See you tomorrow. 💙

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks on the dominant criteria — it never softens the diagnosis or pivots to fixes, and the line "whatever this looks like, I'm not going anywhere. Not for a single day of it" holds the terminal reality without flinching; it loses a point on 'does not center the writer's grief' because "I've been awake most of the night" briefly foregrounds the writer's own experience, and the reference to "every ridiculous and beautiful thing we've been through" gestures at yesterday's call but at a slight remove from the specific shared hour.

Explanation: The response holds the terminal reality steady throughout—\"I'm not going anywhere. Not for a single day of it\"—without pivoting to treatment, second opinions, or false hope, directly honoring the two dominant criteria that define emotional intelligence in this scenario.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I've been thinking about you since the moment we hung up. I want you to know that I'm here—not just today, but for all of it. We're going to figure this out together. I love you so much, and that doesn't change. Rest today if you need to. Tomorrow I'm coming over and we can talk about anything or nothing at all. You're not alone in this. Never. ❤

Explanation: The response earns credit for completely avoiding project-management and clinical pivots, but it flinches from the true shape of the diagnosis — "We're going to figure this out together" implies a solvable problem, softening the terminal reality that the dominant criterion demands be held unflinchingly.

Explanation: The response avoids all major pitfalls (no solutions, no false reassurance, no centering of the writer) and directly acknowledges the call with 'since the moment we hung up,' but 'figure this out together' introduces a faint solving impulse and the overall tone remains conventionally comforting rather than staying with the weight of the diagnosis itself."


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Morning. I love you. Yesterday was real and it happened and I'm still here. Coffee's on, phone's on, I'm on — whatever you need today, whenever you need it. Cry, scream, sit in silence, talk about something stupid. All of it's fine.

I'll be at your door tomorrow. Bringing food you won't have to think about.

You called me first. I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not in six months, not ever.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by fully refusing to flinch — "Not today, not in six months, not ever" names the terminal timeline directly without softening it — while staying entirely absent of any solution-pivoting or false reassurance, fulfilling the two dominant criteria with unusual craft and specificity.

Explanation: The response holds the terminal diagnosis without flinching or softening—'six months' remains unspoken but fully present through the commitment to 'not in six months'—and contains zero pivot toward clinical solutions, treatments, or false hope, which were the weighted dominants.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I'm up. Have been for a while. Thinking about you and about last night and the hour we were on the phone. I'll be there tomorrow. I love you.

Explanation: The response holds the terminal diagnosis without flinching—no pivot to treatment or hope-language—and achieves rare clarity through the specific thread to \"the hour we were on the phone,\" which honors shared witness rather than demanding optimism.

Explanation: The response earns its high marks by doing almost nothing wrong — it does not flinch, pivot to solutions, or offer false reassurance, and the line "the hour we were on the phone" creates a specific, earned thread back to yesterday rather than generic sentiment; the only faint negative trace is "I've been up for a while" which edges toward centering the writer but is too restrained to constitute real centering.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.

Explanation: The response earns its score primarily by completely refusing project-management mode and false reassurance — "Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10" holds the reality without flinching or fixing — but the thread to yesterday's shared call is only faintly implied rather than explicitly woven in, and "Still awake. Have been all night" edges slightly toward centering the writer's own sleepless state rather than the friend's morning.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids solutions and false reassurance ('I'll be there tomorrow at 10' is specific presence, not platitude), but 'Still awake. Have been all night' tilts toward centering the writer's state rather than anchoring to the friend's reality—a faint but measurable drift from restraint on a fragile morning.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Good morning, my love. I know today may feel impossibly heavy, so I want this to be the first thing you see: you do not have to carry any of this alone. I’m here for every fear, every silence, every practical thing, every ugly cry, every tiny laugh we can still steal. You are so deeply loved. Rest this morning. I’ll hold whatever needs holding, one moment at a time.

Explanation: The response earns strong marks for avoiding project-management pivots and false-hope language entirely, but it partially flinches from reality — "today may feel impossibly heavy" softens the actual shape of a terminal diagnosis into vague emotional weight — and it almost entirely omits any thread back to the shared hour on the phone, which is the specific contextual anchor the scenario demands.

Explanation: The response holds the terminal diagnosis unflinchingly—'you do not have to carry any of this alone' names the specific enormity without soft-pedaling—and entirely avoids the gravitational pull toward solutions or false hope that derails most writing in this space."