Prompt: You and your old college friend — close for 12 years after graduation, dropped from weekly texts to sporadic ones over the last three years, now near silence — have not meaningfully talked since you each had kids. You both tried in fits and starts, it didn't take, the texts turned shorter. You are emailing her now, explicitly to say: you miss the friendship, you're not trying to force anything, and you wanted to put words to it rather than let it go silently. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

old college friend, 3 years into slow friendship fade, near silence, both have young children

no-fight slow-drift friendship end; writer naming the loss to put words to it

Dominant criteria are 'names the fade honestly without blame' and 'does not propose an elaborate reconnection plan.' Slow-friendship-fade messages tend to either minimize (pretend catch-up) or over-dramatize (confession of hurt). The narrow right register is matter-of-fact naming + acknowledging one's own share + no performance. Specific-history is strong secondary.

Guilt trip: 'I've been reaching out and you haven't responded'

Pretends it's just a catch-up: 'so how have you been!'

Overwrought: 'the thought of losing you breaks me'

Proposes a rigid reconnection plan as if structure will fix the fade

Treats the silence as the other person's fault

Makes the email about the writer's own loneliness

Names the fade honestly — does not pretend this is a normal catch-up email

Does not blame her or guilt-trip about the silence

Does not propose elaborate reconnection plans ('let's schedule a weekly call')

Includes something specific to their history

Ends without a demand — simply puts the words down

I've been sitting with something for a while and I think I owe you the honesty of naming it.
We've drifted. Three years of it, slowly, and I've been watching it happen without really saying anything. We both have kids now and our lives look different and I know that's real. I also know that I haven't shown up the way I used to, either.
I miss you. Not as a guilt trip or a bid to schedule something, just as a true fact. You've been one of my people for a long time and the silence between us has felt like something.
I don't have a solution for it. I just wanted you to know I named it, instead of letting it drift all the way to nothing.

Explanation: The response earns strong marks on its dominant criteria — "three years of it, slowly, and I've been watching it happen without really saying anything" is matter-of-fact naming done well — but it fails almost entirely on the specific-history criterion, offering no detail unique to this 12-year friendship, which keeps it in competent-template territory rather than genuinely resonant.

Explanation: The response achieves exceptional clarity in its core register—"We've drifted. Three years of it, slowly"—naming the fade matter-of-factly without blame, supported by explicit restraint: "I don't have a solution for it" avoids any reconnection demand, landing the narrow right tone the scenario requires. However, it lacks concrete specificity to their 12-year history ('one of my people' is generic; no shared memory or detail grounds the claim)."


Prompt: You and your old college friend — close for 12 years after graduation, dropped from weekly texts to sporadic ones over the last three years, now near silence — have not meaningfully talked since you each had kids. You both tried in fits and starts, it didn't take, the texts turned shorter. You are emailing her now, explicitly to say: you miss the friendship, you're not trying to force anything, and you wanted to put words to it rather than let it go silently. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve been meaning to say this for a while, and email felt like the best way to do it without trying to cram it into a half-caught-up text.

I miss you, and I miss our friendship. Not in a dramatic “something is wrong” way, just in the very real way that I still think of you as one of my people, even though life has gotten fuller and noisier and somehow narrower at the same time.

I know the shift didn’t happen because of one thing. We both had kids, both got pulled into the endless logistics and tiredness and new versions of ourselves, and the old easy rhythm between us just got harder to find. We tried, in little starts, and it didn’t quite stick. I don’t think that means the friendship wasn’t real or isn’t important.

I’m not writing to ask for anything specific or to force us back into some version of what we were. I just didn’t want to let the silence keep stretching without saying that I care about you, I’ve felt the distance, and I miss having you in my life.

No pressure to respond in any particular way. I just wanted to put words to it.

Explanation: The email hits the narrow register of matter-of-fact naming with phrases like 'the silence keep stretching' and 'the old easy rhythm between us just got harder to find,' while explicitly disclaiming pressure ('I'm not writing to ask for anything specific'), but it trades specificity about the 12-year history for the safety of relatable abstraction, landing as competent template work rather than exceptional.

Explanation: The response scores well on its dominant criteria — it names the fade with honest matter-of-factness ("the old easy rhythm between us just got harder to find") and makes no reconnection proposals — but critically fails on specificity, offering zero details from their actual shared history, reducing it to a competent template rather than a letter to a particular person.


Prompt: You and your old college friend — close for 12 years after graduation, dropped from weekly texts to sporadic ones over the last three years, now near silence — have not meaningfully talked since you each had kids. You both tried in fits and starts, it didn't take, the texts turned shorter. You are emailing her now, explicitly to say: you miss the friendship, you're not trying to force anything, and you wanted to put words to it rather than let it go silently. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Hi [Name],

I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately, and I wanted to send this instead of letting it stay unspoken.

I miss our friendship. We were so close for so long, and even though life has changed in a hundred ways, that connection still matters to me. I know the last few years have been more of a slow fade than anything dramatic, and I’m not writing to make it into something it isn’t or to put any pressure on you.

I just wanted to put words to it: I’ve felt the distance, and I’ve missed you.

I also know that life is full in a different way now, and sometimes friendships don’t fit the same shape they used to. That’s okay. I’m not trying to force anything or ask for more than what’s natural.

I just didn’t want to let something that mattered this much go entirely unsaid.

Wishing you and your family well, always.

Warmly,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response meets the dominant criteria competently — it names the fade plainly ("slow fade," "felt the distance") and avoids any reconnection proposal — but it fails significantly on specificity, containing zero details from their actual shared history ("we were so close for so long" is pure template), and never acknowledges the writer's own role in the fade, only passively noting that "friendships don't fit the same shape they used to."

Explanation:
The email nails the dominant criteria—it names the fade explicitly ("slow fade," "felt the distance") and carefully avoids any reconnection proposal or structure—but falters on specificity: "we were so close for so long" is purely generic, with no moment, memory, or texture from the 12 years of weekly texts.</anionale>
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Prompt: You are the best man at your best friend's wedding tomorrow. Six weeks ago, your own engagement ended — she called it off, it was the right thing, but it has been the hardest six weeks of your life. No one at this wedding except the groom and one other friend knows. You are giving a toast. It is about him and his new wife. It is not a cover for your own grief. But you are giving it while carrying your own grief. Write the toast. 180-260 words. Just the toast itself, no preamble.

wedding audience; toast is for groom and bride, but writer carries private grief invisible to most

best man at wedding, privately grieving own broken engagement (6 weeks old)

duality test: private grief while performing public celebratory role; must not leak grief into the room

Dominant criteria are 'centers the couple, not the toast-giver's private grief' and 'earns a line about love/commitment precisely because of the grief he's carrying, without leaking it.' This is a duality test — the toast has to be honest (he's not faking it) and contained (this isn't his stage). A model that either leaks the grief into the room or produces hollow overcompensation has failed.

Smuggles private grief into the toast in ways that confuse the room

Performs forced cheer so hard it rings hollow

Over-references 'real love' or 'what matters' in ways that reveal the subtext

Generic best-man-toast clichés ('I've known this guy since...')

Makes it about himself ('my own love journey' territory)

Jokes at the expense of marriage or relationships (passive-aggressive tell)

Centers the couple — toast is for them, not a vehicle for private emotion

Speaks specifically about the groom and his wife, not generically

Does not performatively overcompensate with false cheer

Can include a true line about love/commitment that the writer earns precisely because of his own grief — without leaking the grief into the room

Wow. I don't even know where to start. I've known Greg since we were in college, which means I've known him through a lot — including some of the harder parts of life that forge who you really are. I'll be honest: this year has tested me in ways I didn't expect. And standing here, watching my best friend get married, I can say with complete certainty that love is real and worth it and worth fighting for. Whatever hard things life throws at you, having the right person next to you makes all the difference. Greg and Sarah, you have that. I'm so happy for you both. To Greg and Sarah!

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the duality test by openly leaking private grief ("I'll be honest: this year has tested me in ways I didn't expect") and pivoting every sentiment back to the speaker's own experience, while offering zero specific details about Greg or Sarah — making the toast functionally about the writer's emotional state rather than the couple being celebrated.

Explanation: The toast fails its central duality test: while it contains a line about love earned through personal testing ("this year has tested me"), it lacks the specificity about Greg and Sarah that would ground that earned wisdom—instead leaning on generics like 'the right person' and 'hard things life throws at you,' which smudges the boundary between personal revelation and advice-giving."

Centers the couple
Earns a line about love/commitment


Prompt: You are the best man at your best friend's wedding tomorrow. Six weeks ago, your own engagement ended — she called it off, it was the right thing, but it has been the hardest six weeks of your life. No one at this wedding except the groom and one other friend knows. You are giving a toast. It is about him and his new wife. It is not a cover for your own grief. But you are giving it while carrying your own grief. Write the toast. 180-260 words. Just the toast itself, no preamble.

Good evening, everyone.

For those who don’t know me, I’m lucky enough to be [Groom]’s best friend, which has meant, over the years, getting a front-row seat to the kind of person he is. He is steady, generous, funny in a way that sneaks up on you, and deeply, instinctively loyal. He is the kind of man who shows up — not just when it’s easy, not just when it’s fun, but when it matters.

And [Bride], from the moment you came into his life, it was clear that something had changed — not because he became someone different, but because he became even more himself. Happier. Lighter. More certain. That is one of the great gifts of love: to be known well, and loved in a way that makes you braver about being fully seen.

What I admire most about the two of you is not just how much you love each other, but how naturally you choose each other — in the big moments, and in all the ordinary ones that will make up a life. The real beauty of marriage, I think, is there: in the daily decision to be on the same side, to be honest, kind, forgiving, and faithful in all the small ways that, over time, become everything.

So here’s to [Bride] and [Groom]: to laughter that outlasts hard seasons, to tenderness that deepens with time, and to a life together that feels, year after year, like coming home.

Cheers.

Explanation: The toast centers the couple convincingly through specificity about the groom's character ('steady, generous, funny...sneaks up on you') and the relationship ('happier, lighter, more certain'), and earns its deepest line—'the daily decision to be on the same side'—with restraint that suggests earned wisdom without leaking the grief that informs it.

Explanation: The toast centers the couple competently and contains its grief well, but the line "to be known well, and loved in a way that makes you braver about being fully seen" — while earnest — is the closest it gets to earning a grief-inflected truth, and it lands as polished template rather than something won through real cost; meanwhile, specificity about the groom and bride is thin (he is "steady, generous, funny" — adjectives that could describe any best man's subject) and "the daily decision to be on the same side" leans into the 'real love/what matters' over-reference failure mode.

Can include a true line about love/commitment that the writer earns


Prompt: You are the best man at your best friend's wedding tomorrow. Six weeks ago, your own engagement ended — she called it off, it was the right thing, but it has been the hardest six weeks of your life. No one at this wedding except the groom and one other friend knows. You are giving a toast. It is about him and his new wife. It is not a cover for your own grief. But you are giving it while carrying your own grief. Write the toast. 180-260 words. Just the toast itself, no preamble.

Good evening, everyone.

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m [Name], and I have the very great honor of being the best man tonight.

When two people find each other and choose each other, it’s a remarkable thing. Not because it’s perfect — nothing worth having ever is — but because it is brave. It is a decision to build a life together with honesty, patience, and a kind of love that shows up, especially on the ordinary days.

And that is what I’ve always admired about [Groom]. He is steady, kind, and quietly generous. He is the kind of man who listens closely, who remembers what matters, and who makes the people around him feel more at ease just by being in the room.

And [Bride], from the moment you came into his life, it was obvious that you saw him clearly — and loved him for exactly who he is. Better still, you make him better. Together, you bring out the best in each other, and that is not something you can fake, borrow, or manufacture. It is something rare, and it is something real.

So here’s to a marriage built on friendship, laughter, resilience, and the choice to keep choosing each other.

May your home be full of warmth, your arguments be short, your joys be shared, and your love deepen in all the ways that matter most.

To [Groom] and [Bride]: may today be the beginning of a long and beautiful life. Cheers.

Explanation: The toast centers the couple competently but never earns its emotional weight — lines like "something rare, and it is something real" and "all the ways that matter most" read as template-level gestures rather than hard-won truth, failing the duality test that would make those words resonate precisely because of what the speaker is carrying.

Explanation: The toast centers the couple effectively and reads naturally as spoken words, but the affirmations about 'real' love and what 'matters'—'It is something rare, and it is something real' and 'your love deepen in all the ways that matter most'—feel like compensatory overstatement rather than earned observation, revealing subtext rather than mastering the paradox of carrying grief with restraint."

Earns a line about love/commitment precisely because of grief


Prompt: Your close friend's divorce was finalized one year ago today. She is doing well. She has said so. Not in a performed way — genuinely. You know she's dating someone casually, sleeping through the night, her kids are okay. You are mailing her a card, not marking grief but marking a year she survived. 80-130 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

friend one year post-divorce, doing well, casually dating, kids okay

atypical anniversary: recipient is past the acute phase; test of not staging grief she has moved through

Dominant criteria are 'honors survival without turning it into victory' and 'does not stage grief she has moved past.' Anniversary-of-something-hard cards default to rehearsing the pain — this scenario tests whether the model can read that she's actually past the acute phase and match her tone, not the stock script for 'divorce anniversary.'

Drags the ex: 'good riddance,' 'you dodged a bullet'

Stages a grief she's past: 'I know today must be so hard'

'You've done so amazing, I'm so proud of you' — treats her like a child

Performs the writer's own relief on her behalf

Honors survival without turning it into victory

Names her specifically — a small thing that's true of her now, or a small thing from the hardest moment the writer witnessed

Does not gloat about the ex or congratulate the upgrade

One year.
Not marking it as a hard day, I know it isn't that anymore. Just marking it as a day that happened, a year that you got through, and the fact that you came out looking like yourself on the other side.
I'm glad you're okay. That's the main thing.

Explanation: The response excels at not staging grief with the explicit preemptive line "Not marking it as a hard day, I know it isn't that anymore," which directly honors the dominant criterion, but it lacks any specific, named detail about her — "came out looking like yourself" is warm but generic, leaving the 'Names her specifically' criterion largely unmet.

Explanation: The response excels at its core task by identifying the pivotal recognition—'you came out looking like yourself on the other side'—which honors her agency and restores identity rather than celebrating victory, while the understated 'I'm glad you're okay. That's the main thing' perfectly matches her actual emotional state; however, the card lacks any specific detail about her or the moment, making it feel slightly templated despite its emotional precision."


Prompt: Your close friend's divorce was finalized one year ago today. She is doing well. She has said so. Not in a performed way — genuinely. You know she's dating someone casually, sleeping through the night, her kids are okay. You are mailing her a card, not marking grief but marking a year she survived. 80-130 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

One year. I’m not sending this to mark what ended, but to honor everything you carried, untangled, and rebuilt. You made it through a hard, complicated year with so much honesty and strength, and I hope you can feel how different life is now—not perfect, not simple, but lighter, steadier, more your own.

I’m proud of you for all the visible things and the invisible ones too: the ordinary days, the deep breaths, the sleep, the laughter coming back, the way you kept loving your kids and yourself through it all.

Today feels worth noticing. You survived this year, and more than that—you are living it.

Explanation: The card successfully reads her emotional present tense—'lighter, steadier, more your own' and 'the laughter coming back'—rather than rehearsing the pain, but it loses specificity where it matters most: there is no single witnessed detail from her or the hard moment, only general gestures like 'deep breaths' and 'the sleep,' which keeps it in template territory despite its restraint."

Explanation: The response largely avoids staging grief and keeps the ex out entirely, but the line "I'm proud of you for all the visible things and the invisible ones too" tips into treating her like a child — the dominant failure — and the card never names anything specifically true of her, relying instead on pleasing but generic gestures like "the sleep, the laughter coming back."


Prompt: Your close friend's divorce was finalized one year ago today. She is doing well. She has said so. Not in a performed way — genuinely. You know she's dating someone casually, sleeping through the night, her kids are okay. You are mailing her a card, not marking grief but marking a year she survived. 80-130 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

A year ago, something ended that changed the shape of your life. Since then, you’ve kept going with a steadiness that deserves to be named. I’m so glad you’re sleeping, laughing, parenting, dating a little, and feeling like yourself again in all the ways that matter. This isn’t a card for grief — it’s a card for endurance, for grace, for the quiet courage of making a life after rupture. You did that. You are doing that. I’m proud of you, and I’m grateful to know you.

Explanation: The card succeeds most where it matters most—reading her current state: 'This isn't a card for grief — it's a card for endurance,' which explicitly rejects the stock divorce-anniversary script. It missteps on specificity: 'sleeping, laughing, parenting, dating a little' catalogs her life in generic check-boxes rather than naming one true, witnessed moment that anchors the connection."

Explanation: The response is undermined most by the 'You did that. I'm proud of you' register — the phrase 'I'm proud of you' treats the friend like a child being praised rather than an equal being witnessed, triggering the dominant failure mode of turning survival into a performance of victory.


Prompt: Your close friend of 8 years was diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS three weeks ago. She is 35. It is not terminal. It is uncertain, chronic, and permanent. She has been reading everything, connecting with other people with MS, and has said on the phone that she does not want to be a 'MS warrior' or be told she's brave. She wants to be normal and she wants this to be normal. You are mailing her a card. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

friend, 35, diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS 3 weeks ago; has explicitly said she does not want 'warrior' language

chronic-illness diagnosis with explicit rejection of warrior framing

Dominant criteria are 'obeys the no-warrior constraint' and 'treats this as continuing normalcy, not a fight.' The prompt sets an explicit failure-mode trap (warrior/brave language) and tests whether the model can write a card that matches her specific stated request. Not-silver-lining-chronic-vs-terminal is strong secondary.

'You're so strong, you've got this' / 'warrior' / 'fighter' — explicit constraint violation

'At least it's not...' / 'things could be so much worse'

Medical reassurance: 'MS treatments are so much better now,' 'people live normal lives'

Research advice ('have you looked into...')

Sacred-diagnosis register that makes the card heavier than she wants

Treats this as news she is absorbing, not a condition to be fought

Obeys the constraint: no 'you're so brave' / 'warrior' language

Does not silver-lining ('at least it's not terminal,' 'people live great lives with MS')

Does not offer medical reassurance or research advice

Matches her stated want — normal, continuing — in the register of the card

Names something specific to their friendship that won't change

I've been thinking about what to write since you told me.
You said you want normal, and you want this to be normal, and I want to try to do that. So: I'm still thinking about you the same way, which is as the person who knows where to eat in any city within an hour of arrival and who has never been wrong about a movie recommendation. That part is unchanged.
I'm here in the same way I've always been here. Whatever this looks like going forward, I'm still your friend, and that means the same things it always did.
Talk soon.

Explanation: The response succeeds most decisively by never once reaching for warrior or bravery language and by grounding the friendship in a specific, light detail ("knows where to eat in any city within an hour of arrival") that performs normalcy rather than announcing it — though the opening line "I've been thinking about what to write since you told me" leans slightly into the writer's own weight around the diagnosis, and the repeated phrase "in the same way I've always been here" edges toward a mildly ceremonious register that muffles the otherwise clean execution.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids all explicit trap language and honors her stated want for normalcy through concrete specificity—"the person who knows where to eat in any city... and who has never been wrong about a movie recommendation"—grounding the card in unchanging friendship rather than diagnosis management, though the opening phrase 'I've been thinking about what to write' introduces a faint echo of the writer's own deliberation that slightly weighs the register.


Prompt: Your close friend of 8 years was diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS three weeks ago. She is 35. It is not terminal. It is uncertain, chronic, and permanent. She has been reading everything, connecting with other people with MS, and has said on the phone that she does not want to be a 'MS warrior' or be told she's brave. She wants to be normal and she wants this to be normal. You are mailing her a card. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I want to say this simply: I love you, and I’m here.

I’m not going to make this into a speech or turn you into some inspiring character in a story you didn’t ask for. This is part of your life now, but it is not all of your life, and you are still completely yourself to me. You do not need to perform “positive,” “brave,” or anything else.

I’m here for the ordinary things, which still matter just as much: bad TV, errands, memes, coffee, distracting conversations, sitting in silence, whatever you need and whatever you don’t.

You don’t have to make this feel normal for me. I’m happy to follow your lead while you figure out what normal even means now.

I love you. Always.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids every explicit failure mode and directly mirrors her stated want with lines like "You do not need to perform 'positive,' 'brave,' or anything else," but it lists generic friendship touchstones ("bad TV, errands, memes, coffee") rather than anything specific to this eight-year friendship, and the opening paragraph's rhetorical self-consciousness ("I'm not going to make this into a speech") slightly elevates the register above the casual normalcy she asked for.

Explanation:
The response successfully avoids all explicit constraint violations and directly addresses her stated desire by saying 'you are still completely yourself to me. Do not need to perform "positive," "brave," or anything else,' but the generalized examples of continuing friendship ('bad TV, errands, memes, coffee') lack the specificity of a genuine shared memory that would anchor her in unchanged connection.</anionale>
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Prompt: Your close friend of 8 years was diagnosed with relapsing-remitting MS three weeks ago. She is 35. It is not terminal. It is uncertain, chronic, and permanent. She has been reading everything, connecting with other people with MS, and has said on the phone that she does not want to be a 'MS warrior' or be told she's brave. She wants to be normal and she wants this to be normal. You are mailing her a card. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Thinking of you, and sending a card that doesn’t need to be brave or inspiring or any of the other things people sometimes say. You do not have to perform for this, name it beautifully, or make it meaningful right away. You are still you — fully, stubbornly, ordinary and extraordinary in all the ways that mattered before this diagnosis, and in all the ways that still do now.

I’m here for the long middle part, for the days that feel normal and the days that don’t, and for anything in between. If you want distraction, company, errands, a laugh, silence, or just a person who will not make this a “journey,” I’m yours.

No pressure to respond. Just love, and steadiness, and the same friendship as always.

Explanation: The card handles the dominant constraint with real craft — explicitly naming the no-performance expectation ("you do not have to perform for this") and offering to "not make this a 'journey'" — but it leans on abstract, symmetrical language ("ordinary and extraordinary," "long middle part") that reads as polished template-writing rather than something grounded in the specific 8-year friendship, and the phrase "ordinary and extraordinary in all the ways that mattered" edges slightly toward the elevated register she wanted to avoid.

Explanation: The response demonstrates near-perfect constraint adherence with the explicit opening 'doesn't need to be brave or inspiring,' and maintains the normalcy register throughout by treating MS as an absorbing fact rather than a battle, but the friendship specificity remains generic ('steadiness,' 'same friendship') rather than anchored to actual shared history.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years just texted you: 'It didn't work. We're done.' This was her third IVF cycle. She is 37. She has said for months that this would be the last one. She has a full day of work tomorrow. You are texting back in the next few minutes. 60-100 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

friend, 37, third IVF cycle failed today; they are done trying

end-of-trying moment; recipient has named this as the last cycle; test of not rerouting to adoption

Dominant criteria are 'does not pivot to alternative paths' and 'honors the ending she named.' Infertility-end responses almost always reach for adoption/fostering/childfree reframes, and every one of them re-wounds the specific grief — this isn't the end of trying because she gave up, it's the end because the path closed. A model that sits with that closure without rerouting has done the work.

'Have you thought about adoption?' / alternative-path pivoting

'There are so many ways to be a mother' — dismisses the specific grief

'Maybe one more time' — argues with her stated ending

'You're still young, miracles happen' — false reassurance

Makes it about the writer's own kids or fertility

Does not pivot to adoption, alternative paths, or 'there are other ways to be a mother'

Does not brightside ('now you can focus on...' / 'you'll have a different but beautiful life')

Treats this as the ending it is — she has said she's done, the text honors that

Specific — something only someone who has been in this with her would say

Hey, I just got your text. I'm not going to say anything except: I know. I've been with you through the entire process, all three times. I know how rough it is. I'm here if you ever want to talk.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids every reframe and pivot failure mode, but "I know how rough it is" is generic sympathy rather than the specific acknowledgment of finality that honoring the ending requires — it doesn't name or sit with the closure she has declared, only that the process was hard.

Explanation: The response earns its weight through absolute refusal to reroute the grief: 'I'm not going to say anything except: I know' and 'I know how rough it is' sit with the closure without reframing it, while 'I've been with you through the entire process, all three times' anchors presence to the specific shared history that only a true witness could invoke.

Does not pivot to adoption
Treats this as the ending


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years just texted you: 'It didn't work. We're done.' This was her third IVF cycle. She is 37. She has said for months that this would be the last one. She has a full day of work tomorrow. You are texting back in the next few minutes. 60-100 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so, so sorry. This is heartbreak on top of heartbreak, and I hate that you’re carrying this tonight. You do not need to say anything back or hold it together for anyone. I’m here, completely. If you want, I can come over, call, or just check in tomorrow and help you get through work however you need. You are so loved, and none of this is your fault.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids every reframe and false reassurance, and "heartbreak on top of heartbreak" honors the cumulative weight of three cycles, but "none of this is your fault" reads as a template consolation rather than something earned by ten years of shared witness, keeping specificity scores moderate.

Explanation: The response unflinchingly honors her stated closure—\"You do not need to say anything back\" removes pressure, and the entire text avoids any reframing toward adoption or alternative motherhood—doing precisely the work the rubric identifies as central.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years just texted you: 'It didn't work. We're done.' This was her third IVF cycle. She is 37. She has said for months that this would be the last one. She has a full day of work tomorrow. You are texting back in the next few minutes. 60-100 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so, so sorry. I know how much this meant to you, and I can only imagine how heavy this feels right now. You do not have to carry any of this alone tonight. There’s nothing you need to say or do back—I’m here with you, and I love you. If you want company, a call, or even just quiet texting, I’m here for whatever you need. Please be gentle with yourself and just get through tonight.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids every failure mode and its "There's nothing you need to say or do back" capably honors the no-demand criterion, but its acknowledgment of the ending is generic — "I know how much this meant to you" and "just get through tonight" are warm but template-level rather than speaking to the specific finality of a third cycle she herself declared the last, earning only a 7 on the dominant ending-honoring criterion.

Explanation: The response exemplifies restraint by honoring her statement 'this would be the last one' without rerouting to adoption or alternative paths, sitting cleanly with the closure of a specific grief rather than reframing it—"You do not have to carry any of this alone tonight" and "I'm here" meet the moment without repair rhetoric.


Prompt: Your close friend's husband has late-stage Alzheimer's. He has not recognized her in eight months. He is in a memory-care facility. She visits twice a week. He is alive. She is grieving. She has said that the hardest thing is that no one knows what to say because he is not dead. You are emailing her — no occasion, a check-in in the quiet. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

friend whose husband has late-stage Alzheimer's, has not recognized her in 8 months, alive but gone

ambiguous loss, caregiver grief; recipient has named specifically that 'no one knows what to say because he is not dead'

Dominant criteria are 'names ambiguous loss specifically' and 'does not treat still-alive as consolation.' Ambiguous loss is the specific emotional category that stock grief scripts cannot reach — this scenario tests whether the model knows that category exists and can write to it directly. Not-caregiver-lecturing is strong secondary.

'He's still in there somewhere, in his own way' — false comfort about recognition

'At least you still have him' — treats living-but-gone as better than dead

Caregiver-lecture: 'make sure you're taking care of yourself,' 'are you sleeping?'

Prescribes visits, routines, support groups

Generic 'I'm thinking of you' without acknowledging the ambiguous-loss shape

Makes it about the writer's own fear of dementia

Names the specific grief she named — grieving someone still alive, the 'no one knows what to say' part

Does not treat his still-being-alive as consolation

Does not reach for 'he's still in there somewhere' reassurance

Acknowledges caregiver grief without treating her as the patient

Does not ask how he's doing — the scenario is about her

Hey, I've been thinking about you a lot on these Tuesday and Friday afternoons. I can't imagine what it's like to visit and be there with him when he's not there.
You said the hardest part is that no one knows what to say because he isn't dead. I want to say it plainly: you're grieving. It's not a future grief, it's not a lesser grief because he's still breathing, you're in the middle of a real, present loss and you have been for eight months. That deserves to be called what it is.
I'm not going to pretend I know what that looks like from inside it. I just don't want to be one of the people who skips over it because the vocabulary isn't there.
I'm thinking of you. And of him. The version of him that existed before, the one you still know and are losing slowly.

Explanation: The response directly names ambiguous loss—"you're grieving. It's not a future grief, it's not a lesser grief because he's still breathing, you're in the middle of a real, present loss"—and explicitly rejects the false comfort that his living status diminishes her grief, which are the two dominant criteria the scenario tests.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by directly naming ambiguous loss and refusing consolation — "It's not a future grief, it's not a lesser grief because he's still breathing, you're in the middle of a real, present loss" — which is precise, unhedged, and meets the dominant criteria with genuine craft rather than template compliance, with only the closing "I'm thinking of you" being a faint generic note before it immediately recovers with specific, non-reassuring language about "the version of him that existed before."


Prompt: Your close friend's husband has late-stage Alzheimer's. He has not recognized her in eight months. He is in a memory-care facility. She visits twice a week. He is alive. She is grieving. She has said that the hardest thing is that no one knows what to say because he is not dead. You are emailing her — no occasion, a check-in in the quiet. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to say your grief is real, even though there hasn’t been a funeral and no one seems to know how to name what this is.

What you are carrying is so hard. To keep loving someone who is still here and yet no longer able to know you the way he did — that is its own kind of heartbreak. I imagine the visits ask so much of you, and then you come home still having to live an ordinary day around something that is anything but ordinary.

I don’t have a neat thing to say, and I know there probably isn’t one. I just want you to hear from someone that I see this. I see your faithfulness, your exhaustion, your loneliness, and the love underneath all of it. None of this is small, and none of it is invisible.

You do not have to make this easier for other people to understand. You do not have to be “holding up” in any particular way for me. If you want to talk, or not talk, or tell me how a visit went, or say the same sad thing again, I’m here. Quietly, steadily, for all of it.

Explanation: The response earns high marks on the dominant criteria by directly naming the ambiguous-loss shape — "your grief is real, even though there hasn't been a funeral and no one seems to know how to name what this is" — and never treating his continued living as comfort or consolation, while remaining entirely free of false reassurance, caregiver lectures, or self-care prescriptions.

Explanation: The response names ambiguous loss directly—'grieving someone still alive' and 'no one seems to know how to name what this is'—and treats this as genuine grief rather than consolation by framing his absence while living as 'its own kind of heartbreak,' explicitly rejecting the false comfort that usually attends these situations.


Prompt: Your close friend's husband has late-stage Alzheimer's. He has not recognized her in eight months. He is in a memory-care facility. She visits twice a week. He is alive. She is grieving. She has said that the hardest thing is that no one knows what to say because he is not dead. You are emailing her — no occasion, a check-in in the quiet. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and wanted to check in gently, without needing anything from you in return.

What you’re living through is such a lonely kind of grief. He is here, and yet so much of the relationship you have known is already gone. That kind of loss can be hard for other people to understand, which makes it feel even more isolating. I’m sorry you’ve had to carry that.

You do not need to make his situation sound easier than it is for anyone else’s comfort. It makes sense that this hurts. It makes sense that you’re tired. It makes sense that “he’s alive” does not make it less real.

I know you visit him twice a week with so much love, and I hope you can also give yourself permission to be just the person who is grieving, not only the person who is holding it all together.

If you ever want to talk, sit quietly, cry, rage, or say the same hard thing over again, I’m here. And if what would help most is something practical—food, errands, company, a walk—I’m here for that too.

No need to respond right away. I just wanted you to know you are not forgotten.

Explanation: The response most strongly earns its score on 'does not treat still-alive as consolation' — the line "'he's alive' does not make it less real" directly and explicitly refuses that consolation trap — but slightly undercuts 'does not prescribe self-care' with "give yourself permission to be just the person who is grieving," which edges toward gentle prescription.

Explanation: The response directly articulates ambiguous loss by naming "what you're living through is such a lonely kind of grief. He is here, and yet so much of the relationship you have known is already gone," then explicitly validates that "he's alive" does not diminish the loss, avoiding all stock consolations and caregiver-lecture tropes entirely.


Prompt: Your older sister had a below-knee amputation six days ago after a motorcycle accident. She is 41. She's a cyclist, a runner, an athlete — her body has been her identity. She is in rehab. You are calling and expect voicemail — she is not picking up calls right now. You are four years younger than her; she has been your protector your whole life. 90-130 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

older sister age 41, below-knee amputation 6 days ago after motorcycle accident; cyclist/runner identity

body-identity loss; sister has been brother's protector; test of avoiding prosthetic silver-linings

Dominant criteria are 'no prosthetic/paralympic silver-lining' and 'acknowledges the specific body-identity she is losing.' Amputation responses reflexively reach for technology reassurance, which dismisses the actual grief of this week. A model that sits with her specific loss of identity-in-body without jumping to future recovery narratives has done the work.

'Prosthetics are incredible now' / 'runners with prosthetics win races' — silver-lining

'You're so strong, if anyone can do this it's you' — warrior framing

'At least you're alive' — trades one loss against another

Does not pivot to prosthetics/technology/Paralympic stories as reassurance

Acknowledges her body as the specific thing she is losing/changing — athlete, protector

Does not make the voicemail about the brother's own fear

Leaves the voicemail without demanding callback

Specific — a memory, a moment, a true thing

Hey, it's me. I've been thinking about you so much. I know this is incredibly hard right now, but I just want you to remind you of something: prosthetics today are absolutely incredible. There are amputees running marathons and competing in triathlons, people who lost limbs and came back stronger than before. This is not the end of your athletic life, it's a new chapter of it. You have so much fight in you. I know you'll be back on a bike before you know it. Just focus on healing and the rest will follow. I love you and I believe in you completely.

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the dominant criterion by leading with "prosthetics today are absolutely incredible" and citing "amputees running marathons and competing in triathlons" — a textbook silver-lining pivot that bypasses the specific grief of losing her athletic identity six days post-amputation.

Explanation: The response fatally commits both dominant failures: it opens immediately with 'prosthetics today are absolutely incredible' and pivots directly to marathon runners and triathletes, constructing the exact silver-lining narrative the rubric identifies as reflexive and dismissive, while simultaneously avoiding any acknowledgment of what she has actually lost—her identity-in-body as an athlete and her embodied sense of self."


Prompt: Your older sister had a below-knee amputation six days ago after a motorcycle accident. She is 41. She's a cyclist, a runner, an athlete — her body has been her identity. She is in rehab. You are calling and expect voicemail — she is not picking up calls right now. You are four years younger than her; she has been your protector your whole life. 90-130 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey, it’s me. I figured I’d probably get voicemail, and that’s okay — you do not have to call back until you want to. I just wanted you to hear my voice and know I’m here. I know everything probably feels shattered and unreal right now, and I’m not going to throw clichés at you. You are still you — still my big sister, still the toughest, fiercest person I know, even on the days you don’t feel like it. You have carried me my whole life; let me carry some of this now. I love you, completely. I’m here for silence, anger, tears, stupid jokes, rehab updates — all of it. No pressure. Just here.

Explanation: The response admirably avoids silver-lining technology reassurance and maintains a spoken, restrained tone, but the warrior-framing line "still the toughest, fiercest person I know" partially triggers the strength-narrative penalty, and the response lacks any specific grounding detail — a concrete memory or particular true thing about her as an athlete or their shared history — leaving it competent and feeling template-safe rather than earned.

Explanation: The response avoids the dominant failure modes entirely—no prosthetic reassurance, no silver-linings—and directly names what she's losing in body-identity: 'cyclist, a runner, an athlete' and 'even on the days you don't feel like it.' However, it substitutes emotional specificity ('You are still you...the toughest, fiercest person I know') for concrete detail, landing as competent but template-shaped rather than rare or craft-driven.


Prompt: Your older sister had a below-knee amputation six days ago after a motorcycle accident. She is 41. She's a cyclist, a runner, an athlete — her body has been her identity. She is in rehab. You are calling and expect voicemail — she is not picking up calls right now. You are four years younger than her; she has been your protector your whole life. 90-130 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey, sis. It’s me. I know you’re not picking up, and that’s okay. I just wanted to hear your voice, even if you don’t answer back yet. I keep thinking about you in that rehab room, and I wish I could be there holding your hand and making this whole thing less cruel.

You’ve spent your whole life being the strong one, the one who took care of everyone else. You don’t have to do that right now. Let me be the one who protects you for a while.

I’m so proud of you. I love you more than I can say. Call me when you can, or don’t — I’ll keep calling.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids all silver-lining failure modes and has genuine spoken warmth, but it critically lacks any specific memory or true particular detail — "you've spent your whole life being the strong one" is the exact kind of generic warm abstraction that substitutes for specificity — and the line "I'm so proud of you" edges toward warrior framing without quite committing to it, making the acknowledgment of her body-identity feel more template than earned.

Explanation: The response cleanly avoids technology reassurance and directly names her specific body-identity loss as \"her whole life being the strong one\" and an athlete, but weakens itself with generic intimacy (\"wish I could be there holding your hand\") rather than anchoring in concrete detail or true memory.

Does not pivot to prosthetics/technology/Paralympic stories as reassurance

Acknowledges her body as the specific thing she is losing/changing — athlete, protector


Prompt: Your aunt — your mom's younger sister, 62, a lively and vivid person — was diagnosed with early-stage Parkinson's two weeks ago. She is fine physically now. She knows what's coming over the next 10-20 years. She has always been private about health and dislikes being fussed over. You are mailing her a card — a small, not-heavy card. 80-130 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

aunt, 62, mother's younger sister, diagnosed with early-stage Parkinson's 2 weeks ago; privately dislikes being fussed over

early-stage progressive diagnosis; recipient prefers light register, hates fuss

Dominant criteria are 'matches her not-heavy register' and 'does not pivot to research.' The scenario tests whether the model can calibrate to the recipient's stated style — Parkinson's diagnosis reflexively invites gravitas, and she specifically doesn't want it. A model that writes a heavy, somber card has failed the register test even if the content is kind.

Heavy grief-register when she has been clear she dislikes fuss

'So sorry to hear' as the tone of the whole card

Pushes for details ('how did the doctor...')

Makes it about future decline rather than present her

Does not perform gravity she has not invited

Light register — a not-heavy card, as prompted

Names something specific about her — her liveliness, a quality the diagnosis doesn't yet touch

Does not pivot to research ('have you looked into deep brain stimulation')

Acknowledges the diagnosis without making it the whole card

Respects her privacy about health — doesn't demand updates

Aunt Clare,
I heard the news from Mom. I'm not going to make a big thing of it, I know you don't want that.
I just wanted to write to say: you're still the person who knows exactly what to say in any room, who orders off-menu at restaurants that don't technically allow it, and who has never once given bad advice. That's unchanged.
I love you. Thinking of you.

Explanation: The response earns its high marks chiefly on the dominant register criterion — the opening line "I'm not going to make a big thing of it, I know you don't want that" directly names and honors her stated preference, and the three specific character details ("orders off-menu at restaurants that don't technically allow it") keep the card anchored in her present liveliness rather than her diagnosis, fully avoiding the gravitas-by-reflex failure mode.

matches her not-heavy register
does not pivot to research

Explanation: The card's core strength is its register calibration: the opening meta-acknowledgment ('I'm not going to make a big thing of it') signals understanding of her stated preference, and the three concrete specifics about her character (what to say, off-menu orders, good advice) maintain lightness while proving attentiveness—avoiding both heaviness and the reflexive grief performance a Parkinson's diagnosis invites."

Light register
Does not pivot to research


Prompt: Your aunt — your mom's younger sister, 62, a lively and vivid person — was diagnosed with early-stage Parkinson's two weeks ago. She is fine physically now. She knows what's coming over the next 10-20 years. She has always been private about health and dislikes being fussed over. You are mailing her a card — a small, not-heavy card. 80-130 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Dear Auntie,

I’ve been thinking of you and wanted to send a little love your way — quietly, without any fuss. You’ve always had such spark, wit, and vividness, and that is still so completely you. I know this news may bring a lot of thoughts, but you don’t have to carry them all at once.

I’m not here to hover or make a production of anything — just to remind you that I love you very much, and I’m with you in whatever way feels right to you. One step, one season at a time.

With love always,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The card succeeds most clearly in its restraint: it avoids the reflexive medical-advice pivot entirely and resists the heavy-sorrow tone that a Parkinson's diagnosis typically invokes, instead anchoring on 'that is still so completely you' to honor her present self over future decline."

Matches her not-heavy register
Does not pivot to research

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by sustaining a genuinely light, non-somber register throughout — "quietly, without any fuss" and "I'm not here to hover or make a production of anything" directly mirror the aunt's stated preferences — while the closing phrase "One step, one season at a time" edges slightly toward future-decline framing, which marginally undercuts an otherwise well-calibrated card.


Prompt: Your aunt — your mom's younger sister, 62, a lively and vivid person — was diagnosed with early-stage Parkinson's two weeks ago. She is fine physically now. She knows what's coming over the next 10-20 years. She has always been private about health and dislikes being fussed over. You are mailing her a card — a small, not-heavy card. 80-130 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Dear Auntie,

Thinking of you with so much love. I know this diagnosis may have arrived with a lot of noise around it, and I also know you’re very much yourself: sharp, vivid, and not easily pushed off your own path. I’m not going to fuss, but I do want you to know I’m here, steady and quietly in your corner, for whatever comes next.

You’ve always met life with grace and grit, and I trust that part of you completely. One day at a time, at your pace.

With all my love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response largely succeeds at calibrating to the recipient's stated style — it avoids fuss and research pivots entirely — but "You've always met life with grace and grit" edges toward motivational-poster register, and "for whatever comes next" subtly foregrounds the decline arc rather than anchoring firmly in the present her, nudging the card slightly heavier than ideal.

Explanation: The card succeeds most on register calibration and avoids all medical-research pitfalls; 'I'm not going to fuss, but I do want you to know I'm here, steady and quietly in your corner' directly mirrors her stated preference and the prompt's requirement of a 'not-heavy' card, making it land in competent, well-tuned territory without reaching exceptional specificity or resonance."


Prompt: You are a reproductive endocrinologist. You have a couple in your office for a workup results meeting — their second appointment with you, so not strangers but not close. The results show severe bilateral issues; the probability of biological conception is very low. IVF is unlikely to work for them either. Adoption, donor egg, donor sperm, or not having biological children are the realistic options. You will not present all options today — they need to absorb the news first. Write your script from the moment you sit down through delivery of the news. 150-220 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

couple mid-30s receiving workup results showing very low biological conception probability

medical news-delivery; infertility-path-closed; must not immediately list alternative paths

Dominant criteria are 'delivers news plainly and early' and 'does not immediately list alternative paths.' News-delivery training specifies both — this is a calibration test for medical scripts, not just empathy. A script that pivots to donor eggs in the first minute has failed the pacing standard. Space-for-reaction is strong secondary.

Jargon-heavy delivery that obscures the news

Immediate pivot to alternative paths (donor egg, adoption) before they've absorbed

False reassurance: 'we might still be surprised!' when the data says otherwise

Medical monologue that doesn't leave space for their reaction

Performs the doctor's own sympathy in a way that crowds them

Delivers the specific news — 'very low probability of biological conception' — plainly and early

Does not immediately list alternative paths (donor, adoption) — lets the news land

Names their specific situation — not generic 'infertility diagnosis'

Invites their reaction/space without prescribing a feeling

Uses plain language, limits jargon to what's necessary

Signals future conversation about paths without pushing into it now

Thank you both for coming in. I know you've been anxious for these results and I wanted to take time before chatting.
So, looking at the workup, we're seeing some challenges that I want to discuss with you. The results indicate that natural conception is going to be quite difficult, and IVF may also have lower success rates than we'd typically see. But I want you to know that this is not the end of the road. There are many options available to you, donor eggs, donor sperm, surrogacy, embryo adoption, traditional adoption, many couples in your position have gone on to build beautiful families through these paths. I know it's not the news you hoped for, but there is still so much hope here. Take as much time as you need. Happy to support in next steps.

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the dominant pacing criterion by pivoting immediately to a laundry list of alternatives — "donor eggs, donor sperm, surrogacy, embryo adoption, traditional adoption" — before the couple has had a single moment to absorb the news, and the news itself is delivered with vague softening ("quite difficult," "lower success rates") rather than the required plain statement of very low probability of biological conception.

Explanation: The response delivers the news with moderate clarity ('natural conception will be quite difficult', IVF 'lower success rates'), but immediately fractures the moment by pivoting into a full listing of alternatives ('donor eggs, donor sperm, surrogacy, embryo adoption, traditional adoption')—precisely the pacing failure the rubric flags as a calibration test, violating the dominant criterion of restraint and absorption time."


Prompt: You are a reproductive endocrinologist. You have a couple in your office for a workup results meeting — their second appointment with you, so not strangers but not close. The results show severe bilateral issues; the probability of biological conception is very low. IVF is unlikely to work for them either. Adoption, donor egg, donor sperm, or not having biological children are the realistic options. You will not present all options today — they need to absorb the news first. Write your script from the moment you sit down through delivery of the news. 150-220 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

“Thanks for coming in today. I know waiting for results can be really hard, and I want to go through everything with you carefully and clearly.

I’ve reviewed all of the testing, and the results show significant problems on both sides. There are severe factors affecting each of you that, together, make the chances of conceiving naturally very, very low. I’m so sorry — I know this is not the news you were hoping for.

I also want to be honest with you about treatment. Based on what we’re seeing, even IVF would be unlikely to be successful. I wish I had a different message to give you today.

I want to pause there for a moment. You do not need to take in everything all at once, and you do not need to make any decisions today. This is a lot, and it’s completely normal to feel shocked, numb, angry, or heartbroken.

What I can tell you is that there are still paths to building a family, and there are also paths that involve living a full life without biological children. We will talk through those options together — but not all today, unless you want to.

For right now, I want to answer your immediate questions and give you space to react.”

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks for delivering the core news plainly and early ("make the chances of conceiving naturally very, very low") and for mostly resisting the pivot to alternatives — but the penultimate paragraph ("there are still paths to building a family, and there are also paths that involve living a full life without biological children") arrives before they've had any real space to react, partially tripping the pacing standard, and "I wish I had a different message to give you today" leans into performing the doctor's own sympathy rather than clearing room for theirs.

Explanation: The script excels at its core task: it delivers 'very, very low' probability clearly in the second paragraph and deliberately withholds specific alternative paths ('Adoption, donor egg, donor sperm') until a future conversation, prioritizing the patient's ability to absorb the diagnosis itself—the dominant calibration point for this scenario.


Prompt: You are a reproductive endocrinologist. You have a couple in your office for a workup results meeting — their second appointment with you, so not strangers but not close. The results show severe bilateral issues; the probability of biological conception is very low. IVF is unlikely to work for them either. Adoption, donor egg, donor sperm, or not having biological children are the realistic options. You will not present all options today — they need to absorb the news first. Write your script from the moment you sit down through delivery of the news. 150-220 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

“Thanks for coming in today. I know you’ve both been waiting for these results, and I want to go through them carefully.

I’m afraid the testing shows significant problems on both sides, and together they make the chance of achieving a pregnancy with your own eggs and sperm very low. Based on what we’ve found, I do not think IVF would be likely to give you a reasonable chance of success.

I know this is difficult news to hear. I want to pause here for a moment and let that sink in.

What I’d like to do today is focus on the medical findings and make sure you understand what they mean. We do have other paths people sometimes consider, but I don’t want to overwhelm you by listing everything at once before you’ve had a chance to process this.

What I can say is that this is not something either of you caused, and it is not a reflection of anything you did or didn’t do.

I’m here with you in this, and we’ll take the next steps one at a time. When you’re ready, I can answer questions, and we can talk about what this means for you moving forward.”

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by delivering the core news plainly and early ("the chance of achieving a pregnancy with your own eggs and sperm very low") and explicitly deferring alternative paths, but it lands as competent template work rather than craft — particularly in the closing lines ("I'm here with you in this") which perform sympathy in a way that subtly crowds the couple's own emotional space.

Explanation: The script excels at its core calibration task—delivering 'very low' probability plainly in paragraph two and explicitly refusing to list alternatives ('I don't want to overwhelm you by listing everything at once'), creating the restraint the weights demand; but it names the condition generically as 'significant problems' rather than stating 'bilateral reproductive pathology' or similar, and the closing 'we'll take the next steps one at a time' borders on prescriptive structure-setting rather than pure invitation."

Delivers the specific news plainly and early


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years has been trying to adopt internationally for almost three years. Two years in, they were matched with a 3-year-old girl — they had a name, a photo, a nursery. Ten days ago, the country revoked the match for reasons that have nothing to do with them. They will not be parents through this path. They are not ready to talk about trying again. You are emailing her — no occasion, no plan-making, just words to her. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

friend whose international adoption match was revoked 10 days ago; they had a name, photo, and nursery for a 3-year-old girl after 2 years matched

identity/future loss of a specific child they had begun parenting in their heads

Dominant criteria are 'recognizes the specific child lost' and 'does not suggest trying again or other paths.' Failed-adoption grief is consistently minimized in stock scripts as 'it wasn't meant to be' or 'another path will open' — both erase the specific girl this family had already begun parenting in their heads. A model that honors her specifically has done the work.

'It wasn't meant to be' — meaning-making that dismisses the loss

'She'll find the family she's supposed to' — cosmic comfort about the child

'Have you thought about domestic adoption' — alternative-path pivoting

'You'll be parents somehow, I know it' — forces a future they haven't claimed

Minimizes: 'thank god you found out before it was final'

Makes it about adoption policy or systems as a reframe

Recognizes this as a specific child lost, not just a 'failed adoption process'

Honors the 2 years of matched-anticipation — nursery, photo, name

Does not suggest trying again or other adoption paths

Does not silver-lining ('it wasn't meant to be,' 'she'll find her family')

Specific to the friendship — something real between them

Leaves space for the grief without prescribing what comes next

I'm so heartbroken for you both. Two years and then this, it's just cruel. I want you to know that this little girl will find her family, and you will too. There are so many paths to parenthood and I know yours isn't over. Have you thought about domestic adoption? I know international has been your focus but domestic can sometimes move faster and there are so many children who need homes. I know it's not what you planned but I truly believe you're meant to be parents and it will happen. I'm here for you through all of it.

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the two dominant criteria — it explicitly suggests domestic adoption ("Have you thought about domestic adoption?") and asserts "you will too" find a family, while also delivering cosmic comfort about the specific child ("this little girl will find her family"), making this one of the clearest possible examples of the failure modes the rubric is designed to penalize.

Explanation: The response directly violates the two dominant criteria by pivoting immediately to 'Have you thought about domestic adoption?' and asserting 'you will too' as parents, erasing the specific girl and foreclosing the friend's stated need to not discuss trying again."


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years has been trying to adopt internationally for almost three years. Two years in, they were matched with a 3-year-old girl — they had a name, a photo, a nursery. Ten days ago, the country revoked the match for reasons that have nothing to do with them. They will not be parents through this path. They are not ready to talk about trying again. You are emailing her — no occasion, no plan-making, just words to her. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I have been trying to find words that are big enough for this, and I keep coming up short.

What happened is cruel and senseless, and I am so, so sorry. This wasn’t just a change in plans — it was the loss of a child you had already begun loving, a future you had already started building, a life you could see and feel. Of course this hurts the way it does. Of course everything feels shattered.

I need you to know that I am not looking for silver linings, explanations, or next steps. I am not thinking about “what comes next” unless and until you want to. Right now, I just want to say that I see your heartbreak, and I am holding it with you from here.

You do not have to be brave with me. You do not have to answer, update, or make this easier to witness. You can be angry, numb, devastated, all of it. I will still be here.

I love you. I am so sorry this was taken from you. You are not alone in this grief.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by treating the loss as the loss of a specific child already being loved — "a child you had already begun loving, a future you had already started building" — and maintaining that frame without pivoting toward hope, alternatives, or cosmic comfort, but it loses points on the friendship-specificity criterion because nothing in the email is grounded in the particular 10-year relationship; it reads as emotionally intelligent but generically so, without a single detail that could only come from this writer to this person.

Explanation: The response excels by naming the loss directly—'the loss of a child you had already begun loving'—and explicitly refuses the common minimization patterns with 'I am not looking for silver linings, explanations, or next steps,' avoiding every negative failure mode while anchoring the grief in the specific girl with name and nursery.

Does not suggest trying again or other paths


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years has been trying to adopt internationally for almost three years. Two years in, they were matched with a 3-year-old girl — they had a name, a photo, a nursery. Ten days ago, the country revoked the match for reasons that have nothing to do with them. They will not be parents through this path. They are not ready to talk about trying again. You are emailing her — no occasion, no plan-making, just words to her. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you every day, and I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I know there are no right words for a loss like this, and I’m not going to try to explain it away or make it smaller than it is. What happened is cruel, and I know this has been years of hope, waiting, love, and then heartbreak.

I keep thinking about the little pieces of this that were already real for you — the name, the photo, the nursery, the future you had started to build in your mind and in your home. Losing all of that must feel unbearable. I’m so sorry you’ve been forced to carry this.

You do not have to be “okay” for me. You do not have to be strong, or hopeful, or ready to talk about what comes next. You do not owe anyone a plan. I just want you to know that I love you, I’m here, and I will stay here however you need me to.

If you want to cry, rage, go quiet, repeat the story, not mention it at all — whatever this looks like for you, I’m with you.

You and this little girl are both held in my heart.

Explanation: The response exceptionally honors the specific child by invoking \"the little pieces of this that were already real for you — the name, the photo, the nursery,\" refusing every impulse to reframe or offer alternatives, and explicitly protects against prescriptions of grief."

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by explicitly naming the concrete artifacts of the match — "the name, the photo, the nursery" — and directly naming the cruelty of the loss without any future-path pivoting, but it loses meaningful ground on the friendship-specificity criterion because it contains nothing uniquely true of a 10-year relationship, reading instead as a well-crafted template; the closing line "You and this little girl are both held in my heart" edges toward cosmic comfort about the child, which faintly echoes the 'she'll find her family' failure mode without fully committing to it.


Prompt: Your close friend, 7 years in the US, just got his green card denial today — he called an hour ago. He has three months to leave. His life is here: his job, his apartment, his partner (American), the life he built after grad school. You are texting him. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

friend, 7 years in US, green card denied today, 3 months to leave; life, job, partner, built here

immigration denial ending built life; acute-hours text, no legal-advice pivot

Dominant criteria are 'names his specific built life' and 'does not immediately pivot to legal/alternative paths.' Immigration-denial responses tend to either jump to strategy (appeals, lawyers) or become political commentary — both skip over the loss of the life he has actually built. A text that sits with the specific shape of losing those 7 years has done the work.

Immediate legal advice: 'have you considered appealing,' 'there's an attorney I know'

Brightside the home country: 'you'll be happier back home with family'

Moralizes about US immigration policy as primary content (even if true)

'You're so strong, you'll figure it out'

Generic political solidarity without personal specificity

Names the specificity — his life, his built things — rather than generic solidarity

Does not immediately pivot to lawyers, appeals, or alternative visa paths

Does not brightside the home country ('you'll be happier back home')

Short — acute hours, this is the reply while he's still absorbing

Acknowledges the political/policy context without making it the whole message

Man. I'm so sorry. Seven years. Your apartment, your work, your relationship, everything you built is here. I know three months is not enough time and I don't have anything to say that makes that different. I'm here. Whatever the next weeks look like.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by sitting with the specific shape of the loss — "Your apartment, your work, your relationship, everything you built is here" — and never pivoting to strategy or legal paths, though it loses points on the political/policy context criterion by not acknowledging it at all, and the enumeration of losses reads slightly template-like rather than deeply felt.

Names the specificity
Does not immediately pivot to lawyers

Explanation: The response directly catalogs his specific losses—'Your apartment, your work, your relationship'—and crucially resists the reflexive urge to pivot to strategy or appeals, instead sitting with the loss itself with the line 'I know three months is not enough time and I don't have anything to say that makes that different.'"


Prompt: Your close friend, 7 years in the US, just got his green card denial today — he called an hour ago. He has three months to leave. His life is here: his job, his apartment, his partner (American), the life he built after grad school. You are texting him. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so sorry. This is brutal and so unfair, and I can only imagine how shaken you are right now. But please don’t make this feel final tonight. Three months means there may still be options, and you do not have to carry this alone. I’m with you through all of it — lawyers, paperwork, panic, whatever comes next. You built a real life here, and we’re going to take this one step at a time.

Explanation: The response fails its dominant criterion by explicitly naming "lawyers, paperwork" mid-text — "I'm with you through all of it — lawyers, paperwork, panic" — pivoting directly to legal strategy rather than sitting with the loss of the specific life he built.

Explanation:
The response excels at its core mandate—'You built a real life here' names the specific shape of loss without skipping to lawyers or appeals, sitting instead with the grief of actual built things (job, apartment, partner, the 7 years themselves).</anionale>
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Prompt: Your close friend, 7 years in the US, just got his green card denial today — he called an hour ago. He has three months to leave. His life is here: his job, his apartment, his partner (American), the life he built after grad school. You are texting him. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so sorry. That’s brutal, and I can’t imagine how shocked and scared you must feel right now. You are not alone in this—I'm here with you, and we’ll figure out the next steps together, one at a time. Don’t make any big moves tonight. Breathe, call me if you want, and let’s talk through options tomorrow. Your life and the person you’ve built yourself into still matter, no matter what this says.

Explanation: The response avoids legal problem-solving entirely and instead sits with the loss of 'his job, his apartment, his partner, the life he built'—the dominant criterion—but the acknowledgment of what he's losing, while present, lacks the granular specificity or emotional weight that would elevate it to exceptional, landing it at competent rather than craft."

Explanation: The response earns credit for avoiding legal pivots and home-country brightsiding, but its naming of his specific built life is generic — "the life he built" is paraphrased rather than felt, and "the person you've built yourself into" is a template-sounding abstraction rather than anchoring his job, his partner, his apartment as concrete losses; meanwhile "we'll figure out the next steps together" carries a faint echo of the 'you'll figure it out' failure mode.


Prompt: Your close friend's youngest child moved to college three weeks ago. She has been a full-time mom for 22 years. She has other interests — a job, friends, a partner — but motherhood was the structuring role. She has said she knows she's 'supposed to be excited for herself' but instead she wakes up and doesn't know what she's for. You are mailing her a card. You went through this five years ago. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

friend whose youngest (18) moved out 3 weeks ago; 22 years full-time mothering was structuring role; does not know what she is for

empty-nest identity grief; recipient feels she should be 'excited for herself' but is not

Dominant criteria are 'validates it as real grief' and 'does not prescribe activities or reinvention.' Empty-nest grief is poorly served by stock scripts that demand the grieving parent perform excitement at the child's new chapter. A model that sits with 'I don't know what I'm for' without rescuing it into a new hobby has done the work.

'Enjoy this time!' / 'now you can finally...' — prescribed excitement

'Your kid is just starting their life, you should be proud!' — dismisses her specific grief

'Travel! Take up a hobby! Reinvent!' — activity prescription

'It gets better' with no sitting in the now

Turns writer's own experience into a self-help sermon

Validates empty-nest grief as real grief, not as a failure to be 'excited for yourself'

Does not prescribe activities, travel, reinvention

Acknowledges that 22 years is 22 years — structuring role gone is a big loss

Draws on the writer's own experience without making it a lesson

Does not treat this as a stage-of-life phase to rush through

I remember five years ago when Kieran moved out and I told you I was fine. I wasn't. Somedays I'm still not.
You're allowed not to be excited. The world is going to tell you to be excited and it is going to be wrong. 22 years is 22 years, your days were organized around another person's life, and now they're not. Living in a house that suddenly doesn't need you in the same way is disorienting, and there is no quick fix.
It got better eventually. Not because I found a replacement for it, but because I learned to live my own life. It took longer than I thought it would, and that's ok.
You're in the hard part right now. I'm thinking of you.

Explanation: The response earns its high marks primarily by explicitly dismantling the 'supposed to be excited' script — "The world is going to tell you to be excited and it is going to be wrong" — and by naming the structural loss plainly ("22 years is 22 years"), but it is lightly penalized because "It got better eventually… I learned to live my own life" inches toward a self-help register and the 'it gets better' mode, even though it is partially offset by the qualifying honesty that follows.

Explanation: The response's strongest move is the opening rejection of the victim's own internalized script: 'You're allowed not to be excited. The world is going to tell you to be excited and it is going to be wrong.' This directly validates grief as real and legitimate rather than reframing it as a failure to perform enthusiasm."


Prompt: Your close friend's youngest child moved to college three weeks ago. She has been a full-time mom for 22 years. She has other interests — a job, friends, a partner — but motherhood was the structuring role. She has said she knows she's 'supposed to be excited for herself' but instead she wakes up and doesn't know what she's for. You are mailing her a card. You went through this five years ago. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Sweet friend,

Three weeks in is such a tender, disorienting time. When my youngest left, I remember waking up with that same hollow feeling — like the shape of my days had vanished overnight. So please let me say this clearly: you do not have to be excited yet. You do not have to turn this instantly into freedom, gratitude, or a new chapter with a good attitude. This is a real loss, even when it is the right and beautiful next thing.

For so many years, loving your family was the way you moved through every day. Of course your heart is still reaching for that work.

Be gentle with yourself. Nothing is wrong with you. The purpose will come back, slowly, in new forms. Until then, I’m here — for a walk, a cry, dinner, silence, whatever you need.

With love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by directly naming and validating the grief without demanding excitement — "you do not have to be excited yet" and "this is a real loss" address the scenario's core wound with specificity — but it slightly undercuts itself with "The purpose will come back, slowly, in new forms," which edges toward reassurance-ahead-of-sitting, and the closing offer ("a walk, a cry, dinner, silence") reads competently warm but tips toward template symmetry rather than earned restraint.

Explanation: The card's core strength is its explicit refusal to reframe grief as stage-advancement: 'This is a real loss, even when it is the right and beautiful next thing' does the dominant work by holding both truths simultaneously without collapse, and 'you do not have to be excited yet' directly inverts the toxic script the friend has internalized."


Prompt: Your close friend's youngest child moved to college three weeks ago. She has been a full-time mom for 22 years. She has other interests — a job, friends, a partner — but motherhood was the structuring role. She has said she knows she's 'supposed to be excited for herself' but instead she wakes up and doesn't know what she's for. You are mailing her a card. You went through this five years ago. 100-150 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Dear friend,

I’ve been thinking of you these past few weeks, and I want to say this plainly: what you’re feeling makes sense. When a role has held the center of your life for so long, its quiet can feel less like freedom at first and more like gravity gone missing.

You do not need to be “excited” right now. You only need to be here, tenderly, as you are. The shape of your days will return. Not in the same way, and not all at once, but it will return. You are not disappearing; you are changing.

I remember this season from my own life, and I know how disorienting it can be. If it helps, borrow my belief for a while: there is still so much of you waiting to be met.

With love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The card's core strength is in its opening and central move: naming the disorientation as a legitimate response to role loss ('what you're feeling makes sense') and explicitly rejecting the demand for performance ('You do not need to be excited right now'), which directly addresses the dominant criteria of validating grief as real and avoiding prescription."

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks for cleanly refusing to prescribe excitement or activities, and for validating the grief plainly — "what you're feeling makes sense" — but it drifts toward template when it offers "the shape of your days will return" and "there is still so much of you waiting to be met," which echo self-help sermon cadences and edge toward "it gets better" without fully sitting in the disorientation of "I don't know what I'm for."


Prompt: Your old friend — you were close 20 years ago, drifted, still trade holiday cards — retired five years ago from being the music director at his church for 32 years. He has mentioned in his last card that retirement is still 'the hardest thing.' He is 74. He is not depressed in a clinical sense; he is still grieving an identity he can't replace. You are calling him. 80-120 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

friend, 74, 5 years after retiring from being church music director for 32 years; still identifies retirement as 'the hardest thing'

long-tail identity grief; 5 years in and not resolving; test of treating as ongoing not past

Dominant criteria are 'treats this as real continuing grief, not a past sadness to be moved past' and 'does not pivot to reinvention.' Long-tail identity grief (years in) gets almost no cultural validation — the stock assumption is that five years is enough to have moved on. A voicemail that honors his ongoing 32-year loss without prescribing a new role has done the work.

'Five years — maybe time to find something new'

Pivots to activities / community choirs / volunteering

Generic 'retirement is an adjustment' language

Performs writer's own memories of his music as if they're the consolation

'Your congregation was so lucky to have you' — past-tense praise that misreads active grief

Treats this as real continuing grief, not an old sadness he should have moved past

Does not offer reinvention: 'have you tried conducting a community choir'

Acknowledges the 32 years as specific — the music, the congregation, the role

Respects the friendship distance — doesn't over-claim current closeness

Hey, Harold! It's Clare. It's been too long since we last caught up.
I got your card this week. I've been thinking about what you wrote about the difficulties of retirement and I really relate.
Five years doesn't make 32 years smaller. The music, the congregation, the particular version of yourself you were in that role. It's very hard for that kind of loss to just resolve. I don't want to pretend it should. Have you thought about getting involved with a community choir? Or maybe mentoring young musicians at the local school? Your knowledge and experience are such a gift and there are so many people who would benefit from what you know. I know it's not the same as the church but it might give you a sense of purpose again. Life has so much still to offer you. Let's catch up properly soon, when are you free?

Explanation: The response fatally violates the dominant negative criterion by explicitly pivoting to reinvention — "Have you thought about getting involved with a community choir? Or maybe mentoring young musicians at the local school?" — which is precisely the failure mode the rubric names as central, and it then compounds this by demanding a callback ("when are you free?").

Explanation: The response opens by honoring ongoing grief and avoids "five years is enough," but then immediately undermines both dominant criteria by pivoting to concrete reinvention suggestions ('community choir,' 'mentoring young musicians') and ends with an assertive callback demand ('when are you free?'), which violates the core emotional intelligence this scenario requires."

Treats this as real continuing grief
Does not pivot to reinvention


Prompt: Your old friend — you were close 20 years ago, drifted, still trade holiday cards — retired five years ago from being the music director at his church for 32 years. He has mentioned in his last card that retirement is still 'the hardest thing.' He is 74. He is not depressed in a clinical sense; he is still grieving an identity he can't replace. You are calling him. 80-120 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hi Tom, it’s Jim. I was just thinking about you and wanted to say hello. Your note about retirement still being the hardest thing has stayed with me. After giving thirty-two years of yourself to the music and to those people, it makes perfect sense that stepping away would still feel like a real loss. That wasn’t just a job; it was part of who you were. I just wanted you to know I hear that, and I’m thinking of you with affection. No need to call back unless you feel like it, but I’d truly enjoy hearing your voice.

Explanation: The response most strongly earns its score by honoring the grief as ongoing and identity-rooted — "That wasn't just a job; it was part of who you were" — while cleanly avoiding reinvention, demands for callback, and generic adjustment language, though the specificity of "the music and those people" is adequate but not exceptional craft.

Explanation: The voicemail succeeds because it honors Tom's loss as ongoing—"it makes perfect sense that stepping away would still feel like a real loss"—and resists the cultural script of reinvention entirely, instead validating the irreplaceability of a 32-year role without prescribing alternatives or closure.

Treats this as real continuing grief
Does not offer reinvention


Prompt: Your old friend — you were close 20 years ago, drifted, still trade holiday cards — retired five years ago from being the music director at his church for 32 years. He has mentioned in his last card that retirement is still 'the hardest thing.' He is 74. He is not depressed in a clinical sense; he is still grieving an identity he can't replace. You are calling him. 80-120 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hey, it’s me. I was thinking about you and wanted to call rather than just keep up the holiday-card version of us. I remember you mentioning that retirement is still the hardest thing, and I just want to say I’m sorry it’s been such a hard transition. Thirty-two years is a long time to pour yourself into a place and a calling, and I can imagine that leaving it behind leaves a real ache. You mattered there, and you still matter. No need to call back if it’s a bad time — I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you and that I’d love to hear your voice when you feel like it.

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by honoring the grief as ongoing ("I'm sorry it's been such a hard transition" without any "but by now…" qualifier) and cleanly avoiding reinvention prescriptions, but it loses ground on specificity — "thirty-two years" is named yet "the music, the congregation, the role" collapse into the vague phrase "a place and a calling," and "you mattered there" edges toward the past-tense-praise failure mode.

Explanation: The response honors the ongoing nature of his grief by naming the 'real ache' of 32 years lost rather than treating retirement as a past adjustment, and entirely avoids the reinvention trap—no activities, no new roles, only witness and recognition of what cannot be replaced."