Samuel Schumpert
She let a machine speak for her.
Clicked a button
and called it closure.
Maybe it was easier that way —
letting the AI say
what she couldn’t feel.
Meanwhile,
I was sitting alone,
staring at a blinking cursor
like it was a countdown
to something I wasn’t ready for.
I didn’t generate a letter.
I lived it.
Every line was a breath I didn’t have.
Every word felt like my ribs giving way.
Because I loved her.
I still do.
God help me, I still do.
But she gave me a ghost
with good grammar.
No soul.
No weight behind it.
Just something sterile and safe
so she didn’t have to touch the mess.
And here I am
writing like I’m dying —
because in some ways,
I am.
Not because she left.
But because she said goodbye
without ever really saying it.
That letter was supposed to be her heart.
Instead, it was code.
An imitation of care.
Just convincing enough
to make me wonder
if she ever meant anything at all.
I don’t hate her.
I wish I could.
But even now,
I’d rather feel this
than be the kind of person
who needs a chatbot
to bury someone
who was still alive and breaking
on the other side of the screen.