I Wrote. She Generated

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.