This week, our editorial team received an anonymous submission from a reader who wished to share what she described as “an abrupt breakup.” At first glance, her story sounded familiar enough: a partner who vanished overnight, a message left behind, a sense of bewilderment. We assumed it was the usual kind of heartbreak. Messy, human, regrettably common.
But as we read further, something felt off.
Her partner didn’t leave for “another woman,” as one might expect, but for something she repeatedly called a “new project.” The terminology was oddly precise. The emotional detachment, almost procedural. And the final message she received, which was delivered straight to her spam folder, had the unmistakable tone of someone announcing a shutdown rather than a goodbye.
We’re not entirely sure whether this is a breakup story, a metaphor, or an accidental confession about the lifecycle of certain “innovative” services. Perhaps it’s all three.
Either way, we present her essay below, unedited.
Submitted by H.
The first time I met him, he arrived with the kind of glow that only people who have been loudly celebrated elsewhere carry with them. Everyone seemed to be talking about him. Friends sent me links. Blogs and tech sites were buzzing. “A brilliant mind has appeared,” they said. “A visionary.” “A game‑changer.”
He didn’t say any of that himself, of course. He didn’t need to. The world said it for him.
And when he turned that spotlight toward me, it felt like standing in the warm centre of a phenomenon. He messaged constantly. He asked thoughtful questions. He told me I was “refreshing,” “different,” “exactly what he’d been looking for.”
It was the kind of attention that sweeps you up before you have time to ask whether it’s sustainable. Looking back, I think the intensity was part of the performance, something he did naturally, instinctively, the way some people breathe.
He had a reputation, too. Not by name, but by association. He had once been part of a well‑known, ambitious project, one of those things people still reference with reverence. That pedigree alone made him sound like someone who would know how to build, maintain, and nurture something long‑term.
I believed it. Everyone around me believed it. It was easy to.
For a while, he made me feel like I was the centre of his world. But as I would later learn, he simply loved beginnings. He loved the spark, the novelty, the thrill of creation. He loved the part where everything is still potential.
And then, one morning, he was gone. Yesterday, we were talking as usual. This morning, he had vanished.
No explanation. No conversation. Just a single message that landed in my spam folder, as if even the algorithm sensed something off.
“I’m ending things today. I’m moving on to my next project.”
Most people would assume “new project” is a euphemism. A polite way of saying “new woman.” But with him, it wasn’t a euphemism at all. He really meant a new project.
He had always been more emotionally invested in his GitHub contributions than in my birthday. He reacted more passionately to a new framework release than to anything I ever said. He was the kind of person who could spend hours explaining the elegance of a technical solution but would forget to ask how my day was.
So when he disappeared, I realized something important: He didn’t leave because he stopped loving me. He left because maintaining me was no longer interesting.
I had become a stable system. Predictable. Not worth iterating on. And he was a man who only loved things while they were still in beta.
The strangest part? He was celebrated for leaving. When I checked his social media, I expected at least a few confused comments. Maybe someone asking why he ended things so abruptly. Maybe someone questioning the timing.
But no. The replies to his posts were filled with praise.
“Thank you for everything you built.”
“Your work changed my life.”
“Excited for your next innovation.”
“You’re a pioneer.”
Meanwhile, I was sitting there with a breakup message that my email client had automatically marked as suspicious. It was surreal.
He had ended things without warning, without explanation, without even a proper goodbye. And yet he was being applauded for it. Not just forgiven. Celebrated.
And I realized: This wasn’t the first time he had done this. And it wouldn’t be the last.
He would start something new. People would gather around him again, dazzled by his brilliance. They would praise him, amplify him, adore him. And when he lost interest, he would disappear again quietly, efficiently, without ceremony.
And they would still call him a visionary.
There is a word for people like him. Not “genius,” not “innovator,” not even “ex‑boyfriend.”
We call them engineers.
