The concern, of course, is that Copilot isn’t going to challenge him. It’ll be endlessly patient, won’t have feelings that get hurt, and will produce reasonable-sounding advice without any real stakes attached. That can feel safe — but “safe” and “growth” aren’t usually the same thing.

He is using it as a substitute for actually engaging with the harder stuff.

Using #AI for #relationship advice?

Here is my experience (my husband is using copilot ONLY) for relationship guidance.

Microsoft Copilot: now solving attachment theory and emotional intimacy alongside your Excel spreadsheets.

To be fair, there’s something almost poetic about it — a man who struggles to open up to the people in his life, turning instead to an AI that will never push back, never need anything in return, and will cheerfully validate whatever he types into it.

TBC

End.

Some men treat their marriages like a server they never bother to maintain — assuming it’ll just keep running, no matter how long since anyone checked.

Part 5.

Sarah made a cup of tea she didn’t want and sat with it in the kitchen for a while. The cat jumped up and butted its head against her arm, which was, she thought, more emotional availability than she’d had from Dave in about six months.

She scratched behind its ears.

Upstairs, Dave was having a very good game.

Part 4.

His voice got tight and clipped in that way that meant the conversation was over before it had properly started.

And then, with the quiet dignity of a man who had decided he was the wronged party, he left.

Not the house. Just the room. Then the next room. Then, somehow, back upstairs.

The chair scraped.

The door clicked.

The blue glow returned.

Part 3.

On Thursday she said something. She’d kept it calm, even reasonable — she’d rehearsed it, actually, which said something about the state of things. I just feel like we never spend any time together. And you’re exhausted every day. I’m worried about you.

Dave heard an attack.

He came out swinging with a list of grievances so old they had dust on them — things from 2019, a comment she’d made about his driving, a Christmas that apparently still rankled.

Part 2.

Sarah would hear the headset go on. Then the muffled explosions. Then, occasionally, a burst of laughter at something one of his online friends said — a warmth he saved exclusively for people he’d never met.

She’d lie in bed reading, then not reading, then staring at the ceiling doing the maths. 11pm. 11:45. The clock ticking toward 1am like it was completing a dare.

He had work at eight.

Part 1.
Here’s a little story for you:

Press Start to Ignore

Dave had a system.

It wasn’t written down anywhere, but it was consistent enough to qualify as policy. Dinner would be eaten — usually in silence, phone beside his plate — and then, with the energy of a man suddenly remembering a very important appointment, he would disappear upstairs. The chair would scrape. The door would click. And the blue glow would seep under the gap like a slow leak.