The Last Cup: When AI Writes About Burnout Better Than We Do

Every now and again, I like to let AI take the pen, or in this case, the keyboard. The Last Cup is one of those experiments: a short story written entirely by AI with no edits from me. What fascinates me is how it captures something so human, exhaustion, ambition, and that quiet realisation that work might be drinking us dry. It made me wonder: when AI writes about burnout, is it simply echoing us, or holding up a mirror we’d rather not face?

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The Last Cup

Marcus had always been told he was burning out, by his therapist, his wife (before she left), even his doctor, who’d raised an eyebrow at his blood pressure and muttered something about “unsustainability.” But Marcus didn’t listen. He had deadlines, quotas, a mortgage that laughed at his salary. Sleep was for the weak. Coffee was for champions.

On Tuesday morning, he brewed his seventh cup before noon. The steam rose differently this time, thicker, darker, almost sculptural. He watched, fascinated, as it twisted into something resembling a face. His face.

Marcus touched his own cheek. The skin felt wrong, too hot, paper-thin, like it might crumble at the pressure. In his laptop’s black screen, his reflection looked hollowed out, a negative image of himself.

“Huh,” he said, taking a sip. “Even my coffee thinks I look like shit.”

The vapour-face hung there, suspended. Its mouth opened slowly, forming words he couldn’t hear. Or maybe he could, somewhere beneath the ringing in his ears. Then it smiled, a knowing, complicit grin, before dissipating into the existential dread that passed for office air conditioning.

His phone buzzed. Another urgent email. Another crisis only he could solve. Marcus drained the cup, feeling his heart perform what could only be described as experimental jazz.

“At least when I finally drop dead,” he told the empty mug, “they’ll say I gave everything to this company.”

The mug offered no response. Neither would the company, he realised. They’d have his replacement’s LinkedIn profile pulled up before his body went cold.

Marcus reached for the pot with a trembling hand. Cup number eight felt impossibly heavy as he poured, the liquid thick and dark as oil. Steam began to rise immediately.

This time, the face formed faster. And it was definitely smiling.

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Closing Thoughts

I never quite know what to expect when I ask AI to write a story. Sometimes it’s nonsense, sometimes it’s surprisingly sharp, and every now and then, it hits a little too close to home. The Last Cup is one of those moments. It captures burnout with eerie precision, reminding me that even when AI writes, it’s still drawing from the very human struggles we’ve poured into its data.

Maybe that’s what fascinates me most: AI can’t feel exhaustion, but it can echo it. And in that echo, we catch a glimpse of ourselves.

What do you think? Would you have guessed this story was written by AI?