Couple Announces Breakup in Emotional Instagram Post That Includes Discount Code for Meal Kit Subscription

LONDON—After four years together, local couple Chloe Bennett, 26, and Ryan Davies, 27, have officially announced their heartfelt and deeply personal breakup via an Instagram post featuring moody black-and-white photos and a discount code for a meal kit subscription.

The emotional post, which was uploaded to both of their accounts at exactly the same time, immediately drew attention—not just for its raw vulnerability, but for the exclusive 20% off promo code subtly embedded between heartfelt reflections on love, growth, and mutual respect.

“Love Is a Journey—And So Is Finding Fresh, Home-Cooked Meals”

The post began with a carefully crafted paragraph that appeared sincere, yet vague enough to maintain brand appeal:

“Sometimes love isn’t forever, and that’s okay. We have shared four amazing years together, full of laughter, travel, and deep connection, but we’ve decided to lovingly part ways and continue our journeys as individuals. We are still best friends, and we will always support one another. ❤️”

This was immediately followed by a seamless, almost hypnotic segue into an ad:

“Speaking of journeys, if you’re looking for fresh, healthy meals delivered straight to your door, you can use our exclusive code ‘BREAKUPBITES20’ for 20% off your first three boxes at @HomeChefExpress.”

The post was accompanied by a carefully curated carousel of black-and-white images, including:

• A blurry photo of them laughing in a candlelit restaurant, looking effortlessly chic.

• A wistful shot of them holding hands, but slightly out of focus, symbolising the fleeting nature of love.

• A solo image of Chloe staring out a rain-streaked window, captioned “grateful for the memories” but tagged with @LashExtensionsByTara.

• A screenshot of a Spotify playlist titled ‘Moving On, Growing Strong’, featuring multiple paid brand collaborations.

“We’re Still Best Friends, Just in Separate Sponsored Partnerships”

Fans were quick to notice that, despite the aching sincerity of the post, Chloe and Ryan have already signed separate influencer deals—Chloe aligning herself with a new wellness retreat brand, while Ryan has posted a cryptic Instagram story of himself holding a protein shake and staring into the distance.

Comments were overwhelmingly supportive, with other influencers rushing to engage:

❤️ “Proud of you both. Wishing you nothing but healing and brand alignment!” — @VeganYogaQueen_

💪 “Growth looks good on you bro! DM me about a supplement collab👊🔥”— @GymWolfAlphaTribe

😢 “Breakups are hard. But with 20% off fresh, organic meals, they don’t have to be.” — @HomeChefExpress (verified)

Monetising Heartbreak: The New Relationship Model?

Marketing analyst Danielle Foster believes this may be the future of breakups in the digital age.

“More couples are recognising that their split is an opportunity for a mutually beneficial business move. Rather than a messy breakup, why not turn it into a brand-boosting moment?”

“It’s genius, really—why waste the pain when you can turn it into engagement?”

While some followers praised Chloe and Ryan for their maturity, others speculated that the entire relationship had been engineered from the start as a four-year sponsorship deal.

Meanwhile, Ryan has been spotted at a bar with a ‘mystery blonde’ (who, sources confirm, is already in discussions with a vitamin brand for a joint soft launch).

Chloe has yet to comment on the rumours, but has posted a cryptic story featuring a quote from Rupi Kaur and a discount code for a luxury self-care subscription box.

The Reaping

The fire flickers, casting shadows wide,

Its embers fade, too weak to light the gloom.

The weight of silence presses, none abide,

As night draws close, a shroud, a waiting tomb.

 

Beyond the cave, the wind in hollow moans,

A whisper lost upon the empty deep.

No peace it brings, but sorrow’s undertones,

A world too starved to even dream or weep.

 

I clutch my coat, though warmth it scarce provides,

Five souls remain—perhaps one more at dawn.

Yet fever claims what mercy now divides,

And hope, once bright, is all but spent and gone.

 

No help will come, no hands to staunch the pain,

No gods remain to break this dark domain.

 

The old man speaks, his voice like dust and stone,

A whisper worn by time’s relentless tread.

“This fate is old, though men believe unknown,

A cycle spun, a path by others tread.”

 

“We rise, we thrive, our cities touch the sky,

We shape the world and name the stars our own.

Yet ever comes the harvest from on high,

To claim the fields that we have overgrown.”

 

His hollow eyes reflect the burning light,

A wisdom drowned in sorrow’s quiet stream.

No war was waged, no battle met that night,

Just silence vast, and horrors past our dream.

 

“We build, we shine, and think we make our mark,

But all is swept to ashes in the dark.”

 

They let us bloom, they let us draw our breath,

They watch as cities surge and rivers flow.

Yet when the world is ripened unto death,

They strike unseen and take what we don’t know.

 

Like summer fields that bend beneath the blade,

Like trees in autumn stripped of leaf and limb,

Like hands that reap where careless seeds are laid,

They harvest flesh when life is full to brim.

 

We blink, we’re gone, erased without a sound,

No war, no fire, no storm upon the sky.

No graves remain, no bodies on the ground—

Just empty streets, where once the lost would cry.

 

A wound unseen is opened in the air,

And through its gate, we vanish into where?

 

She trembles near, too young for death’s embrace,

Her childhood left in towers shining bright.

She knew the neon hum, the city’s grace,

Now only fire flickers in her sight.

 

She counts the embers breaking in the dust,

As if their glow could stitch the dark anew.

But all that’s left is ruin, rust on rust,

A world made void, where life is faint and few.

 

I ask the old man, though I know too well,

“They let us grow, but only for the cull?”

His nod is slow, his eyes a hollow shell,

The truth too vast, the sorrow far too full.

 

His silence speaks a thousand weighted things—

A world once ours now owned by nameless kings.

 

No battle raged, no cannon split the night,

No banners fell, no armies met in war.

Just silent doors swung wide beyond our sight,

And through their mouths, they took us evermore.

 

No ships arrived, no voice declared our doom,

No shadow moved across the poisoned sun.

Just gaping voids, where light itself was hewn,

Unmaking all, until the world was none.

 

The stars went quiet, stolen from their place,

The rivers stilled, the wind forgot to breathe.

As if the earth had vanished into space,

And left behind its corpse for ghosts to grieve.

 

Yet none remain to wail or sing their name,

Just echoes lost in silence all the same.

 

The fire cracks, yet none of us can speak,

The wind it howls, but no one draws a breath.

The child looks up, her voice so frail and weak,

“Will they return?”—I know the hands of death.

 

I do not speak, for what is left to say?

The truth is etched in time, in dust, in bone.

We are but echoes worn by slow decay,

And soon the dark will claim us for its own.

 

Ten thousand years, then back the cycle turns,

The seed is sown, the harvest comes anew.

The world will rise again where bright it burns,

And they will watch, as they have always due.

 

One final breath, one step into the deep,

Then once again—we’re lulled to endless sleep.

The Watcher

At first, Ben thought it was a coincidence.

A small black drone, hovering at the edge of his vision. Street corners, train stations, the far end of the supermarket car park.

Always just far enough away to make him second-guess himself.

He pointed it out to his friends once. “That drone—look.”

Tom glanced up, squinting at the skyline. “What drone?”

It is right there. “You seriously don’t see that?”

Tom shrugged. “You okay, man?”

Ben tried to laugh it off. But the next day, the drone was waiting outside his window.

A week later, he tested it.

He took random turns through the city. Weaved through back alleys, doubled back through crowds. At one point, he hid in a cinema for three hours, slipping out through the fire exit.

When he emerged, it was there. Just above the streetlamp. Unmoving. Watching.

“What do you want?” he exclaimed.

The drone did nothing.

He tried reporting it. The police officer barely listened. “If it’s a private drone, we can’t really do much unless it’s harassing you.”

“It is harassing me,” Ben snapped. “It follows me everywhere.”

“Have you spoken to the owner?”

“There is no owner.”

The officer sighed. “Sir, maybe you should—

Ben never heard the end of that sentence, because outside the station window, hovering just beyond the glass, was the drone.

He turned back to the officer.

“Tell me you see it.”

The officer followed his gaze. Paused.

And then: “See what?”

Ben stopped talking about it after that.

He kept his head down. He ignored the sight of it, ignored the whirring sound it made when he turned a corner, ignored the cold certainty that it would never leave him.

Until one day, while absent-mindedly scrolling through old childhood photos on his phone, he noticed something.

A picture from his 8th birthday.

A group shot with friends.

In the background, just above the rooftops.

A small black dot in the sky. He zoomed in and realised…

The drone had always been watching him.

The Interview From Hell

Jake had been unemployed for three months when he got the call.

“Mr. Holloway, we were very impressed with your application for the Strategic Synergy Facilitator position. Can you come in for an interview tomorrow?”

He hadn’t applied for anything with a title that ridiculous, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky.

He arrived, bright and early the next morning at the office—a glass-and-steel monstrosity in the heart of the city.

The receptionist greeted him with an unsettling smile. “Mr. Holloway, the executives are expecting you. Please, follow me.”

Executives? For an entry-level job?

She led him to a windowless boardroom, where five men in identical grey suits sat behind a wide mahogany table. A single chair sat by itself facing them.

Jake sat. The chair was too low. The men loomed.

“Mr. Holloway,” the one in the centre said, steepling his fingers. “Do you know what we do here at EverGrowth Solutions?”

Jake had checked their website the night before, and it had been aggressively vague—phrases like “leveraging global potential” and “pioneering integrated paradigms.”

“I… uh… believe you’re in consulting?” he guessed.

“Yes,” the man nodded. “But also… so much more.”

The lights dimmed.

A trapdoor opened in the floor in front of Jake, revealing a pit of screaming fire.

Jake blinked.

“…Is this part of the interview?”

The executive ignored him. “At EverGrowth, we believe in nurturing talent. Developing leadership. Feeding the ancient one who sleeps beneath the city.”

“Sorry—what?”

“Tell me, Jake,” the man continued, voice calm. “Do you consider yourself a team player?”

“Uh—sure?”

“Would you be willing to make personal sacrifices for the good of the company?”

The flames in the pit flickered expectantly.

Jake squirmed awkwardly in his chair. “Okay, look. I think there’s been a mistake. I thought this was for a—what was it?—a ‘Strategic Synergy Facilitator?’”

The executives nodded.

“Yes. Facilitating synergy between your blood and the great devourer. Strategically.”

Jake stood up, hands raised. “I appreciate the opportunity and everything, but I don’t think I’m the right fit for—”

One of the executives slid a contract across the table. The letters on the page seemed to writhe.

“Sign here,” the man said. “In ink. Or blood. Either works.”

Jake sighed.

“…Does the position come with benefits?”

“401k, dental, and immortality.”

He picked up a pen.

“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose I’ve had worse jobs.”

The Confessional Booth

Father Bradley sat alone in the dim booth, the wooden walls pressing close. The air smelled of old varnish and the ghosts of a thousand whispered sins. It had been a long day, and he had not intended to stay this late, but he could not bring himself to leave. He exhaled, slow and steady. His hands were folded in his lap. Then, almost without thinking, he reached for the sliding panel and pulled it open.

Darkness.

The other side of the confessional was empty.

He hesitated, staring at the vacant space, the silence stretching between the wooden lattice. The kneeler on the other side was untouched, the candlelight barely grazing the edge of the shadows.

And yet—

He felt something there.

A strange sensation settled over him, an impulse he did not understand. Then, before he could stop himself, he spoke.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His voice did not sound like his own.

He sat perfectly still, waiting. The hush of the church seemed to press against him, thick and watchful. The weight of his own words lingered in the air, waiting for something—an answer, a response.

There was none.

And yet he continued.

“It has been… too long since my last confession.”

A pause.

A breath.

“I have killed a man.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He did not even know where they had come from, only that they were true.

His fingers curled in his lap.

“I killed him with my silence.”

A creak of old wood.

The shadows beyond the screen seemed deeper now, stretching towards him. He could not look away.

“I killed him by pretending not to see.”

The candlelight flickered.

The words did not stop. They pulled themselves from his throat like thread unraveling.

“I let him drown beneath his sins because it was easier than saving him. Because if I had reached for him, I might have been dragged under too.”

His breath came too quick now. A tightness curled in his ribs, a pressure in his chest.

“I killed him,” he whispered.

The hush of the confessional swallowed his words.

Nothing but the echo of his own breath, the weight of his own voice pressing back against him.

Silence.

A Step-by-Step Guide to Finally Getting Your Life Together

So, you’ve decided it’s time to finally get your life together. Congratulations! This is a bold and admirable step—one that will last approximately three days before you give up and return to your normal, dysfunctional existence. But let’s pretend, for now, that you’re actually going to follow through.

Here’s a foolproof step-by-step guide to transforming yourself into a productive, responsible, well-adjusted adult. Or, at the very least, someone who appears to have their life together.

Step 1: Cry in the Shower

This is crucial. You cannot skip this step. The shower is the perfect place for a life-altering breakdown. The acoustics make your sobs more dramatic, the water hides your tears, and you can stare blankly at the tiles like you’re in a sad indie film.

While you’re there, reflect on the mess you’ve made of your life. Think about all the unread emails, the unfulfilled potential, and the expired yoghurt in your fridge. Let the weight of it all crash down on you.

Good. Now you’re ready for step two.

Step 2: Make an Overly Ambitious To-Do List

Grab a notebook (or, let’s be honest, your phone) and write down every single thing you need to do. This will include:

• Fixing your sleep schedule

• Organising your entire home

• Reading 47 books you’ve been meaning to get to

• Learning a new language

• Going to the gym every day

• Finally responding to that email from three months ago

Perfect. You’ve now created an impossible standard that will soon lead to crushing disappointment. But at least you feel productive for now.

Step 3: Buy Fancy Productivity Supplies Instead of Actually Doing Anything

Now that you have a plan, it’s time to avoid doing any of it by convincing yourself that you need the perfect tools first.

• Buy a brand-new laptop that you will use exactly twice.

• Get a stack of motivational self-help books that will sit untouched on your shelf.

• Invest in a high-quality pen, because obviously, you can’t change your life with a regular Bic.

Spending money on things that symbolise productivity is almost the same as being productive. Almost.

Step 4: Completely Redesign Your Morning Routine (That You’ll Never Follow)

All the successful people wake up at 5 AM, right? Time to become one of them.

Your new morning routine will include:

• Waking up before the sun

• Meditating for 20 minutes

• Drinking a litre of lemon water

• Journaling about your intentions for the day

• Cooking a wholesome, protein-packed breakfast

• Doing yoga or an intense workout

• Reading something intellectually stimulating

You’ll do this once. Then you’ll go back to waking up 10 minutes before you have to leave the house and eating half a granola bar in the car.

Step 5: Attempt to Declutter, Get Emotionally Attached to a Broken Charger

Time to clean your space! You’ll start with enthusiasm, throwing things into a donation pile like you’re starring in your own Netflix tidying show.

Then, it happens. You find an old top that you haven’t worn in years, but what if you need it someday? You pick up a half-dead phone charger and feel a strange sense of nostalgia. You discover a box of miscellaneous cables, and even though you don’t know what any of them belong to, you might need them in the future.

By the end of the day, your home looks exactly the same, but now there are just piles of things in different places.

Step 6: Start a New Hobby, Give Up Immediately

Nothing says “getting your life together” like picking up a new hobby. YouTube has convinced you that you could be a painter, a knitter, a pianist, a marathon runner, and a gourmet chef if you just put your mind to it.

You buy all the supplies. You watch one tutorial. You attempt it for 10 minutes, realise it’s hard, and immediately give up.

That’s okay. Just store the supplies in a cupboard somewhere, where they will sit untouched forever.

Step 7: Have a Mid-Afternoon Existential Crisis

At some point, you’ll realise that despite all your efforts, you are still you. The same flawed, procrastinating, overthinking mess you’ve always been. The weight of this realisation will hit you hard.

You will lie down for a while. Possibly on the floor. Possibly in a blanket cocoon.

Step 8: Decide That “Balance” Is More Important Than Productivity

After failing to become a superhuman productivity machine, you’ll eventually conclude that maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to be perfect. You’ll tell yourself that life is about balance.

You’ll abandon your 5 AM routine and decide that waking up at 7 is fine. You’ll accept that you’ll never read all the books on your list, and that’s okay. You’ll realise that maybe it’s better to make realistic goals instead of aiming for perfection.

You’ll realise that personal fulfilment is actually nothing to do with perceived achievements but everything to do with appreciating the world around you.

This will feel like a profound and life-changing breakthrough.

Step 9: Forget Everything and Return to Your Old Ways

One week later, you’re back to doomscrolling until 2 AM, living in mild chaos, and convincing yourself that next week is when you’ll really get your life together.

And the cycle continues.

Congratulations! You’ve successfully followed every step of this guide. Now, go take another shower. You’ve earned it.

The Ghost Who Wouldn’t Leave a Bad Review

Mark knew the Airbnb was haunted the second he walked in.

It wasn’t the creaky floors or the flickering lights. It wasn’t even the way the temperature dropped ten degrees every time he passed the bathroom. It was the muttering.

Low, whispering complaints from the walls, like a disappointed pensioner in a supermarket queue.

At first, he thought it was his imagination. Then, on his first night, as he settled into bed, a voice groaned from the corner of the room:

“Ugh. This place used to be so much nicer.”

Mark sat up, in a panic. “What?”

The voice sighed. “Back when Mrs. Holloway owned it. Before they put in those godawful spotlights. I mean, honestly. Who renovates a Victorian home with IKEA lighting?”

Mark turned on the bedside lamp. The room was empty.

“Are you… a… a… ghost?” he barely managed to ask.

“Obviously. Who else would be complaining at this hour?”

Mark blinked. “You’re… upset about the lighting?”

“And the décor,” the ghost grumbled. “They painted over the original wallpaper, you know. Floral print. Absolutely stunning. Now? Just blank white walls. No personality. No history. No soul.”

Mark pulled the covers up. “You don’t, like… want to kill me or anything, do you?”

“What? No, no, I’m not that kind of ghost. I just want people to know this place has gone downhill.”

Mark exhaled. “Oh. Well, I mean, I guess you could leave a bad review?”

There was a long pause.

“I couldn’t do that.”

“…Why not?”

“Because Jeremy is lovely.”

“Jeremy?”

“The host. Sweet man. Bakes his own bread. Uses real butter, not that margarine rubbish. You can’t just destroy someone’s livelihood over a few bad design choices.”

Mark stared at the ceiling. “So you’re just going to… haunt this place forever and complain about it?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Have you talked to Jeremy?”

“Oh, sure. I ruffled some curtains. Moved a mug. He thought it was a draft.”

Mark sighed. “Look, I’ll mention it in my review if you want. I’ll just say, like, ‘Great stay, friendly host, but the ghost thinks the house has lost its charm.’”

“Hmm. Maybe also note that the pillows are a bit too firm?”

“Sure.”

“And that the Wi-Fi cuts out at night?”

“Okay.”

“And that it wouldn’t kill them to put one antique back in here? Just one. For the aesthetic.”

“Fine.”

“You’re a good man, Mark.”

“Thanks, Ghost.”

He heard a satisfied sigh. Then silence.

The next morning, Mark left a five-star review.

Jeremy replied, thanking him for the feedback and promising to look into the Wi-Fi issue. He didn’t mention the ghost.

But when Mark checked the listing a month later, he noticed the place had been updated.

A single antique chair in the corner.

Mark smiled. Somewhere, a ghost was finally at peace.

Your Life in Customer Reviews

By the time I realised I was dead, I was already in line.

The queue stretched a long way, a slow-moving procession of the newly departed. There was no pain, no fear—just a strange sense of acceptance, like I was waiting for a coffee I hadn’t ordered but was happy to drink anyway.

Ahead, a glowing kiosk hummed gently, a friendly blue light flickering above it. A digital voice chimed:

“Thank you for living! Please rate your experience.”

I frowned.

The person in front of me, a hunched old man in a tweed jacket, tapped the screen hesitantly. His expression shifted from curiosity to horror. He muttered something under his breath, then shuffled off into the mist.

The screen blinked invitingly. It was my turn.

Welcome to the Afterlife Feedback Portal!

Life of: Daniel Everett

Status: Concluded

Time Spent Alive: 38 years, 4 months, 12 days

Total Rating: 2.9 / 5 stars

Two point nine? That was dangerously close to “would not recommend.”

A glowing progress bar appeared. “Review Breakdown Loading…”

Relationships – 2.5 stars

• “Started strong but lost momentum. Needed better communication skills.” ★★☆☆☆

• “Girlfriend of three years? More like unpaid therapist of three years.” ★★★☆☆

I winced. That was… uncomfortably fair.

Career – 3.0 stars

• “Showed up to work on time. Mostly.” ★★★☆☆

• “Had potential, but spent too much time on Reddit.” ★★☆☆☆

• “Boss liked him. Colleagues tolerated him. Printer hated him.” ★★★☆☆

That last one stung more than I expected.

Personal Growth – 1.8 stars

• “Kept saying he’d learn a language. Never did.” ★☆☆☆☆

• “Joined a gym. Went twice.” ★☆☆☆☆

• “Had an epiphany about life’s meaning once. Forgot it immediately.” ★★☆☆☆

The screen flickered. A new section appeared.

Regrets – Most Common Mentions:

• “Too scared to take risks.”

• “Spent more time looking at screens than faces.”

“Would you like to leave a response?” the kiosk asked.

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the screen. What was there to say? That I tried? That I thought I had more time? That I wish I’d paid more attention, held on to people tighter, been braver, been better?

The screen pulsed.

“All feedback is final. Thank you for existing.”

A door opened, and I stepped through.

The Disciples of Grit

It started as a joke.

One night, after too many beers and an ill-advised deep dive into self-help YouTube, I posted a tweet:

“Success is a mindset. Stop making excuses. Wake up at 4 AM and start winning at life.”

I thought nothing of it. I went to bed, dreaming of a long, lazy Sunday.

The next morning, I woke up to 12,000 retweets.

By lunchtime, my inbox was flooded with messages. “Thank you, Master.” “Your words changed my life.” “I have cast aside weakness and now exist only to WIN.”

I checked my profile. My follower count had exploded overnight. I had somehow become an influencer. Worse—people were treating me like a guru.

I decided to lean into the bit. I tweeted:

“The weak want comfort. The strong seek discipline. CHOOSE WISELY.”

It got 50,000 likes. Someone turned it into an inspirational Instagram post with my face superimposed over a stock image of a mountain.

By the end of the week, my followers had a name: The Disciples of Grit.

A month in, I had a website, a Patreon, and an army of devoted followers who were doing everything I said. I told them to quit caffeine—they did. I told them to sleep in the woods for mental toughness—several nearly froze to death. One guy even tattooed WAKE UP AND WIN across his forehead.

At some point, I should have stopped. Instead, I started selling online courses.

$499.99 – The Masterclass on Grit

• Week 1: Destroying Weakness (Starting With Your Sleep Schedule)

• Week 2: Eliminating Friends Who Don’t Support Your Hustle

• Week 3: Why Emotions Are for Losers

The money poured in. Brands reached out for sponsorships. My face was plastered on T-shirts with slogans like “PAIN IS A CHOICE” and “CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES”.

Then things got weird.

One of my followers emailed me: “Master, when do we march?”

I blinked at the screen. March?

I scrolled through my Discord server. My followers had been… organising. Stockpiling supplies. Talking about “overthrowing the weak.”

I logged onto X. The hashtag #GritRevolution was trending.

I slammed my laptop shut.

I had accidentally started a cult.

I tried to shut it down. I posted, “Hey guys, maybe let’s not form a militant movement? Also, please don’t call me ‘Master.’”

The comments were instant:

• “A test! The Master is testing our loyalty!”

• “Yes, we must remain humble. Let us crush the weak in silence.”

• “Master, we have already begun.”

I turned on the news. There had been rallies. People in homemade WAKE UP AND WIN uniforms were chanting my slogans in the streets.

Panicked, I booked a flight to Mexico. I shaved my head. I deleted all my social media.

It wasn’t enough.

This morning, someone knocked on my door. A man in sunglasses and a Disciples of Grit hoodie stood there, grinning.

“Master,” he said. “We found you.”