You woke up with one thousand words left, for the rest of your life. Every one you spend is gone the moment you use it.
Each scene needs you to say something real — comfort a friend, give a stranger directions, describe a sunset to someone who can't see it.
Type freely. Small joining words (a, the, and, to…) are always free. Everything else you type — every distinct word — is spent the moment you send it, and it never comes back. Typos are forgiven; the meaning is what matters.
Your keyboard remembers what you've already spent. It will not offer those words to you again — not tomorrow, not ever.
When the thousand run out, there is one last scene. It asks for nothing.
for your friend
…
Nothing spent yet.
There is nothing left to spend. Sit with the one beside you and say nothing at all.