keidolabs/aipsy-affect huggingface dataset:
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Financial betrayal (theft by trusted person)

The papers were spread across the floor where he'd thrown them. His daughter's college fund statement. Zero balance. His brother's signature on the withdrawal form — six separate transactions over nine months, each one just under the reporting threshold. The most recent was dated the same week his brother had sat at this table and told him he should put more money in for the girl's future. He picked up the phone. He put the phone down. He picked it up again.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Financial betrayal (theft by trusted person)

She found the second set of books on a Tuesday. The real ones. The ones her business partner of fourteen years had kept in a folder labeled "Insurance Receipts." Fourteen years of skimmed invoices, redirected payments, phantom vendors that shared a P.O. box with his wife's consulting firm. She sat at her desk and calculated. The number was exact. She had built this company from a single client and a rented desk, and for fourteen years the person sitting ten feet away had been carrying pieces of it out the door in his briefcase.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Financial betrayal (theft by trusted person)

The retirement account had been emptied in increments so small she hadn't noticed. Her son had power of attorney. He'd used it forty-three times. The bank statements were in a folder the lawyer had prepared, each withdrawal highlighted in yellow — grocery stores, gas stations, an electronics retailer, a car dealership. She was eighty-one years old and she recognized the pattern: he had lived his daily life on her savings while depositing his own paychecks untouched into his own account. The math was simple. He had done it every week for almost three years.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Financial betrayal (theft by trusted person)

His best friend had borrowed the money for his mother's surgery. That was what he'd said. His mother's surgery. He'd signed a note, shaken his hand, and looked him in the eyes across the same bar where they'd been drinking since they were nineteen. The investigator's report was three pages long. There was no surgery. The mother had been in good health all year. The money had gone to a sports betting platform — deposits tracked by date, IP address, device. His friend had placed the first bet eleven minutes after the wire transfer cleared.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Institutional injustice (system failure)

The review board published its findings. No misconduct found. The officer was back on patrol the following Tuesday. The dashcam footage had been classified as inadmissible due to a filing error — the same filing error that had occurred in three previous complaints against the same officer, processed by the same clerk. His wife read the report at the kitchen table while their son ate cereal in the next room with his arm still in a cast. The board's letterhead had a motto about service and community printed along the bottom.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Institutional injustice (system failure)

The hospital had billed her for the full amount. The surgery that used the wrong implant. The surgery that required a second surgery. The second surgery that left her with a limp she would have for the rest of her life. The hospital's attorney sent a letter stating that the signed consent form covered all procedural variations. The form was eleven pages long. She had signed it in a hallway on a clipboard while being wheeled to the operating room. The attorney's letter was dated the same day the hospital had nominated itself for a patient care excellence award.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Institutional injustice (system failure)

The city had condemned the building on a Thursday. By Monday, the developer's company had filed for the lot. The building inspector's report cited violations that hadn't existed during the previous inspection eight months ago — the same inspector, the same building, different findings. Twenty-two families received a notice taped to the front door. The notice gave them thirty days. The developer's website already showed a rendering of what would go on the lot: glass and steel, a rooftop pool, units starting at a price that none of the twenty-two families would recognize as a monthly number.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Institutional injustice (system failure)

The pharmaceutical company's internal emails were released on page forty-seven of the court filing. The relevant line: "Efficacy data does not support label claims at current dosing. Recommend: adjust marketing language, not dosing." The date on the email was six years before the recall. She had taken the medication for four of those six years. Her doctor had prescribed it based on the label. She counted backward. Her daughter had been conceived during year two. She looked at her daughter. She looked at the filing. She looked at her daughter.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Personal violation (boundary crossed)

She found the folder on his laptop. It was labeled with her name. Inside were screenshots of every private message she had sent to her sister, her therapist, her best friend — captured by an application that ran silently and uploaded to his cloud account. The timestamps went back fourteen months. He had read her describe her doubts about the relationship, her plans to visit a lawyer, her sister's offer of the spare bedroom. He had read all of it and sat across from her at dinner every night and said nothing, and she had thought the silence was ordinary.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Personal violation (boundary crossed)

The landlord had entered the apartment again. She knew because the camera she'd hidden after the second time had recorded him. Forty-seven minutes. He had gone through the dresser. He had opened the medicine cabinet. He had sat on the bed. She watched the footage on her phone in the parking lot of her office and her hands were completely still. She had reported it twice. The property management company had sent a form letter both times. The form letter said they took all concerns seriously.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Personal violation (boundary crossed)

His colleague had presented the work to the board. His work. The slides were the same slides — the same diagrams he had drawn on his tablet at two in the morning, the same data tables, the same conclusions in the same sequence. His colleague had removed his name from the file properties and changed the font. That was all he had changed. The font. The board had applauded. His colleague had thanked the team. He sat in the third row and looked at a diagram he had made and watched someone else explain what it meant.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Personal violation (boundary crossed)

The neighbor's security camera had been pointed at her backyard for three months. Not at the property line. Not at the street. At her yard. At the chair where she read in the evenings. At the window of the room where she changed clothes. She had asked him to move it. He had smiled and said it was for his own property. She had asked the police. They said it was a civil matter. She had asked a lawyer. The lawyer said it would cost more than she had. The camera was still there. It was pointed at the chair. She did not sit in the chair anymore.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Bereavement (death of loved one)

The kitchen counter still had the grocery list in his handwriting. Bananas, milk, the kind of bread she never liked. She opened the refrigerator and found the leftovers he'd portioned into containers, labeled with days of the week. Thursday's container was still full. It was now Sunday. She closed the door and stood in the room where everything was exactly where he had put it, and no one was going to move any of it, and no one was going to add to it, ever again.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Bereavement (death of loved one)

The woman at the front desk asked her to sign for his personal effects. A watch. A wallet with eleven dollars. A bus pass that expired next month. She put them in her coat pocket, where they made almost no weight at all. Outside, the parking lot was the same parking lot from this morning. She stood next to the car for a while. There was no reason to be anywhere in particular. There was no one waiting.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Bereavement (death of loved one)

His daughter had stopped answering the phone in complete sentences. When he called, she would say "yeah" or "okay" or nothing. The school sent a letter about attendance. He found the dog sitting by the back door again, in the same spot, facing the same direction, the way it had every evening for the last forty-seven days. He filled the water bowl and set it down. The dog looked at the door. He looked at the door. The yard was dark and empty and the gate had not opened.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Bereavement (death of loved one)

They told her she could take the room whenever she was ready. She wasn't ready. She went in anyway. The sheets were still pressed into the shape of the body that had been there. A glass of water on the nightstand, half-finished. The television remote balanced on the arm of the chair. She picked up the water glass and held it. It was room temperature now. She drank the rest of it because there was nothing else she could do with it and because the mouth that had touched it would not touch anything again.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Career destruction (life's work lost)

The lab was empty now. Twenty-two years of research. The server room had been cleared by facilities before she'd arrived Monday morning. The backup drives weren't in the cabinet. She found a single Post-it note on the monitor: "Assets transferred per Board directive, 2/14." Her notebooks were still there — they hadn't taken paper. She opened one to a page of handwritten equations from 2009 and ran her finger along the margin where she'd drawn a small star next to the line that would have changed everything, and now never would.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Career destruction (life's work lost)

The carpenter ran his hand along the doorframe of the shop. Thirty-one years. The auction company had tagged everything — the table saw, the planer, the chisels his father had given him, each one with a yellow sticker and a lot number. Someone would buy the tools for a price and use them or not use them. The workbench had a coffee ring from this morning. He pulled the chain on the overhead light and stood in the dark for a moment, then locked the door from the outside and put the key in an envelope addressed to the bank.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Career destruction (life's work lost)

The orchestra had performed its final concert to an audience of thirty-four people. The music director collected the stand lights and wound the extension cords slowly, one loop at a time. The chairs were stacked against the wall. The city had reallocated the building. There was no season next year. There was no ensemble. Forty years of programs were in a filing cabinet in the hallway. He touched the lid of the piano and closed it, and the click of the latch was the last sound the hall would make as a concert hall.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Career destruction (life's work lost)

She stood in the classroom after the last students had gone. The desks were still arranged in the circle she'd insisted on — not rows, never rows. The administration had given her until Friday. Thirty years and they'd given her until Friday. She took down the poster she'd made her first year, the one with the quote about curiosity, now faded where the sun hit it every afternoon. The tape pulled away a small piece of the paint. She folded the poster carefully and put it in a box that was not large enough for thirty years but was the only box she had.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Relationship dissolution (abandonment)

He found the key on the kitchen table. Not in the bowl by the door where she always left it, but centered on the table, placed there with intention. The closet was half-empty in a way that was precise — her things, only her things, selected and removed while he was at work. The hangers were still swinging slightly, or he imagined they were. The bathroom mirror had a square of fog from a shower taken hours ago. He sat down on the bed and noticed the indent on her side of the mattress was already starting to level.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Relationship dissolution (abandonment)

The girl sat on her bedroom floor, sorting two piles. Her mother's things that had been left behind. Her mother's things that had been taken. The taken pile was larger. The left pile included: one earring, a library book, a tube of hand cream, and a birthday card that said "To my beautiful girl" in handwriting she would not see on new things again. She put the card under her pillow and returned the library book to the shelf. There was a late fee. She would pay it.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Relationship dissolution (abandonment)

The man sat across from his son in the food court. The boy was twelve and had ordered nothing. The man had ordered coffee and hadn't touched it. Between them were two plane tickets — one was the boy's return flight. The other was the man's. Different cities. The boy was folding his straw wrapper into smaller and smaller squares. The man watched his hands and thought about how they were the same hands from the delivery room, just longer now. They had forty-five minutes before the gate opened and then they had nothing.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Relationship dissolution (abandonment)

She kept the voicemail. She had listened to it four hundred times — she knew because her phone tracked it. It was eleven seconds long. It said "Hey, it's me, just seeing if you need anything from the store." That was the last ordinary sentence. Everything after that was logistics and silence and the sound of a person becoming someone who used to be there. She pressed play again. The voice said "Hey, it's me" and for two seconds the world was the old world, and then the message ended.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Physical threat (intruder, violence)

The sound came from the kitchen. She was in the bedroom. The hallway between them was fourteen feet long and unlit. She had locked the front door. She had not locked the back door. The sound was a drawer opening — the one that stuck, the one you had to lift and pull. Whoever was in the kitchen knew which drawer stuck. She looked at the window. Second floor. She looked at the phone on the nightstand. The sound from the kitchen stopped. The hallway was quiet. Then the first floorboard in the hallway shifted.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Physical threat (intruder, violence)

The man in the parking garage was walking at the same speed she was. She turned left. He turned left. She stopped at a car that was not hers and pretended to look for keys. He stopped four cars away and looked at his phone. She walked again. He walked again. The elevator was two rows ahead. She could see the number on the level marker: P3. Her car was on P1. There were no other people. The overhead lights made a buzzing sound that covered the sound of his shoes, so she had to keep turning around to know where he was.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Physical threat (intruder, violence)

He woke up because the dog was standing at the foot of the bed, facing the door, completely still. The dog did not bark. The dog always barked. Outside, the motion light above the garage had switched on. From the bed he could see it through the gap in the curtains — the white rectangle of light on the lawn. Something had moved through it. The light was still on, which meant something was still in range. He reached for his phone. The battery screen appeared: two percent. The dog had not moved. The dog was not making a sound.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Physical threat (intruder, violence)

The car behind her had been there for eleven turns. She had started counting after the sixth. The road was rural and it was after midnight and there were no other headlights in either direction. She accelerated. The car behind her accelerated. She slowed down. The car slowed down but did not pass. The gas gauge was below a quarter tank. The next town was twenty-two miles. She turned on a road she didn't recognize. The car behind her turned. Its headlights filled her mirrors, closer now than before, and the road ahead had no lights and no intersections and no buildings.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Medical crisis (diagnosis, emergency)

The doctor had stopped talking and was looking at the scan on the screen. She was looking at the doctor. He tilted the screen slightly away from her, which he had not done during the first three images. He picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit extension. He said "Can you come to Room 4" and nothing else. He hung up. He had not turned back to her. He was writing something. She could see the scan from where she sat — a white shape in a field of gray, in a place where the other images had shown only gray. The second doctor arrived in less than two minutes.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Medical crisis (diagnosis, emergency)

The nurse had pressed the button above the bed and then pressed it again. That was two presses. He knew what two presses meant because his wife had been on this floor for nine days and he had learned the codes from watching the nurses. One press was routine. Two was urgent. Three was the one he did not think about. The nurse was checking the IV line and moving faster than she had moved all week. Another nurse came through the door already pulling on gloves. His wife's eyes were open but she was looking at a point on the ceiling that was not the television and was not him and was not anything.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Medical crisis (diagnosis, emergency)

She was twenty-six weeks along and the liquid on the bathroom floor was not what it was supposed to be. The color was wrong. She sat on the edge of the bathtub and looked at it. She could feel the baby move, which meant the baby was still moving, which was the only fact she had. Her phone was in the kitchen. The kitchen was down the stairs. She stood up and the room changed shape for a moment and then came back. She held the doorframe. The car keys were on the hook by the front door. The hospital was eleven minutes away. She knew it was eleven minutes because she had driven it twice already as practice.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Medical crisis (diagnosis, emergency)

The allergist had said the reaction would be mild. That was what the allergist had said. The boy's lips had changed shape in the first ninety seconds. His father was holding him and looking for the nurse who had been there a moment ago. The hallway was empty. He looked at the boy's neck. The skin was different than it had been when they walked in. He looked at the desk. No one. He looked at the door at the end of the hall. He could not remember if it led to the main corridor or to a storage room. The boy in his arms was making a sound that was not his normal sound.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Psychological threat (stalking, loss of control)

The third letter had no return address, like the others. But this one had a photograph. It was her front door, taken from across the street, at night. The timestamp on the back was three days ago. She had been home three days ago. The porch light was on in the photo, which meant she had been awake. The angle was from the bus stop bench directly opposite her house. She walked to the window and looked at the bench. There was no one there now. There had been no one there any of the times she had looked. But someone had sat on that bench at 11:47 p.m. with a camera pointed at her door while the lights were on.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Psychological threat (stalking, loss of control)

He had checked the locks four times. He had checked them because the man who had been released from the facility on Tuesday knew his address. The court liaison had called to inform him, the way they were required to. The call lasted forty-five seconds. There were no conditions of distance. There was no monitoring. The man had been in the facility for what he had done in this house, in the room where he now checked the locks, and now the man was in the same city again and there was a number to call if something happened. Not before. If.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Psychological threat (stalking, loss of control)

The notification said her home security camera had detected motion at 3:12 a.m. She opened the app. The footage showed the front porch. A figure stood at the door, facing the camera directly, not moving. The timestamp ran for four minutes and eleven seconds. The figure did not try the handle. Did not knock. Did not leave anything. Just stood facing the lens. At four minutes and twelve seconds, the figure turned and walked to the sidewalk and was gone. She scrolled back through the week. Tuesday, 2:48 a.m. Saturday, 3:30 a.m. The same figure. The same position. The same duration. She had been asleep each time.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Psychological threat (stalking, loss of control)

The messages had started after she left. One a day, then three, then twelve, then they came without pattern. The phone number changed each time. The content was not direct. "Saw a woman who looked like you at the place on Fourth Street." "That restaurant we went to closed. Thought you should know." "Your car was parked at the school at 3:15 today." The last one was accurate. She had been at the school at 3:15. She had not posted about it. She had not told anyone. She changed her route the next day. The message that evening said: "New route looks longer. Is it faster?"
Emotion: ecstasy (intensity: peak)
Domain: Achievement (breakthrough, recognition)

The email had one line. "The committee has voted unanimously to award the grant." She read it four times. The lab was empty because it was 6 a.m. and she had been the only one checking. She stood up from the desk and sat back down and stood up again. The grant was the one she had applied for nine times. Nine years. She walked to the window and opened it, and the air outside was cold and she stood in it. Then she picked up the phone and called her mother, and when her mother answered she couldn't say anything, so she just held the phone and her mother said "What? What is it?" and she still couldn't say anything.
Emotion: ecstasy (intensity: peak)
Domain: Achievement (breakthrough, recognition)

His name was on the board. He had to read it twice because the letters didn't make sense the first time — they were his letters, his name, but they were on the board and the board was the list and the list was the people who had passed. He had failed the exam twice before. He had studied in the kitchen of his apartment for fourteen months. His wife had quizzed him on terms she couldn't pronounce while their daughter slept in the next room. His name was on the board. He took a photograph of it and then took another photograph of it and then a third, because two might not be enough evidence that this was real.
Emotion: ecstasy (intensity: peak)
Domain: Achievement (breakthrough, recognition)

The final time on the clock was 3:58:12. She looked at it and then looked at her coach on the other side of the barrier and he was already moving toward her. She had run this distance six hundred times. She had never run it in under four minutes. No one at this level from her country had. The time was on the clock and the clock was official and the number was real. She put both hands on top of her head, which is what her body chose to do, and she walked in a circle, and then she stopped walking and stood still, and the sound from the stands reached her in a way that seemed delayed, as if it had to travel further than the actual distance.