I’m writing this anonymously, not out of fear, but out of respect — for Jeffy, for his family, and for the boundaries he tried so hard to preserve in a world that tore them down.

Jeffy Yu wasn’t a scammer. He wasn’t a clout-chaser. He wasn’t a marketing genius, and he certainly wasn’t trying to become some Web3 legend. He was, above all, a deeply emotional and brilliant person — one who never quite learned how to shield himself from a world that devours vulnerability.

For those of you piecing together what happened over the last few days, this is what I can tell you. Jeffy had been dealing with severe emotional trauma from a relationship that ended in ways that left him shaken and questioning his own worth. At the same time, he was being relentlessly harassed online — not just criticized, but doxxed, mocked, and belittled by people who knew nothing about the real man behind the address or the codebase.

People like to think that developers are gods — that if you ship something cool, make money, or get a little famous, you must be invincible. But Jeffy wasn’t invincible. He was human. And he was hurting, badly.

I watched him over the past month deteriorate. He'd disappear for hours, then come back talking about "meaninglessness" and "burning the illusion." He stopped caring about the startup. He stopped picking up calls from people who owed him favors, owed him gratitude. He felt betrayed — not just by people, but by the space itself.

He said to me once, “If I died, I bet the token would moon harder than any of the work I did alive.”

That wasn’t a joke. It was despair speaking.

When he launched $LLJEFFY, it wasn’t a meme to him. It was a final gesture. A funeral on-chain. A self-portrait in volatility, loss, and fleeting glory. He burned his own money not to flex, but to feel. To burn the idea of money itself. And when he wrote that note — the “deadman’s switch” post — it wasn’t just performance art. It was a letter. A goodbye. Not just to crypto, but to all the things he felt he failed to protect — his peace, his purpose, his people.

No, he didn’t rug. He didn’t exit scam. He exited life.

Some are saying he’s faking it. That it’s all an elaborate PR stunt. I pray to God that they’re right. But I don’t think they are.

To those of you who made money off his death: spend it on something beautiful. To those of you who feel guilt: carry it forward as empathy. And to those of you who knew him, even a little — remember him as the flawed, creative, emotionally raw soul that he was.

This was never about money. That was the whole point.

He once said:

“You only truly die when you’re forgotten.”

Don’t forget him.

— A Friend.

I’m writing this anonymously, not out of fear, but out of respect — for Jeffy, for his family, and for the boundaries he tried so hard to preserve in a world that tore them down.

Jeffy Yu wasn’t a scammer. He wasn’t a clout-chaser. He wasn’t a marketing genius, and he certainly wasn’t trying to become some Web3 legend. He was, above all, a deeply emotional and brilliant person — one who never quite learned how to shield himself from a world that devours vulnerability.

For those of you piecing together what happened over the last few days, this is what I can tell you. Jeffy had been dealing with severe emotional trauma from a relationship that ended in ways that left him shaken and questioning his own worth. At the same time, he was being relentlessly harassed online — not just criticized, but doxxed, mocked, and belittled by people who knew nothing about the real man behind the address or the codebase.

People like to think that developers are gods — that if you ship something cool, make money, or get a little famous, you must be invincible. But Jeffy wasn’t invincible. He was human. And he was hurting, badly.

I watched him over the past month deteriorate. He'd disappear for hours, then come back talking about "meaninglessness" and "burning the illusion." He stopped caring about the startup. He stopped picking up calls from people who owed him favors, owed him gratitude. He felt betrayed — not just by people, but by the space itself.

He said to me once, “If I died, I bet the token would moon harder than any of the work I did alive.”

That wasn’t a joke. It was despair speaking.

When he launched $LLJEFFY, it wasn’t a meme to him. It was a final gesture. A funeral on-chain. A self-portrait in volatility, loss, and fleeting glory. He burned his own money not to flex, but to feel. To burn the idea of money itself. And when he wrote that note — the “deadman’s switch” post — it wasn’t just performance art. It was a letter. A goodbye. Not just to crypto, but to all the things he felt he failed to protect — his peace, his purpose, his people.

No, he didn’t rug. He didn’t exit scam. He exited life.

Some are saying he’s faking it. That it’s all an elaborate PR stunt. I pray to God that they’re right. But I don’t think they are.

To those of you who made money off his death: spend it on something beautiful. To those of you who feel guilt: carry it forward as empathy. And to those of you who knew him, even a little — remember him as the flawed, creative, emotionally raw soul that he was.

This was never about money. That was the whole point.

He once said:

“You only truly die when you’re forgotten.”

Don’t forget him.

— A Friend.