The blinking line on the screen didn’t stop.It was waiting for a value I couldn’t provide.
In programming, an undefined variable is an error.A symbol that has been referenced but holds no value.It breaks the code.It stops the execution.
For the last five days, I had been living as a syntax error.
I took a breath and got to work.
My laptop screen was a blur of code and thesis revisions, but I hadn’t typed a character in twenty minutes.
I pulled out a legal pad and sketched out a formula for my life.I attempted to calculate the efficiency (E) of the routine:
E= (A+B)/C
Where:
A(Solitude) = 1
B(Academic Focus) = ∞
C(Emotional Stability) = 0
Result: Calculation failed.Divide by zero error.
I closed the laptop.The magnetic latch snapped shut—a sharp, final sound that echoed in the empty room.
It was exactly what I had asked for.I had asked for no secrets.I had asked for clarity.
Luke had given it to me.He had chosen the contract, his dad, and the “singular” path that led him to Minnesota.I had given him back the puck.
So, why did it feel less like clarity and more like amputation?
The equation wasn’t making sense.I couldn’t solve forE.I needed another change of venue.Maybe fresh air would help me come up with a logical solution.I packed my bag.I put on my coat and walked out into the corridor.
Ridgeway smelled like chalk and floor wax.It used to smell like a sanctuary.Now, it smelled like an empty building where people came to work alone.
I walked back to Stony Creek Hall.
The wind was biting, cutting through my scarf.I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the groups of students heading toward the bars.
I swiped into the dorm.The lobby was deserted.
The elevator ride to the third floor took seventeen seconds.I counted them.
I walked down the hall.I passed the RA’s door.I passed the EDM guy’s door (silent for once).
I reached Room 317.
I unlocked it and stepped inside.
The room was dark.I flicked the switch.
The light flooded the space, revealing the architecture of absence.
Luke’s side of the room was still there, physically.His bed was made—hastily, the blanket crooked.His desk was cluttered with the debris of a student athlete: a roll of black tape, a half-empty water bottle, a stack of flashcards for his business ethics class.
But thepresencewas gone.
The air was stale.It lacked the scent of his body wash and the faint, cold smell of his gear bag.
