At home, being the middle child of five, it wasn’t so noticeable. My parents, who emigrated from Greece to the US, worked tirelessly to give us a decent life. There wasn’t much money around, and my clothes were hand-me-downs from myolder brothers, but none of that matters now. Nobody asks if I got into MIT with a scholarship or if I ate ramen for months to avoid starving.
These days, I wear name-brands, which are perpetually not ironed because some things never change. But one thing that did was my parents’ lives, from me sending them money every month from my more than ample paycheck. It’s my way of giving back for all their hard work and sacrifices.
I’m doing what I love with the people I love.
Life’s fucking perfect.
Passing the mirror in our apartment, I catch a glimpse of my rough appearance—unshaven face, unruly curls, and dark circles under my dark brown eyes.
Correction—life would be perfect if I could get some sleep.
Insomnia has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember, part of the curse of a mind that never stops racing. Falling asleep is a nightly battle, and when I do manage it, waking up is another struggle. I’ve learned it’s better not to even try sleeping if I have important things to handle the next day, or I risk sleeping through alarms and missing deadlines.
Thankfully, Grey has taken it upon himself to literally drag me out of bed if he’s up and ready while I’m still buried under the covers. The telltale shadows under my eyes are a constant reminder that I’d probably need a month of sleep to catch up on my deficit.
Ironically, the upside to my sleepless nights is work. The late-night coding sessions with Oliver have actually helped speed up the Jamie project, turning my bouts of insomnia into productive work marathons. While Oliver goes to bed in the early morning, I keep working until Grey gets up and joins me, doing his own thing.
The three of us work as a team to bring this vision to life.
When I walk into our shared office at the apartment, they’re sitting in front of our monitors, showing a loading bar. “What did I miss?” I ask, trying to catch up as I fall onto my desk chair.
“It’s still initiating,” Grey replies without taking his eyes off the screen.
I glance over at Oliver, who seems unusually focused on his phone. “And what are you doing?” I probe, curious.
“Nothing,” he mumbles.
But Grey chuckles and interjects, “Amelia said she liked his silly socks, so now he’s ordering a thousand of them.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “Not true, I just ordered seven… or so. And I’m subscribing to a box service that sends new ones every month.”
“Jesus, and you keep telling me you’re not obsessed,” I tease, laughing as Oliver’s ears turn red.
I get why, though. She’s… well, noticeable. But I would never go there. If I wanted to spend my sleepless nights with company again, I’d go out and find it somewhere else.
Don’t shit where you eat.
And don’t make a move on the girl your best friend is obsessing over.
Lately, I’d rather be outdoors between pine trees than inside spread thighs anyway.
I’m getting old.
A year away from thirty, and it shows.
Just then, the program chimes, and suddenly, we see Amelia at her desk. She’s sitting with one foot on the chair, her knee pulled up to her chest, dressed in gray sweatpants. Her laptop is open in front of her, and her hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head.
My eyes widen. “What the fuck? You guys put cameras in her apartment?”
I would’ve never agreed to that, but both of them tend to dismiss ethical concerns for technical advancement.
Grey scoffs. “As if we could have done that in the thirty minutes you were gone.”
“Then how?” I press, puzzled.
Oliver taps on his keyboard. “I guess she set them up herself… yes, it’s her setup. She gave us full access, so Jamie barged his way in there.”
“Huh. Okay, but we told Langley that we’re live monitoring everything for the beta, so she’s aware that we can see and hear her, right?” I check, wanting to make sure we’re all above board.
