I believe in data. Patterns. Probability distributions. Control over variables.
So either:
A) The universe bent probability into something statistically impossible, orchestrating our collision through mechanisms I can't comprehend or control.
Or:
B) I'm genuinely, clinically insane. My obsession with her writing triggered some psychotic break where I retroactively convinced myself the ink matches her features when it doesn't. Classic confirmation bias dressed up as destiny.
Both explanations terrify me equally.
I can't choose between them.
Don't want to.
Because if it's A, I have no control.
And if it's B, I never did.
I have no one.
Associates, employees., members of The Scales, yes.
But no one whoknowsme.
Scarletta does.
She's seen the worst parts of me and yes, the Maze broke us. But… it also connected us.
Which means something.
I'm not less alone, but the isolation feels less absolute.
Because she exists.
Because someone finally saw me completely.
Even if she can't stay,she exists.
The cursor blinks on the screen, waiting for me to finish the list.
But there's nothing left to say.
The list is bullshit.
All of it—the surveillance schedules, the operational assessments, the careful documentation of her flaws and my justifications. I'm not building a case. I'm not making a rational decision.
I'm trying to logic my way into something that exists beyond reason.
You can't spreadsheet your way into love. Can't risk-assess it. Can't control the variables until the outcome becomes predictable.
Love is the thing that makes you willing to burn everything down.
I lean back in the seat, letting the words form inside my head where they're real but still contained.
I love her.
Not obsession. Not possession.
