“You’re both introverted but express it differently—she needs solo recharge time, you need parallel quiet activities. Same values around work-life balance. Similar humor processing—you both appreciate dry wit over slapstick.” I mentally run through my matrices. “Career trajectories align—tech fields, urban preferences. You argue productively when you disagree. I can confirm that is true.”
“When have you seen us argue?” Declan asks.
“Last visit. The Marvel movie ranking debate. You both stated positions, provided evidence, then agreed to disagree without it affecting dinner. Healthy conflict resolution.”
They’re both staring at me now.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” Declan jokes.
“Yup, anyway, the 13% gap?” I continue. “Riya’s more impulsive with money, you’re a saver. She runs hot, you run cold—literally, your thermostat preferences are incompatible. And your families have different communication styles which could cause friction long-term.”
“Jesus,” Declan says. “You really have been watching us.”
“It’s just data.” I shrug, but something uncomfortable squirms in my chest. “The algorithm would’ve matched you two with 78% confidence on first meeting. Above threshold, which basically means congrats…you guys are a good match...”
“What about that guy you used to hang around with all the time?” Declan asks carefully. “Miles? How would he score?”
“Dec!” Riya chastises him. She knows how upset I’ve been.
My chopsticks pause halfway to my mouth. “I... haven’t run those numbers.”
“Bullshit.”
“Dec! Seriously!” Riya squeals.
“What? Come on. It's a normal question.”
My hand tightens around my chopsticks. I set them down carefully, wiping my suddenly damp palms on my jeans.
“You're so dense sometimes.” She shakes her head.
He’s right. I’ve run them a hundred times, tweaking variables, trying to understand why my brain insisted on wanting someone the data said was wrong.
“42%,” I admit quietly. “We scored 42%. Below threshold. The app knows we would’ve never worked.”
“Because you’re too awesome for him,” Riya says. I roll my eyes.
“I know.” I stop her before she can continue more embarrassing gushing. “Anyway, emotions made me stupid. The algorithm would’ve saved me years of pathetic pining.”
“Or,” Declan says gently, “emotions told you something the data couldn’t measure.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe you needed that time to figure out what you actually wanted. Maybe Miles was practice.”
“A very long, sad, painful practice.”
“Most important lessons are.”
I push rice around my plate. “The algorithm would've prevented all of it—the heartache, my grades tanking, the humiliation. One compatibility score and I'd have known to walk away instead of wasting years.”
“Would it, though?” Riya challenges. “Or would you have ignored it anyway? You can’t debug feelings, Pipes.”
“Watch me.”
They exchange another look. This is why I need the algorithm—to save people from their own stupid hearts.
“Hey,” Declan says, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Who would it match me with if I wasn’t taken?”
