“Someone who doesn’t leave wet towels on the bed,” Riya mutters.
“That’s the 13%,” I say, and despite everything, we all laugh.
But later, walking home alone while they hold hands ahead of me, I run my own numbers again. 0% chance of meeting someone organically. 0% chance of trusting my judgment after Miles. 100% chance I need this algorithm to work.
Because if I can’t trust my emotions, at least, I can trust the code.
At least, the code makes sense.
Even when nothing else does.
4
ETHAN
There is one thing I didn’t expect to find in my inbox this morning.
I read it twice. Then a third time.
Mandatory.
Apparently, when you’re hovering on the edge of “academically acceptable,” and your professors know you have a functioning brain somewhere beneath the trauma and game dev, they decide to reward you with extra credit assignments. In my case, tutoring a struggling student.
Which is funny. Because if anyone needs tutoring, it’s me.
Freddie leans over the kitchen counter as I groan into my cereal. “You okay?”
“No,” I mutter. “I’ve been drafted.”
“Into what? War? Jury duty? The Bachelor?”
“Dude, I would love to see Eth handing out roses. He’d probably cry more than the chicks.” Troy snickers.
I ignore his jab. “Worse,” I say, shoving the email toward him. “Academic mentoring.”
He squints. “Wait,youhave to tutor someone?”
“Yes.”
“Are they trying to get you both to fail?”
“Apparently not. Apparently, I’m ‘creative and empathetic’ and ‘relate well to struggling students.’” I pause. “I think they meant that as an insult.”
Freddie grins. “You are relatable. Like a lost puppy who wandered into the wrong lecture.”
“I hate everything.”
That’s when Delilah appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed like she’s about to audition for a black-and-white film noir. Cropped black bob, oversized hoodie with a gothic architecture logo on. She’s Troy’s new girlfriend and honestly, at first, I was kind of scared of her. But now that I’ve gotten to know her pretty well... I actually like her.
Maybe even more than I like Troy.
She clocks my sad face instantly.
“What’s up?” she asks, heading for the coffee machine.
“Me,” I say, lifting my spoon. “I died. Academically. Spiritually. Emotionally.”
“At least you’re not dramatic,” she deadpans. “Seriously, what’s up, Eth?”
