I stare at her. “How?”
“Beats me. Just tell Marco to put it on an English muffin and charge them the Benedict price.”
The beautiful logic of small restaurant economics.
I deliver the modified order and check the time on my phone. Three more hours until my shift ends. Then I can go home and stare at my laptop some more.
A guy with red tinged hair walks in and my heart jumps.
It’s not him.
If I’m being honest, I miss Ethan. It’s been almost a week since I told him I needed time to think, and while the space has been good for processing everything that happened with Miles and Harper. And processing everything he said in his note. It’s also made me realize how much Ethan’s presence had become part of my daily routine.
His terrible jokes. His patient explanations of narrative structure.
The way he kissed me like?—
“You okay, honey?”
I blink. Mrs. Patterson from table eight is looking at mewith concern, her Tuesday tuna melt half-eaten in front of her.
“Sorry, just thinking about homework,” I manage.
“Oh, finals week. I remember those days.” She pats my hand sympathetically. “You’ll get through it, dear. Just take it one assignment at a time.”
One assignment at a time. Right.
Maybe that’s my problem—I’ve been trying to write the perfect story instead of just writing a story. Ethan always said the best stories come from truth, from writing what you know.
What do I know?
I know algorithms. I know the frustration of trying to quantify human emotion. I know what it’s like to spend years waiting for someone who never really saw you.
And I know what it’s like to find someone who does see you, then panic and almost lose them because you’re too scared to trust something you can’t predict or control.
By the time my shift ends at six, I actually have an idea.
Our apartment smellslike Riya’s latest cooking experiment—something involving curry and way too much garlic. I find her in the kitchen, stirring a pot that’s bubbling ominously.
“How was work?” she asks without looking up.
“Educational. What are you making?”
“Declan’s favorite daal recipe. He gets here in an hour and I wanted to surprise him.” She tastes the spoon, makes a face. “Think it needs more salt?”
“Hmm… It's ok, I think. Maybe more spice.” I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter. “Fair warning—I’m going to be working on my final Creative Writing assignment tonight. The one that’s due tomorrow.”
“The one you’ve been procrastinating on for weeks?”
“I haven’t been procrastinating. I’ve been... processing.”
“Uh-huh.” She adds what looks like an entire shaker’s worth of salt to the pot. “What’s it about?”
“Love and algorithms and the difference between compatibility and connection.” The words come out easier than I expected. “Basically, it’s about a girl who tries to code her way to happiness and learns that some things can’t be quantified.”
Riya turns to look at me, eyebrows raised. “Wow. That sounds brave.”
“Yup.”
