I pull out my phone, showing him the loading screen. “It’s called Second Draft. It’s not about finding love or calculating compatibility. It’s about reflecting on things that have happened to you. In a safe non-judgmental space. We all get stuck in our heads, our own stories dictating how we see the world. Sometimes we need to work on them, reflect and rewrite.”
His eyes light up with interest as I walk him through the interface. Anonymous forums for sharing stories of heartbreak, betrayal, and growth. Guided prompts. A “revision partner” system where users can support each other through their rewrites of the stories they tell themselves.
“The idea came from us, actually,” I admit. “How we both had to revise our stories—you with football and your dad, me with Miles. But also from Harper, and probably dozens of other people who need safe spaces to figure out who they are after someone else’s choices changed their viewpoint.”
“Piper, this is brilliant.” He’s scrolling through the prototype with genuine excitement.
“Plus, I still have time to work on it. Well, all of next year. It’s sad to see Optimatch go, but it wasn’t right anymore.”
“Next year,” Ethan repeats, his excitement dimming slightly. “Right. You still have senior year.”
“Hey.” I squeeze his hand. “We’ve talked about this. One year of long-distance while I finish school and you settle in. We can do this.”
“I know. It just feels more real now that graduation’s in two days.” He turns our joined hands over, studying them. “I don’t want to be that couple who split and never have time for each other.”
“We won’t be,” I say with certainty. “You want to know how I know?”
“Because we’re 94% compatible?”
“No.” I shift closer, tucking myself against his side. “Because we chose each other. Not because an algorithm said we should, not because it was convenient or expected. We chose the messy, complicated, real version of this.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “When didyoustop believing in algorithms?”
“I still believe in them for the right things. Data analysis, search optimization, making sense of patterns.” I tilt my face up to his. “But love? Love is too wild for algorithms. It’s all a good story.” I give him a wink.
“Speaking of stories, how does ours end?”
“It doesn’t,” I say simply. “Good stories leave room for sequels, remember?”
He laughs, the sound bright in the summer air. “My brilliant girl and her three-act structures.”
“Your three-act structures now too, Mr. Nebula Arcade Creative Writer.”
“Has a nice ring to it,” he admits, then his expression turns more serious. “Hey, there’s something else. My dad called yesterday.”
I tense slightly. His father hasn’t reached out since their blow-up about the trust fund.
“He saw the announcement on the university website. About my job offer.” Ethan’s voice is carefully neutral. “He said... he said congratulations.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Maybe? He also mentioned that Grandpa would have been proud. That he always encouraged following passions.” Ethan shrugs. “I think it’s the closest to an apology I’ll get.”
“Do you want more than that?”
He considers. “No. I don’t need his approval anymore. But it’s nice to not have his active disapproval, you know?”
“I know.” I think about my own parents, how they’ve finally stopped asking when I’ll be more like Jackson now that I’ve got a smoking hot boyfriend. Success has a way of softening sharp edges.
We sit in comfortable silence, watching students cross the quad below. In two days, Ethan will walk across that stage and into his new life. I’ll have another year of this—classes and seasons and growth. But it doesn’t feel like an ending anymore.
“I love you,” he says suddenly. “I know we say it all the time now, but sitting here, thinking about everything that had to happen for us to get here... I just really love you.”
“Even though I initially gave your game two stars?”
“Especially because you gave it two stars. You saw what it could be, not just what it was.”
“That’s what love is, right?” I trace patterns on his knee.
