“I got a 98 on the midterm.”
“Right. Of course, you did.” He laughs self-consciously. “I just meant?—”
“Thanks, Jay. Really.” I manage something that might pass for a smile. “I'll see you around.”
I'm halfway to the door when he calls out, “I think Miles is an idiot, you know.”
I freeze, but don't turn around. Can't turn around. Because if I do, he'll see the truth written all over my face. That I still replay every interaction, looking for the moment I should have realized I was reading the situation all wrong.
“The whole group knows he's an ass,” Jay continues. “Nobody blames you for needing space. We just... we want you back.Iwant you back. In study group, I mean.”
“I really do have to go,” I manage, and flee before he can say anything else.
Outside the building, I lean against the brick wall and try to breathe normally. Jay Garcia almost asked me out. Sweet, stable, normal Jay who brings extra highlighters for everyone and explains algorithms with perfect patience.
Six months ago, I would have been thrilled.
But now? Now I know my judgment is broken. That whatever part of my brain interprets romantic signals is fundamentally malfunctioning.
Jay's nice, objectively attractive with his runner's build and easy smile. My mom would love him—pre-med with a computer science minor, parents who own a restaurant downtown.
But none of that matters because I can't trust myself to read the situation correctly. Can't trust that what feels like interest isn't just friendly concern. Can't trust that I won’t waste more years of my life misinterpreting every interaction.
That's why I need the algorithm. Cold, clean data that doesn't lie or mislead or let you believe in things that were never real.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jay.
Sorry if I made things weird. Door's always open if you change your mind. About study group or... anything else.
I delete it without responding and head home.
Back in my apartment,I sit in the dark kitchen, laptop screen the only light.
Professor Jenkins’ offer letter sits in my inbox, waiting for acceptance. “Pending final transcript review,” it says. Like everything good in my life, it's conditional on me being perfect in school. The thing is, I've always been perfect academically. Perfect grades, perfect code, perfect ability to solve any logical problem. That's my entire identity—the smart girl. The one who gets into exclusive programs. The one professors recommend without hesitation.
Without that, I'm nothing. Just another girl who waited years for someone who was never going to love her back.
I pull up Jenkins' offer letter again, even though I've memorized every word:
"Pending final transcript review with minimum 3.5 GPA maintained."
My hands shake as I calculate for the hundredth time tonight. With a 42% in Creative Writing, my GPA drops to 3.3. The offer gets rescinded. No supercomputer access. No published papers. No PhD pipeline to MIT or Stanford.
Without Jenkins' lab, my graduate applications are worthless. "Promising but ultimately unremarkable," they'll say. Another competent coder in a sea of competent coders. My parents will pretend to be supportive while exchanging those looks—we knew she wasn't as special as she thought.
Jackson will laugh. "See, Pipes? Not everyone can be exceptional."
And Miles. God, Miles will hear about it through the CS grapevine. "Remember Piper? The one who was so sure she'd make it to MIT? Yeah, she couldn't even pass a basic writing class."
My chest tightens. I can't breathe properly. The walls of my apartment feel like they're closing in.
68%. That's all I need. Twenty-six percentage points between now and finals. Statistically improbable for someone who fundamentally doesn't understand how humans work. My last assignment came back with Long's comment:"Technically proficient but emotionally vacant. Your characters read like variables, not people."
Variables. That's what I understand. Not the messy, illogical disaster of human emotion.
I open my algorithm one last time tonight, staring at the elegant code that can predict romantic compatibility with 87% accuracy. It's brilliant. Logical. Everything love should be if people weren't so fundamentally broken.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Just to test something. Just to see.
