I input my own data, then start adding theoretical matches from memory. Every guy in my classes. Every one I can think of.
The results are merciless:
Compatibility too low for recommendation.Compatibility too low for recommendation.Compatibility too low for recommendation.
According to my own algorithm, I'm incompatible with literally everyone. The code I wrote to save myself from heartbreak just confirmed what I already knew—I'm too broken to love properly. Too analytical. Too cold. A computer who happens to look like a girl, just like Miles said.
The irony chokes me. I'm going to fail at love with mathematical certainty, fail at storytelling because I don't understand people, lose my scholarship, lose Jenkins' lab, and prove to everyone—my parents, Jackson, Miles, myself—that I was never as smart as I pretended to be.
All because I can't write a stupid story about feelings I don't understand.
My phone buzzes. Mom again:"Jackson just got promoted! Youngest VP in his firm's history! Hope your semester is going well too, sweetie."
I turn the phone face down.
Tomorrow I'll meet whatever tutor Professor Long has assigned. I'll pretend I'm capable of learning something that should be instinctive. I'll act like my entire future isn't collapsing because I'm exactly what Miles said—someone who processes data but can't understand the first thing about being human.
The algorithm glows on my screen, mocking me with its precision. At least when I fail, I'll have the data to prove it was inevitable.
That's something, right?
Even if it's the worst thing imaginable.
2
ETHAN
The plant is named Greg.
I don’t know much about plants, but the lady at the shop said this one was “low-maintenance” and “hard to kill,” which felt vaguely like an insult. Like she took one look at me and thought,this guy needs something that can survive neglect.
She wasn't wrong.
Still, Greg looked friendly enough—if green foliage can look friendly—and I figured it was time I brought someone into my life who didn’t talk shit, ghost me, or cheat on me with a guy named fucking Brody.
Brody. Even thinking the name makes my jaw clench.
Greg sits on the diner table across from me, right in the middle of a red vinyl booth. I glance up at the laminated menu, then back at him.
“What do you think, buddy? Pancakes or waffles?”
Greg, shockingly, doesn’t answer.
A shadow falls over the table.
“Uh... you want some food with your ficus?”
I look up. And then immediately forget every food item I’ve ever known.
She’s got a notepad in one hand and an arched brow that could cleave through steel. Thick-rimmed glasses, auburn hair tucked into a low bun, and lips that tilt into something dangerously close to a smirk. She looks like the type of girl who corrects your grammar mid-flirt—and somehow makes it hot.
“He’s a monstera, actually,” I say, straightening Greg like she’s offended. “And his name is Greg. And we’ll have the pancakes please. Two forks.”
The waitress—her nametag reads Piper in fading letters—blinks once, slowly, then jots something on her notepad.
“Great. One lonely dude’s breakfast. Coming right up.”
The words should sting. Another stranger calling out my obvious issues. But the way she says it—matter-of-fact, almost bored—makes me grin instead.
