Chapter 35
PIPER
The lunch rush at Dora’s is brutal today—a steady stream of students desperate for greasy comfort food and caffeine strong enough to power through finals week. I’ve been on my feet for four hours straight, and my lower back is starting to stage a rebellion.
“Order up!” Marco calls from the kitchen, sliding another plate of questionable meatloaf toward the pickup window.
I grab it and weave between tables, dodging backpacks and laptops and the general chaos of people who’ve forgotten that personal space exists.
Table six gets their meatloaf special, table four needs more coffee, and table two is still deciding between pancakes and waffles like it’s a life-altering choice.
It’s mindless work, which is exactly what I need right now. My brain keeps trying to spiral about the assignment that’s due tomorrow night—my final narrative project that will determine whether I pass the class and get the academic rehabilitation credit I desperately need.
Final Creative Writing: Write a 3,000-word story that demonstrates mastery of character development, three-act structure, and emotional resonance. Due: Friday, 11:59 PM.
The prompt has been haunting me for weeks. Every time I try to start writing, I freeze up, cursor blinking mockingly in an empty document. What story do I have to tell? What emotional resonance am I supposed to demonstrate when my own emotions feel like a tangled mess of code with syntax errors?
“Piper!” Dora herself appears at my elbow, gray hair escaping from her hairnet. “Table twelve wants to know if we can make the eggs Benedict without the hollandaise because of allergies, but with extra cheese instead.”
“So... eggs on toast with cheese?”
“Apparently that’s different from eggs Benedict.”
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 me with 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 smells like 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.”
“The best art usually is.” She grins. “Want me to keep it down tonight? I know you work better in silence.”
I’m about to say yes when I remember that Declan is visiting. Riya and Declan who have not seen each other in two weeks and who tend to express their reunion enthusiasm... vocally.
“Actually, maybe just try to keep it to a dull roar? I’ll use headphones.”
“Deal. And Piper?”
“Yeah?”
“Write something true. That’s what my mom always says—the truth is usually the best story.”
“Roxie had always believed that love was a problem waiting to be solved.”
I’ve been writing for two hours, and the words are flowing better than they have all semester. Maybe it’s because I’m finally writing about something I understand, or maybe it’s because I’ve stopped trying to impress anyone and started trying to tell the truth.
Roxie is me, but also not me. She has my perfectionism and my fear of uncertainty, but she’s braver than I am. More willing to admit when she’s wrong.
The algorithm was beautiful in its simplicity. Input personality data, output compatibility scores. No messy feelings, no irrational chemistry, no painful surprises. Just clean, logical matches based on proven psychological research.
I’m deep in a scene where Roxie meets David—the creative writing major who sees poetry in her code—when I hear the front door open.
“Ry?” Declan’s voice carries through the apartment, warm and slightly breathless like he is running up the stairs.
“Kitchen!” Riya calls back, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
There’s the sound of bags dropping, footsteps, then Riya’s delighted squeal followed by what I can only assume is kissing. Lots of kissing.
I put on my headphones and try to focus on my story, but even through Spotify’s “Deep Focus” playlist, I can hear them talking in low voices, laughing, the domestic sounds of two people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company.
It’s sweet, actually. Riya’s been practically vibrating with excitement all week, deep-cleaning the apartment and buying fancy coffee and generally acting like a person in love who gets to see their favorite human after being apart for too long.
Twenty minutes later, the apartment goes suspiciously quiet.
I pause my typing and lift one headphone. Silence. Then, faintly, the sound of Riya’s bedroom door closing.
And then, not faintly at all, the sound of Declan saying, “God, I missed you,” in a voice that suggests clothes are already being removed.
I grin despite myself and turn my music up louder.
“Roxie stared at her computer screen, watching the algorithm process another set of compatibility scores. Perfect matches, statistically sound, logically unassailable. And completely empty of the one thing that mattered most: the possibility of surprise.”
The sounds from Riya’s room are getting harder to ignore, even through my headphones. Not because they’re being intentionally loud, but because our apartment has thin walls and apparently Riya and Declan have a lot of feelings to express.
“Oh god, yes, right there—”
I snort-laugh and nearly delete a paragraph. Roxie and David are having their first kiss in my story, and the timing is hilariously appropriate.
“David’s hands found her face, thumb brushing over her cheek as he looked at her as if she was the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life.
When he kissed her, Roxie's carefully ordered world tilted sideways. This wasn’t in the algorithm.
This couldn’t be quantified or predicted or optimized. ”
It was just perfect.
I’m so absorbed in writing that I almost miss the sound of Riya’s door opening again, followed by footsteps padding to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she appears in my doorway with two cups of tea, hair mussed and wearing Declan’s MIT sweatshirt over her underwear.
“Peace offering,” she says, setting one cup on my desk next to Greg. “In case we were too loud.”
“You were fine. How’s Dec?”
“Exhausted. Poor guy drove six hours after a full day of classes.” She perches on my bed, tucking her feet under her. “How’s the story coming?”
“Good, actually. Really good.” I save my work and turn to face her. “I think I might actually pull this off.”
“So, you do realize you’re basically writing about you, right?”
I hesitate, then decide honesty is worth practicing. “It’s about me and Ethan. Sort of. But yes, basically.”
Riya grins. “Subtle.”
“I’m not exactly known for my subtlety.”
“True. But you’re known for your honesty, when you finally decide to use it.” She sips her tea, studying my face. “Are you going to let him read it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. If I don’t die of embarrassment first.”
“You should. It might be easier than trying to explain your feelings in person.”
The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure. “What if he thinks it’s stupid?”
“What if he thinks it’s brilliant?”
From the bedroom, Declan’s voice calls out “Ry? Did you fall asleep out there?”
She laughs, setting down her tea. “I’m coming, babe!”
I’m struck again with how wrong my compatibility program is, considering these two scored lower but are clearly perfect for each other.
She disappears back to her room, leaving me alone with my laptop and the weight of possibility.
I have twelve hours until the assignment is due. Twelve hours to finish a story that might be the most honest thing I’ve ever written.
Time to find out how it ends.
“Roxie deleted the compatibility algorithm at 3 AM on a Tuesday, watching months of work disappear in a cascade of emptied folders. She felt lighter than she had in months.
Some things, she realized, were worth the risk of being unpredictable.”