Love Vs Logic

Chapter 3: Equations and Crossroads

The next day began like any other, gray skies hanging low, the distant rumble of a jeepney outside, and the familiar feeling that life was an equation I’d already solved. Predictable variables. Predictable outcomes.

But life has a way of throwing in unknowns when you least want them.

And lately, that unknown wore a cross around her neck.

The classroom buzzed with its usual chaos when I walked in. Same clusters of people. Same half-baked conversations about crushes, K-drama finales, and which teacher was the “strictest.” I sat at my desk, sliding my headphones on even though no music was playing. It was my shield, my way of saying, Don’t talk to me. Don’t even think about it.

But then, as if the universe enjoyed mocking me, Hanna walked in.

Her entrance wasn’t loud or dramatic. She didn’t demand attention. Yet somehow, people always noticed her. Maybe it was her smile, or the way she carried herself, like she belonged wherever she went. She greeted a few friends, exchanged quick laughs, then drifted to her seat.

And then her gaze flicked toward me.

For a split second, I thought I imagined it. But no, she smiled, small but real, like we shared some kind of inside joke from yesterday.

I looked away immediately.

The first two classes dragged by, and I buried myself in my notes. Numbers, graphs, formulas, my comfort zone. But fate, as always, had its own agenda.

“Group activity again,” our teacher announced. “Same partners as yesterday.”

I froze.

Hanna turned in her seat, her smile blossoming again. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

Stuck. That was one word for it.

She moved her chair closer, setting her pencil case neatly between us. The faint scent of her shampoo, something floral, drifted over, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands softly, “let’s figure this out.”

I glanced at the worksheet. Standard algebraic problems. Easy. “It’s not hard. Just follow the steps.”

“Then show me.”

Her eyes were expectant, curious, like she actually wanted to learn. I sighed, picked up my pen, and began writing out the process. She leaned in closer, watching my every move.

“You’re really good at this,” she said after a while.

I shrugged. “Numbers make sense. They don’t lie.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “People don’t always lie either.”

I smirked, bitter. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, meeting my eyes. “Not everyone lies.”

Something about the certainty in her tone made me falter. Most people would’ve argued back, or laughed it off. But Hanna said it like it was truth carved into stone.

And annoyingly, I found myself wanting to believe her.

We worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the scratch of pens and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then she spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”

I hesitated. “What?”

“Why do you always sit alone?”

I blinked. Of all the questions she could’ve asked, that wasn’t one I expected. “Because I want to.” I replied anyway.

“Do you?” she pressed, tilting her head. “Or is it just easier that way?”

Her words landed heavier than I expected. I kept my face blank. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” she said softly.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

She must’ve sensed my discomfort because she quickly added, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

I shook my head, forcing a small exhale. “It’s fine. I’m just… not good at people.”

Her smile returned, gentle this time. “You’re doing fine with me.”

And just like that, something cracked inside me. A tiny fracture in the wall I’d built.

By lunchtime, I thought she’d go sit with her usual group. But to my surprise, she walked over to me instead, tray in hand.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

I almost said no. The word was on the tip of my tongue. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the way she asked, not assuming, not forcing, just… asking.

So I nodded.

She sat down, her energy radiating warmth that clashed with my usual cold solitude. For a while, we ate in silence. I expected her to fill the air with chatter, but she didn’t. She just sat there, eating quietly, occasionally glancing at me like she was waiting for me to start.

Finally, I broke. “Why me?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You have friends. A lot of them. You could sit with anyone. So… why me?”

Her expression softened. “Because you look like you need someone.”

The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit.

I scoffed, trying to cover it up. “That’s a terrible reason.”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin. “But it’s mine.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Classes, noise, more notes. But every time I glanced at Hanna, she was either laughing with someone or focused on her work, and every time, I felt that strange tug in my chest again.

I told myself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just a temporary distraction.

But as I walked home later, the image of her sitting across from me at lunch wouldn’t leave my mind. The way she said, Because you look like you need someone.

No one had ever said that to me before.

And worse, no one had ever been right.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My room was dark except for the faint glow of my phone charging on the desk.

Sleep wouldn’t come. My mind kept replaying the day, every word, every glance, every small smile from Hanna.

It was ridiculous. She was just a girl. Just another believer. Another person clinging to faith like it was a lifeline.

And yet… she was also different.

She made me question things I didn’t want to question.

And that was dangerous.