Love Vs Logic

Chapter 4: Cracks in the Glass

Morning sunlight seeped through the half-open blinds of the classroom, thin blades of gold cutting across my desk. The sound of chatter filled the air, the usual mix of gossip, laughter, and the restless tapping of pens. My classmates moved around in small clusters, forming alliances of comfort. I sat at my usual spot, front row but far to the left, strategically placed so I could both listen and tune out whenever I wanted.

That was when I noticed Hanna again. Of course, I noticed her. I always noticed her, though I denied it each time. She was sitting diagonally across from me, her hair catching the sunlight like strands of something woven from fire and honey. She laughed at something her friend whispered, tilting her head back slightly, and the sound, a light, genuine sound, cut through the chaotic noise of the room. My brain immediately went to work, rationalizing, laughter triggers dopamine, mirror neurons fire, my body is only responding to chemical cues. There’s nothing special about her laugh. Nothing unique. Just… sound waves.

But still, it stuck in me, like a needle pressing into soft skin.

I tore my gaze away and opened my notebook, doodling equations on the margin, as though finding the slope of a parabola could scrub the image of her from my head. Numbers, logic, the kind of certainties that never betrayed me, those were my comfort. Faith, on the other hand, was built on blind surrender. And I refused to surrender.

“Alright,” our teacher’s voice cut through the haze. “For this project, you’ll work in pairs. I’ve already listed the names. Don’t complain.”

My heart didn’t even flinch. Pair work didn’t matter. I was used to working alone. People tolerated me only when they needed answers;, otherwise, I was the outlier, the boy who dissected everything until there was nothing left but dry explanations.

Then her name left the teacher’s lips, right after mine.

“…Louis and Hanna.”

This wasn't the first time this happens.

There were twenty-five names in this room, fifty possible combinations, and somehow the univers or, more accurately, our teacher’s arbitrary hand, had placed me next to her. My pen stopped moving, hanging midair like a reluctant sword.

When I finally looked up, Hanna was already looking at me. She smiled, a small curve of her lips, not mocking, not pitying, just… warm.

I nodded back, stiffly. My throat felt like I’d swallowed chalk dust.

We worked at the far end of the classroom, near the windows. The project was simple enough, a presentation about the intersection of science and everyday life. Easy. Objective. No room for complications. I should’ve felt relieved.

“So,” she began, setting her notebook between us, “any ideas?”

Her voice was steady, curious. She wasn’t trying too hard, nor was she dismissive.

“Plenty,” I replied. “Science is in everything. We could talk about nutrition, mechanics, even the physics of sound. Pick one.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “You already sound like you’ve got the whole presentation done in your head.”

“Efficiency,” I said. “It saves time.”

“Or,” she countered gently, “it makes you miss the fun of figuring things out together.”

I blinked at her. People usually let me run with my ideas, happy to offload the work. Hanna, apparently, wasn’t people.

“Fine,” I said, leaning back. “What do you want?”

Her smile widened, but not in triumph. More like she was genuinely pleased. “How about we pick something that mixes logic and… well, belief? Like, how science explains some traditions.”

I stilled. The word belief sat between us like a grenade with the pin already pulled.

“Traditions aren’t… science,” I said carefully.

“I know.” She shrugged lightly. “But people practice them anyway. Maybe we can show both sides, reason and meaning. Logic and… faith.”

Faith. The word scratched my ears raw.

I wanted to argue, to shut it down, but her eyes were on me, clear and steady, and for some reason I found myself nodding.

The hours blurred into discussion. To my surprise, she kept pace with me, asking questions that weren’t shallow. When I explained how firecrackers on New Year’s were meant to ward off spirits but actually served to scare away pests and predators, she laughed but then asked, “But doesn’t it matter that people still believe in the spirits part? Even if the science says otherwise?”

I countered. She parried. Back and forth, like some game of verbal chess. And for once, I didn’t hate the company.

It unsettled me.

By dismissal, my brain felt wired. I packed my bag quickly, hoping to escape before I said something out of character, but Hanna caught up to me at the gate.

“Going home?” she asked.

“Obviously.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

My first instinct was to say no. I liked walking alone, it gave me time to untangle the knots in my head. But the word stuck in my throat, and before I could stop myself, I heard myself say, “Sure.”

The streets were quieter than the classroom, filled only with the sound of cars and the occasional bark of a stray dog. She walked beside me, matching her pace to mine.

“You don’t talk much outside of class,” she observed.

“Because there’s usually nothing worth saying.”

She chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.”

We walked in silence for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. Just… still.

Then, out of nowhere, she asked, “What do you want to do in the future?”

The question jarred me. I hated it, that assumption that everyone needed a neat, packaged dream.

“I don’t know,” I said flatly. “Something logical. Something stable.”

She hummed. “I want to build a family someday. A home full of love. With someone who shares my faith. Someone who’ll pray with me.”

The words sliced sharper than she knew.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My chest tightened, though I told myself it was irrational, that her words weren’t meant for me. She wasn’t rejecting me, she wasn’t even aware there was something to reject. She was just… sharing.

Still, it lodged deep. A reminder. She and I were built on different foundations. Her pillars were belief. Mine were proof. Sooner or later, those structures would collapse against each other.

“Sounds… nice,” I managed, my voice too thin.

She looked at me, but I kept my eyes forward

That night, my room felt smaller than usual. The desk lamp cast a pale pool of light over my books, equations spilling across the page like lifelines. I tried to bury myself in formulas, in the clarity of numbers, but her voice kept replaying in my head.

"A home full of love. With someone who shares my faith."

Why did it bother me? I wasn’t in love with her. I couldn’t be. Love was nothing more than neurotransmitters, oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin it is the body’s way of tricking the brain into attachment. I’d lectured myself on it a hundred times.

And yet, my chest ached.

For the first time, I wondered if logic was enough to silence the ache.

The numbers on the page blurred. My pencil slipped from my hand. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, feeling as though a hairline c***k had formed in the glass of my world. Too thin to break me now. But enough to let the doubt seep in.

And doubt, I knew, was the beginning of collapse.