GLASS ALGORITHMS

YOU DESERVE MORE THAN THIS

After that night, Finn became part of my routine so quietly that I did not notice the moment it happened. He did not announce himself into my life or demand space in it. He simply appeared where he already seemed to belong, at the edges of my days and in the pauses between my thoughts. Some evenings he walked me halfway home. Other nights he sat with me in the lab until I packed up, offering conversation only when I lifted my head from the screen. He never hurried me. He never made me feel as though I owed him anything for the time.

I told myself that this was what friendship looked like when it was uncomplicated.

By the time the week blurred into the next, exhaustion had settled into my bones in a way I could not stretch out of. I worked mornings shelving books at the library, afternoons assisting in the computer lab, and evenings waiting tables at a diner that smelled perpetually of grease and overbrewed coffee. Somewhere between all of that, I coded. I coded on the bus, on the floor of my apartment, and in the quiet hours of the lab when sleep felt like a luxury I could not afford.

That night, my shift ended late.

I stood behind the diner counter wiping down surfaces that were already clean, my movements automatic, my mind still tangled in unresolved lines of logic. When I finally shrugged on my jacket and stepped outside, the cold air hit me hard enough to make me pause.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Still alive?

I smiled to myself as I typed back.

  Barely. I think my feet resigned halfway through the shift.

  Turn around.

I frowned slightly, then did as he said.

Finn stood a few feet away beneath the flickering streetlight, his coat unbuttoned, hands in his pockets, as though he had been waiting long enough to grow comfortable there.

“You followed instructions,” he said with a faint smile. “That’s encouraging.”

“You sound surprised,” I replied.

“Only a little.”

We started walking toward the bus stop together, our steps falling into an easy rhythm.

“You look tired,” he said.

“That’s because I am.”

“No,” he said gently. “I mean tired in a way sleep does not fix.”

I considered denying it, then decided I did not have the energy.

“I’ll rest when things slow down,” I said.

He glanced at me. “And when will that be?”

“Eventually,” I said, hopeful without evidence.

The bus ride was quiet. I pulled my laptop onto my knees, intending to run a quick test before we reached my stop, wanting the reassurance of progress before the night ended.

The screen flickered. Then went dark.

I stared at it, my fingers still hovering over the keyboard as if waiting might reverse reality.

“No,” I whispered. “Please.”

Finn leaned closer. “That bad?”

“It died,” I said quietly. “I think.”

He took the laptop from my hands carefully, turning it over, examining it with an expression that was thoughtful rather than alarmed.

“You know,” he said, “this is how tragic backstories usually begin.”

“I do not have the money for a tragic arc,” I replied. “Just mild despair.”

He smiled, then stood as the bus slowed.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“I know a repair shop.”

I shook my head immediately. “Finn, I cannot afford that.”

“I did not say you were paying.”

The bus doors opened. Cold air rushed in. I hesitated, old instincts flaring, warning me about debts and favors and invisible strings.

“I do not like relying on people,” I said.

He met my gaze, unbothered, unoffended. “Then think of it as an investment.”

The word settled somewhere deep inside me, heavy and strange and not unpleasant.

The repair shop smelled like warm metal and old coffee. Finn spoke easily with the technician while I hovered nearby, arms wrapped around myself, watching my laptop disappear behind the counter as if it were being taken into surgery.

When it was returned to me, alive and humming softly, relief washed through me so quickly I had to blink it away.

Outside, I opened it immediately, fingers moving fast, checking, reassuring myself that everything was still there.

“Still alive,” I murmured.

Finn smiled. “See. Stronger than it looks.”

We sat on the steps outside the shop, the night calm around us. I worked through a few lines of code while he watched, leaning in just enough that I could feel his presence without feeling crowded.

“You are close,” he said.

“I know,” I replied. “That is what scares me.”

He turned to face me fully. “Of failing?”

“Of finishing,” I said.

Understanding crossed his face.

“When it is done,” he said carefully, “we will pitch it. I will handle the meetings. The lawyers. My father’s team.”

I swallowed. “Your father.”

He nodded. “I am in my final year. Things are busy, but after graduation I will have more say.”

Final year. That explained the urgency that always hummed beneath his calm.

“You would come work with us,” he continued. “Same place. Same projects. Together.”

Together.

The word lit something in me that had been quiet for a long time. I imagined shared mornings and late nights, proximity that felt chosen rather than accidental. I imagined belonging.

“I have never planned that far ahead,” I said softly.

He smiled. “Then let me help you.”

When the bus finally arrived, he waited with me, close enough that our arms brushed. The contact sent a quiet warmth through me that lingered even after he stepped back.

“How fast can you finish it?” he asked.

I thought of my mother. Of lost chances. Of borrowed time.

“As fast as I can,” I said.

He nodded, satisfied.

As the bus pulled away, I watched him through the window until the city swallowed his outline. For the first time in years, the future did not feel like a solitary thing.

That thought terrified me.

It thrilled me more.