GLASS ALGORITHMS

THE INVITATION

The call came when I was least prepared for it, which was most days by then.

I was standing in line at the grocery store, calculating how many things I could put back without feeling embarrassed, when my phone vibrated in my hand. I almost ignored it out of habit, already bracing myself for another unknown number or automated message, but then I saw his name.

Finn.

My body reacted before my thoughts did. Relief moved through me so fast it almost felt physical, like I had been holding my breath without realizing it and someone finally reminded me to inhale.

I answered immediately.

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound like I had been waiting.

“Iris,” he said, and there it was, that familiar tone I had missed more than I wanted to admit. He sounded awake, present, like he had space for me again. “Do you have a minute.”

I stepped out of line, abandoned my basket, and leaned against the wall near the exit.

“I do now,” I said, smiling despite myself.

“I’ve been meaning to call,” he continued, and this time I believed him. “Things have been moving fast here, but I wanted to tell you properly.”

My heart started to race, not in fear but in anticipation.

“The app is approved,” he said.

For a second, I did not process the words.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “What did you say.”

“It went through,” he repeated. “Full approval. Everyone signed off.”

I closed my eyes.

“Oh,” I whispered, because no other word would come out.

“There’s more,” he added, and I could hear the smile in his voice now. “We’re scheduling a launch gala. Formal introduction. Press. Legal. The whole thing.”

My hand tightened around my phone.

“There will be contracts,” he continued. “You’ll meet my father. We’ll go over everything in person.”

I leaned my head back against the wall, the cold surface grounding me as my thoughts scattered.

“And you,” he said, slowing slightly, as if choosing his words with care, “will be announced as the developer.” Something warm and unsteady bloomed in my chest.

“Iris,” he said again, “you did this.”

I laughed, a small sound that surprised me with how close it was to tears.

“I did,” I said, half to him and half to myself.

He sounded proud then, openly so, and it filled a space I had been pretending did not exist.

“I told them from the beginning,” he said, “this was your work. They see it now.”

I did not ask who they were. It did not matter.

“What about you,” I asked. “Are you okay.”

“I am,” he said easily. “Better than okay. Things are finally aligning.”

Aligning.

The word settled into me like a promise.

“There’s something else,” he added, and his tone softened in a way that made me pay closer attention. “After this, things will be different.”

I held my breath.

“We’ll be together,” he said.

He meant it simply, practically, like a fact that did not need decoration. Together in the same space. The same building. The same world.

I heard something else entirely. I heard permanence. I heard certainty. I heard the quiet answer to a question I had never been brave enough to ask. My doubts dissolved so quickly it almost felt foolish that they had ever existed.

Of course he had been busy. Of course things had been complicated. Of course distance did not mean absence, and silence did not mean loss. I felt ashamed of how easily I had doubted him.

“I never stopped believing in you,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.

That did it.

After the call ended, I stayed where I was for a long time, my phone still pressed to my ear even though the line had gone dead. The future, which had felt abstract and fragile for so long, suddenly felt close enough to plan around.

On the bus ride home, I replayed the conversation again and again, catching new details each time. The confidence in his voice. The certainty. The way he spoke like this was already done, already real.

I scolded myself gently for the weeks of anxiety, for reading into pauses and overthinking delays. Some phases were simply transitional, I told myself. Some doors took time to open.

That night, as I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, a memory surfaced without warning.

The foster house. The night I left. My bag packed quietly, shoes in my hands so they would not make noise on the floor. No one stopping me. No one asking where I was going. The silence that followed me out the door felt heavier than any argument could have been.

I pushed the memory away before it could deepen.

This was different. I was not leaving quietly. I was being invited in.

Later, while brushing my teeth, I caught my reflection in the mirror and imagined my mother standing behind me. Not as a ghost or an idea, just as herself, watching with that calm expression she always wore when she thought I had done something right.

No speeches, no drama. Just approval.

In the days that followed, preparation became its own kind of hope. I stood in front of my closet and assessed what little I had, trying to imagine what might be appropriate, what might make me feel like I belonged in rooms I had never entered before. I practiced what I would say when introduced, how to express gratitude without sounding small, how to speak with confidence without apology.

At night, I rehearsed conversations in my head, not demands or expectations, just thanks. Just acknowledgment. Just presence.

I told myself this was enough. That trusting him fully was not weakness but choice. That the future did not always announce itself loudly, sometimes it simply called you when you least expected it and asked if you were ready. I decided that I was.

And for the first time in a long while, believing felt easy.