When My Love Was Rated, I Said No

Chapter 3

When I was 18, I did not care.

I only thought Grant was brilliant. He seemed different from all the other boys who chased after me.

Later, after we got together, he developed the first version of the relationship scoring app.

With excitement shining in his eyes, he told me that we could use data to optimize the efficiency of our relationship.

Back then, I thought it was sweet. I thought that was his way of expressing love.

In our third year together, Grant said there was too little room for growth in illustration. He told me to switch to data analysis instead.

When I refused, he opened the app and pulled up our Contribution Comparison.

He went through the comparison line by line, pointing out that his income was three times mine, that he worked two more hours a day than I did, and that his social value was higher than mine.

Finally, he said, "Evelyn, you need to be worthy of me."

So I switched.

In our fifth year together, his startup secured Series A funding, and we moved into a bigger apartment.

I thought life would get better. But the bigger the apartment became, the more rules Grant imposed.

The clothes in the closet had to be arranged in a precise color gradient. Every item of food in the fridge had to be labeled with an expiration date.

Even our intimate life was entered into the app. How many times a week, how long each time, and how satisfied we were afterward all became a "Collaborative Task" that required both parties to rate each other.

Once, I wore a bright yellow dress.

Grant said the color did not fit within his aesthetic spectrum and told me to change.

I refused.

He deducted five points from me.

That night, I cried.

Grant opened our score comparison and said, "See? The numbers speak for themselves."

Now, standing beneath the showerhead as warm water beat against my burning skin, I suddenly understood something. That yellow dress had been the last real color left in my wardrobe.

Everything I bought after that came in black, white, or gray, exactly as Grant had prescribed.

One piece at a time, I had thrown away every color that belonged to me. But the wish board he had made for Clara was filled with color.

The next morning, my alarm went off at 4:30. The sky outside was still dark.

I dragged my aching body out of bed. My forehead was still burning, but Grant was sleeping soundly beside me, his breathing steady and even.

I stood by the bed and looked down at him.

For more than seven years, across over 2500 days and nights, this was the first time Grant had not woken before the alarm.

Because he was not the one who had to stand in line. He did not need to get up early.

I pulled my gaze away, put on my clothes, and opened the door to the cold wind before dawn.

Juniper Lane Bakery on the East End opened at 6:00. I left at 4:30 and arrived before 5:00, but there were already people waiting outside.

Two personal shoppers stood at the front of the line, sitting on small folding stools and chatting about their children.

I stood at the very end and pulled my coat tighter around myself. The morning wind made me shiver. My forehead was burning again.

I leaned against the wall and checked my temperature every few minutes. The number kept rising.

The line inched forward. Three and a half hours later, I finally walked out with the sea salt caramel cake in my hands.

I carefully placed the box inside the insulated cake carrier. Following Grant's instructions, I packed it with two layers of ice packs and sealed everything with tape.

Just as I stepped out of the bakery, my phone buzzed. It was a push notification from Grant's relationship scoring app.

System notification: Evelyn Hayes, you woke up two hours ahead of your usual schedule today. Proactive task completion detected. Three points added.

I stared at the notification, and my lips twitched. Getting up before dawn and standing in line for three and a half hours was worth three points.

The other day, I had seen on Grant's laptop that Clara had once handed him a pen during a meeting. He had given her ten points for it.

When I got home, I put the cake in the fridge.

Grant walked out of the bedroom at that moment. His suit was crisp, and not a single hair was out of place.

He glanced at the fridge and gave a small nod. "Not bad."

Then he opened the app and awarded me one more point. "High-quality task completion. One point added."

A deep exhaustion spread through me, hollowing me out from the inside. For the first time in seven years, I finally asked myself the questions I had avoided for so long.

'Evelyn, what exactly are you still holding on to? Those points? Or the man who would never hold an umbrella over your head? What could those points give you? Could they make him check your forehead when you were burning with fever? Could they make him hand you a tissue when you were crying?'

'No. They give you nothing.'