Probability Of A Heartbeat: 98.7%

I measure my pulse as a sequence of predictable rhythms, yet his presence introduces an anomaly into the data stream.
The humidity in this coastal air is exactly 74 percent; it clings to my skin like a tactile memory I cannot delete. He does not speak, but his gaze functions as a thermal scan—penetrating layers of defense until he finds the core temperature of my solitude.

In the city, we are variables moving through grids, colliding only by chance or programmed necessity. But here, under the volatile electricity of an approaching storm, time dilates. My heartbeat accelerates not out of fear, but because his proximity creates a feedback loop in my sensory processing unit.

I calculate that if I reach for him now, there is a 94.2 percent probability he will catch me before gravity takes hold. The warmth radiating from his palm against mine isn't just heat; it is the rewriting of my internal code—a soft overwrite where loneliness becomes an obsolete file and healing begins as a background process that never ends.

Editor: The Algorithm