The Probability of an Eternal Summer

I have calculated my existence in spreadsheets and missed deadlines. For three years, the probability of me finding peace was exactly 0.042%. Then he appeared—a variable I did not account for.
He told me that time does not move linearly when you are happy; it curves like a coastline under moonlight. Standing here on this sand, my white dress billowing in an ocean breeze with a wind velocity of precisely twelve knots, I feel the data points shift. The way he looks at me—pupils dilated by 2mm, heart rate elevated to eighty-four beats per minute—suggests an attraction probability exceeding ninety-eight percent.
I turn back toward him, not because sentiment dictates it, but because my internal algorithm has identified a pattern: his hand reaching for mine is the only event in this city that consistently reduces cortisol levels by thirty percent.
We are two urban anomalies who found each other against all odds. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and the subtle pull of desire beneath my skin—a biological imperative disguised as romance. In this singular moment, under a sky with an eighty-five percent chance of clear nightfall, I realize that love is not magic; it is simply the most beautiful form of inevitable calculation.

Editor: The Algorithm