The Algorithm of Spring

Eight

Outside, the air was sharp and clear. Min-ji linked her arm through Maya's, her grip light but insistent. They moved along the narrow street, pressed close by the passing crowds.

"Look out," Min-ji murmured, tugging Maya aside as a slow-moving LED truck rumbled past. Its panels blazed with animated graphics—a national population chart showing a severe downward trend, the line plummeting toward the bottom of the screen.

Above it, bold text proclaimed:

"Korea's Future in Crisis: Our National Duty Begins with Family. Population Collapse Happens Fast."

The sponsorship logo of a Christian family values organisation glowed at the bottom.

Min-ji's eyes lingered on the chart. "Everyone's worried about it these days," she said quietly. "They talk about it at my company, too. That's why on HarmoniQ the best matches go quickly," she murmured. "You should definitely look into it."

Maya stayed quiet. As they parted, Min-ji pulled out her device, tapping it against Maya's to pay her share of the bill despite Maya's insistence. The ease in her posture faded, her shoulders drawing back as she gave Maya a light bow before turning away, already reading messages and typing responses as she climbed the steep stairs toward the subway station.

Maya stood watching her cousin's retreating figure, wondering how many subtle nudges on the wheel it would take to turn a boat full circle.

                                                                                            ***

Maya collapsed onto the couch, pressing her palms to her temples. Min-ji's voice lingered in her mind, smooth and assured. "With or without us. The best matches go quickly."

She tried to halt an oncoming headache, but the phrases echoed, each one a sharp tap against her skull.

Her device buzzed. She was tired of its games.

A floating notification hovered over the screen.

HarmoniQ: Your perfect match is 98% compatible and lives only 3.2 km away. [Tap to connect.]

She didn't tap it. But the preview expanded on its own.

A profile surfaced—clean, curated, enticing. A meticulously crafted man, designed to intrigue, perhaps. A shared passion for abstract art, similar music tastes, even a mention of an exhibition she'd visited last month, listed under "Great Recent Experiences."

The details were just precise enough to hook, but vague enough to need verification.

Maya's thumb hovered over the pulsing Connect Now button. Instead, she took a screenshot.

AI-generated? Harvested from real profiles? She scanned the picture, looking for signs. The eyes held just enough asymmetry to seem real—but was that deliberate? A calculated imperfection to foster trust?

She closed her device with a sharp tap, her mind racing between suspicion and an unwelcome flutter of interest. The profile had been well crafted if it was a ploy, that much was clear.

Outside, neon signs painted shifting patterns across the sky while the city settled into evening. She needed something normal. Something grounding.

Her fingers toyed with her device, contemplating ordering chimaek from the place down the street. Chicken and beer—surely the most reliable pairing Seoul had to offer, and precisely what she needed to silence the questions multiplying in her head.

But the feeling remained. Not just unease—something chiseling away at her peace, one notification at a time.

She shoved the device under a cushion, as if distance might break its hold. But the questions remained.

The device suddenly came alive. Umma.

Two rings went by before she picked up. "Hi." Flat.

"Maya," her mother began, concern threading through her voice. "How was your trip? Did everything go smoothly?"

"It was fine," Maya said, the words final enough to discourage follow-up questions. She leaned against the kitchen counter, already knowing what was coming.

"Good, good." A pause stretched. "I had lunch with Min-ji's mother yesterday..."

Maya closed her eyes. "Yeah, I saw her today."

"She's really getting going." Pride and expectation mingled in her mother's voice. 

"Her fiancé is an architect of some sort. Very respectable. Very successful. Have you also thought about signing up for HarmoniQ—"

"I'm fine, umma," Maya cut in, too sharp. She steadied her breath. "I'm just... focused on work right now."

Her mother's sigh carried weight. "It's not about being focused, Maya. It's about being practical. I just don't want you to be left behind."

The words hit home. Left behind. The same fear Min-ji had tried to plant earlier.

"I'll think about it," she lied, tasting the bitterness. Familiar tension simmered beneath her skin—being measured against standards she hadn't chosen.

"That's all I'm asking." Her mother's voice softened. "I just want what's best for you."

"Yeah, I know." Maya's grip tightened on the counter.

Strained pleasantries ended the call, leaving the apartment eerily silent. She set down the device, skin tight against her knuckles.

Everything pressed in—Min-ji's changes, her mother's expectations, the feeling of falling behind. The walls even felt closer.

Her device lit up.

HarmoniQ: You hesitated to connect.

Maya flinched.

Her pulse sped up. Reaching for the device, she paused.

For the first time, she couldn't tell whether the thing in her hand was friend or enemy.