The Algorithm of Obsession

7.

The thought made her close her laptop just a little harder than needed.

She wasn't tracking the time. Not really. But her mind drifted over to their last conversation more times than she cared to count. It was ridiculous. She had lived years without ever hearing his voice. Now, hours felt like silence designed to crawl beneath her skin.

A part of her wanted to brush it off. It's not like we were talking about anything real anyway.
Test prep.

 class notes.

 random jabs.

 Experimenting to find out hi true nature.

 That's all it was.
But her chest still held that annoying, lopsided warmth that came when his voice lit up the room.


She rubbed her thumb against the edge of her phone. "Get a grip," she muttered.

But the air in her room had changed. Everything around her felt too still, as if the absence of his presence was its own kind of noise. She hadn't realized how much she'd gotten used to his sarcasm—how fun it was, even when he was being a smartass. Especially when he was.

He made the hours pass like seconds. Now seconds passed like hours.

She didn't want to admit it, but the truth coiled quietly in her chest:

Test or not, talking to Kian was fun.

Addictive, almost.

where the hell was he anyway

She spotted him near the stairwell.
Kian. Alone. Finally.

It was the first time she'd seen him all day without the buffer of a crowd, without that stupid group chat to filter him through. And before her brain could convince her to not do something out of character, her body moved.

Straight-line. No hesitation. No thinking.

"Kian."

He paused mid-step, turned just enough to catch her expression. His eyes flicked over her face—sharp, unreadable. "Yeah?"

"I want your number."

He raised an eyebrow, like she'd just asked for state secrets.
"You've got the group chat."

"I want to see how you text when you're not performing for an audience."
There. Simple. Clean. Honest, even if it sounded like a threat.

Kian let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh.
"You think I perform?"

"I think you curate."

His gaze lingered for a moment too long. She didn't break eye contact. Didn't flinch. Just waited, like this wasn't a big deal. Like she hadn't debated this for the past three lectures and an entire lunch break.

Then, wordless, he reached into his pocket and handed her his phone. Lock screen already open. Contacts app pulled up.

She typed fast. No emojis. No saved name with hearts or nicknames. Just the digits.

When she gave the phone back, his fingers brushed hers—but he didn't look at her. Not yet. He stared at the contact for a second. Then, finally:

"You want raw data," he said quietly.
"You'll get it."

He walked off without waiting for a response. Didn't say he'd text. Didn't say he wouldn't.

But twenty seconds later, her phone buzzed.
One message. No name saved.

"You texted like a sociopath. Just saying."

She smirked. Let the dopamine hit sit for a beat. Then replied:

"Objectivity is a skill. Try it sometime."

It was just texting.
Just a number.
Just curiosity.

And yet, she knew it was the kind that never stayed harmless.
especially when his texting style was a raging reminder of chat

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A/N:
i know the story is going fast- but i couldn't think of extra details to put, i mean yall dont wanna know how many sandwiches she had at lunch right?
in case you do-three
hey! no judging she was hungry okay.

also this is the first time you will be really REALLY meeting Novi,
you know not a bundle of nerves, not anxiety clad, not drowning in confusion, but HER
when she feels confident, everyday her- when she isnt absorbed in chaos...but she embodies it

also went over 1000 words again today- didnt mean to
ah and they will flirt and look cute for few more chapters- atleast until they've reached a point they are too happy for a thriller romance lol
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