The Love Algorithm

Chapter 16: Memory Leaks

It started with a phone call.

Est never answered numbers he didn't recognize. But this one didn't show up as unknown. It showed up as "Home."

He stared at it longer than he should've.
Then answered.

A voice — soft, older, and unmistakably tired — filtered through.

"Est. It's me."

His mother.

Two words, and already Est felt his pulse spike.

He hadn't spoken to her in over a year. Maybe two. He wasn't keeping track.

"Your brother's in town," she said, as if they'd spoken just last week. "He's asking if you'll come. Just dinner. No drama."

Est said nothing.

"You don't have to stay long. It's just... he's leaving again soon."

Silence stretched.

"You know your father won't be there."

Est's jaw tensed at the word. It wasn't reassurance — not really. Just information. Like saying, "It won't rain today" when you're already soaked.

He hung up without saying goodbye.

And for the first time in months, he couldn't focus. Couldn't work. Couldn't even pretend to work.

Because memory — real memory — doesn't knock politely.

It kicks the damn door in.

That night, Est lay on his couch, staring at the ceiling.

His apartment, usually a fortress of silence and clean lines, felt heavy. As if the air remembered too.

He tried to distract himself. Coding. Reading. Even the documentary William had recommended — something about alpacas and sustainable farming.

But none of it worked.

Because he kept seeing a hallway.
A door.
Slammed too hard.
A voice — always shouting, always blaming.

He remembered holding his little brother's hand under the bed while their parents fought in the next room. He remembered telling him to close his ears. Telling him it'd be over soon.

It never was.

The next day, Est didn't go into the office.

He told HR it was a "personal emergency." They didn't ask.

Only William did.

William: "You okay?"

Est: "Fine."

William: "Fine = definitely not fine. Want to talk?"

Est: "No."

William: "Okay. Want muffins?"

Est: "...Maybe."

William didn't push. He never did. But that night, a paper bag appeared at Est's doorstep. No note. Just two muffins — one blueberry, one banana walnut.

Est stared at the bag like it might explode.

Then he ate both.

And cried halfway through the second one.

He hadn't cried in years.

The following evening, he went.

To the dinner.

It was at his brother's rental — a small place, full of secondhand furniture and terrible lighting.

His mother smiled like she hadn't once told him he was "too cold to love." His brother hugged him like no time had passed. And Est... tried.

He sat at the table. Ate the food. Even answered questions.

But halfway through, someone brought up their father.

"He's mellowed out now," his mother said. "He's changed."

Est couldn't help it. He laughed.

Not a nice laugh.

Just one sharp exhale that tasted like metal and regret.

"He used to throw plates," Est said. "And words."

The table went quiet.

"I'm not interested in his redemption arc."

He stood up before anyone could stop him.

Left.

Didn't slam the door. But he wanted to.

He found himself walking.

Nowhere in particular. Just walking.

And when his feet finally stopped, he realized he'd landed in front of William's building.

He didn't even remember texting.

But there William was — in pajama pants and a "Team Rocket" T-shirt — holding the door open.

"You look like crap," William said gently.

"Thanks."

"Want to talk?"

"No."

"Want muffins?"

"...Yes."

They didn't talk for hours.

They just sat on the floor, leaning against the couch, a single lamp casting lazy shadows around them. William played soft music from his phone — something with no lyrics.

Est stared ahead, jaw tight.

Until finally, just as the playlist shifted tracks, he whispered:

"He never hit us. But it would've been easier if he did. Then we'd at least have bruises to prove it."

William didn't respond with pity.

He didn't say, "I'm sorry."

He just reached out and placed a hand — warm, steady — over Est's.

And left it there.

For minutes. Maybe longer.

Until Est's fingers curled around his without meaning to.

Later, when Est finally stood up to leave, William walked him to the door.

Neither of them said "good night."

But something in the way their shoulders brushed felt like a promise.

Not I love you.

Not yet.

Just:
I'm here. Still here. Even when it hurts.

And for Est... that was more than anyone had given him in a very long time.