The Algorithm of You

Chapter 2- First Collision (June's POV)

The Hub smelled faintly of fresh paint and printer toner, a scent that suggested ambition had been bottled and released through the air vents. It was a place that wanted you to believe something important was about to happen—or at least that you’d feel guilty if you didn’t rise to the occasion.

I was early. Too early, probably, but first days rarely allowed anything less. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, straightened my blouse, and tried not to look like someone waiting for a pop quiz. Walking into a new job always felt like walking into a classroom: you knew you had the right supplies, yet your mind insisted you’d studied the wrong chapter.

The hallway stretched long and bright, lined with framed photos of kids in groups—some grinning over half-built drones, some holding up posters for events I hadn’t heard of yet. It didn’t look like a workplace so much as a collage of possibilities.

Mrs. Kane spotted me from down the hall and waved. Her stride was brisk, but her smile softened the edges of her professionalism. “June, good to see you again,” she said warmly, as though our interview had been yesterday. “Come on in—I’ll show you around before everyone else gets too busy.”

I matched her pace, trying not to stumble over my own eagerness.

The place buzzed more than I expected for a summer morning. A couple of teens hunched over laptops in the glass-walled computer room; two others fiddled with a 3D printer that whirred like an insect chewing on plastic. Posters lined the walls advertising everything from digital art workshops to robotics clubs. Somewhere down the hall, laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable crash of something dropping, then a chorus of “It wasn’t me!” that only teenagers could deliver in unison.

“This is our makerspace,” Mrs. Kane said, gesturing as we walked. Her voice carried the confidence of someone who had given this same tour a hundred times yet still believed in every word. “We rotate programs weekly—coding, design, media editing. Keeps them sharp over the summer.”

I nodded, taking in the bins of supplies stacked neatly against the wall: wires coiled like snakes, shelves of screwdrivers and glue guns, containers of LEDs and sensors. Everything looked ready to be broken, fixed, or reinvented.

It felt alive, purposeful, a hive of glowing screens and half-built projects. For a brief moment, I thought—yes. I could belong here.

Then, at the far end of the main hall, someone was sketching notes on the whiteboard wall. His handwriting was messy but confident, words looping and stacking as if he were thinking faster than the marker could keep up. He turned just as Mrs. Kane stopped beside me.

“Adam,” she said, crisp as a bell. “This is June—our new program coordinator.”

It was him.

Mr. Kale-Hater.

The stranger from the café who had grinned at me like he owned trouble.

For a split second, the whole building seemed to tilt. My brain scrambled to reconcile the version of him in my memory—leaning across a café table, smirk loaded like ammunition—with this one, standing here with a marker in his hand as if the Hub were part of him.

I hadn’t seen him during my interview last week. Not a hint, not a whisper. The universe clearly had a sense of humor, and it was aimed at me.

Adam wiped his ink-smudged hand on his jeans before offering it. His expression was politely neutral, except for the tiniest flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“June,” he said simply.

I shook his hand, keeping my face composed. “Adam.”

Mrs. Kane’s gaze flicked between us, her eyebrows knitting slightly. “So you two…?”