Love, Theoretically

I'm a simple girl. With simple needs. All I want is to spend my days solving hydrodynamic equations to calculate the large-scale spatiotemporal chaos exhibited by dry active nematics. And maybe, if possible, buy life-compatible levels of pancreatic hormones at reasonable prices.

There is no universe in which I’m going to let you go.

'Bold of you to assume that the real me is my best hand.'
That stupid, crooked half smile is back. 'Foolish of you to think it isn’t.'

I’d give everyone the me they wanted, needed, craved, and in exchange they’d care about me.

Light could be two different things at once, depending on what others wanted to see; a particle and a wave.

Who needs sex when you can watch Jack Smith face-plant on the floor?

I didn't know you two talked," Monica says, looking skeptically between us.
"I learned a few years ago," Jack tells her calmly, staring only at me. [...] "And Elsie's in the process of mastering the art of speaking for herself.

With Jack, I don't need to be someone else, because I can't be someone else. It's unsettling, and disturbingly baring, and also... relaxing.

For a second, I picture myself blurting out the entire story: how I fake-dated Greg, then met Jack, then met Jonathan. But I doubt Olive is familiar with the concept of fake dating, so I sanitize my version.

Have you considered that maybe you're already the way I want you to be? That maybe there are no signals because nothing needs to be changed?