Page 18 of Heartwood and Hardware
The logical part of my brain argues that I'm overreacting. So what if some agency orchestrated our meeting? The connection we formed was still real. The conversations, the shared understanding, the way Dean looked at me—those things can't be faked.
But the wounded, insecure part—the part that's always been told I'm "too much," that no one could possibly appreciate my intensity—whispers that it was all an illusion. That Dean was just being nice because Parker put him up to it. That the only reason someone like him would be interested in someone like me is if it was literally his assignment.
I pull out the heart again, studying the spiral pattern Dean carved into it. He said he watched my panel, that this design was inspired by the code on my slides. That level of detail, of personal attention, couldn't have been part of some matchmaking script.
Could it?
My thoughts chase each other in circles, doubt and hope wrestling for dominance. The convention center doors opennearby, spilling attendees into the evening. I spot a flash of flannel and duck my head, not ready to face Dean yet.
But it's not him, just another bearded convention-goer. I exhale, relief and disappointment mingling uncomfortably.
A group of cosplayers passes by, their elaborate costumes momentarily distracting me. One of them is dressed as a character from my favorite game—a detail Dean would probably notice and point out to me if he were here.
The thought brings a fresh wave of confusion. In just one day, he's become someone whose observations I value, whose perspective enriches my own. How could something that feels so genuine be the product of matchmaking manipulation?
I stand, unable to sit still with my churning thoughts. The wooden heart and fox weigh in my pocket as I begin walking, no destination in mind. Just movement, just distance from the source of my turmoil.
My mind replays moments from the day: Dean offering me his chair when I was overwhelmed. The way his eyes lit up when I understood his explanation of wood grain. His hands guiding mine as we carved together. The careful detail of the code spiral in the heart.
None of that felt scripted or forced. It felt like two people discovering a unexpected connection, finding common ground in their differences.
But then Parker's words echo again.
I stop walking, suddenly aware that I've wandered into a small park adjacent to the convention center. The evening has deepened, the sky turning indigo above the trees. A few other convention attendees dot the benches, taking breaks from the indoor chaos.
My phone remains off in my bag, a barrier between me and whatever explanation Dean might offer. Part of me wants to turn it on, to hear him out. But another part fears what I might learn—that our connection was manufactured, that I was selected as a suitable match by some algorithm or matchmaker's intuition.
The irony doesn't escape me. I spend my days creating algorithms that make decisions affecting people's lives, and now I'm upset that someone might have applied similar logic to my own life.
But this is different. This is personal. This is about authenticity and choice, the very things I fight to preserve in my work.
I sink onto an empty bench, pulling out the wooden heart again. In the fading light, the grain seems to shift and flow, the code spiral at its center a mystery I can't quite decode.
What would my algorithm suggest in this situation? What would the logical course of action be?
Gather more data. Verify the source. Test the hypothesis.
But emotions aren't code. They don't follow logical patterns or respond to debugging. They're messy and contradictory and impossible to optimize.
I close my fingers around the heart, feeling its smooth contours against my palm. Whatever prompted our meeting, the way I felt with Dean was real. The ease of our conversation, the mutual understanding, the growing attraction—those things came from us, not from some matchmaking strategy.
The question is: can I trust that feeling now, knowing how it started?
I don't have an answer yet. All I know is that something that felt beautifully organic now seems suspect, and the uncertainty is tearing me apart.
The wooden heart and fox sit heavy in my pocket as I continue walking, symbols of a connection I thought was chance but might have been carefully calculated all along.
My insecurities, never far from the surface, rise with renewed strength. Was I selected because I needed "fixing"? Did somematchmaker look at my profile and think, "This awkward, intense woman needs someone patient like Dean"? The thought makes my cheeks burn with humiliation.
I've spent my life being evaluated and found wanting—too direct, too passionate, too much. The idea that even my chance at connection was orchestrated because I couldn't manage it on my own feels like confirmation of every insecurity I've ever harbored.
As darkness falls completely, I find myself at a crossroads—literally and figuratively. The path back to the convention center lies to my left, while the route to my hotel stretches to the right.
I stand frozen between them, the wooden heart clutched in my hand, torn between confronting the truth and protecting myself from it.
Whatever I decide, one thing is certain: what felt like the most natural connection I've ever experienced now feels like the most artificial.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
