The spreadsheet had 247 rows.

Each row was a date. Each column was a category. Name, age, occupation, how they met. A column for pros, meticulously bullet pointed. A column for cons, sometimes longer than she wanted to admit. A column for dealbreakers, highlighted in red. And then the scoring system. A complicated algorithm she had developed over three years of trial and error, weighing chemistry against compatibility, attraction against ambition, the flutter of first meeting against the cold hard facts of a life that might fit together.

Her friends made fun of her. Called her a robot. Said love was not something you could quantify.

She ignored them. The spreadsheet was not about love. It was about efficiency. About not wasting time on people who were wrong for her before she had invested too much. About learning from her mistakes and never repeating them. Every date was data. Every disappointment was a lesson. Every row made her smarter, sharper, closer to finding the pattern that would lead her to the right person.

His name was Dorian.

Row 248.

She had met him at a coffee shop, the old fashioned way. No app, no mutual friends, no algorithm. Just two people reaching for the same book on the same shelf, hands brushing, apologies colliding, a moment of eye contact that lasted longer than it should have.

He had smiled. She had smiled back. And then, because she was who she was, she had asked for his number before she could talk herself out of it.

Now he was sitting across from her at a small table in the same coffee shop, his hands wrapped around a mug of something dark, his eyes watching her with an attention that made her skin prickle.

"You are staring," she said.

"You are interesting."

"That is not a compliment."

"It is. Most people are boring. You are not."

She did not know what to say to that. No one had ever called her interesting before. Efficient, yes. Organised, absolutely. A little bit obsessive, according to her last ex. But not interesting.

"I keep a spreadsheet," she heard herself say. "Of my dates."

His eyebrows rose. "A spreadsheet."

"Pros, cons, dealbreakers. A scoring system." She was blushing now, could feel the heat climbing up her neck. "It helps me stay objective."

Dorian set down his mug. Leaned back in his chair. He was not laughing. That was the first thing she noticed. He was not laughing at her.

"What is my score so far?" he asked.

She blinked. "I have not—I mean, I do not—"

"You have not added me yet?"

"I only add people after the first date. To avoid bias."

"And how is this date going? So far?"

She thought about it. He was attractive. That was obvious. Tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and eyes that seemed to see right through her. But attraction was only one column. There were others.

He listened. Actually listened, not just waited for his turn to speak. He asked questions about her work, her hobbies, the spreadsheet she had accidentally confessed to. He did not flinch when she talked about her exes, her disappointments, her fear of wasting time on someone who would not stay.

"You are very honest," he said.

"Honesty is efficient."

"Efficient." He smiled, and the smile did something to her chest. "I do not think anyone has ever called me efficient."

"What would they call you?"

He considered the question. "Patient. I think. Slow to decide. I like to take my time."

Her heart sank. Slow to decide. That was a red flag. Her last ex had been slow to decide. Had strung her along for eight months before finally admitting he was not ready for something serious.

"That is a dealbreaker," she said.

"Is it?"

"Indecision. Ambivalence. Not knowing what you want." She could hear herself talking too fast, could feel the old frustration rising. "I have been there. I do not want to go back."

Dorian reached across the table and took her hand. His fingers were warm, his touch gentle, his eyes steady on hers.

"I did not say I was indecisive. I said I liked to take my time." He squeezed her hand. "There is a difference. Taking my time means I do not rush. It does not mean I do not know what I want."

"And what do you want?"

He looked at her. At her hand in his, at her face, at the spreadsheet she had confessed to like a shameful secret.

"I want to see you again. I want to learn your scoring system and probably disagree with half of it. I want to know why you are so afraid of being wrong about someone." He paused. "I want to prove to you that not everything worth having can be quantified."

She should have pulled her hand away. Should have made an excuse, ended the date, added him to the spreadsheet as a lesson learned. He was too confident. Too sure of himself. Too unlike the safe, predictable men she usually scored.

Instead, she heard herself say, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. You can see me again."

He smiled, and she felt something shift in her chest. Something that did not fit into any column.

The second date was dinner. The third was a walk through the park. The fourth was a museum, where he explained the paintings to her in a low voice, and she found herself watching his mouth instead of the art.

She added him to the spreadsheet after the second date. Row 248. Dorian.

Pros: Attentive. Funny. Reads books. Has a job he loves (architect). Good listener. Makes me laugh. Makes me feel seen.

Cons: Takes things slowly (maybe too slowly?). Drinks his coffee black (a personal preference, not a real con). Sometimes looks at me like he knows something I do not.

Dealbreakers: None yet.

Score: 94. The highest she had ever given.

She stared at the number for a long time. 94. Nearly perfect. By the cold logic of her algorithm, she should be thrilled. She had found someone who met almost all her criteria. Someone who should be exactly right for her.

But she was not thrilled. She was terrified.

Because the spreadsheet did not know what to do with a yes. It knew how to filter out the nos, how to identify the dealbreakers, how to protect her from wasting time on the wrong people. But it had never been designed for this. For someone who actually fit. For the moment when the data said go and she had to decide whether to trust it.

The fifth date was at his flat.

He cooked for her. Pasta, simple but good, the kind of meal that said I want you to stay without using words. They drank wine. They talked about everything and nothing. And somewhere between the main course and dessert, the conversation drifted into territory she had been avoiding.

"Tell me about your spreadsheet," he said. "The real one. The one you do not show anyone."

She set down her fork. "It is just a tool."

"A tool for what?"

"For protecting myself. For not making the same mistakes again."

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Then: "What mistake did you make?"

She thought about her exes. The one who had seemed perfect for six months and then vanished. The one who had said he wanted a future and meant he wanted a fling. The one who had made her feel like she was too much, too intense, too organised, too something.

"I fell in love with potential," she said. "With who they could be, not who they were. I ignored the red flags because I wanted to believe." She looked down at her hands. "The spreadsheet helps me stay honest. It helps me see what is actually there."

"And what do you see when you look at me?"

She looked up. Met his eyes. They were dark, steady, patient. Waiting.

"I see someone who meets all my criteria. Someone who should be exactly right." She paused. "And I am terrified."

"Why?"

"Because if you are right, I have no excuse. If you are right, I have to actually try. I have to be vulnerable. I have to risk being hurt." Her voice dropped. "The spreadsheet is safe. It keeps me at a distance. But you—" She stopped. Swallowed. "You are not safe. You are real."

Dorian reached across the table and took her hand.

"I am real," he said. "And I am not going anywhere. But I cannot prove that to you tonight. I can only show you, day by day, date by date, until you believe me."

"That could take a long time."

"I told you. I am patient."

That night, after the dishes were cleared and the wine was finished, he kissed her.

It was not a spreadsheet kiss. It was not efficient or calculated or safe. It was slow and deep and full of hunger. His hands cupped her face like she was something precious. His mouth moved against hers like he was learning a language he had been waiting his whole life to speak.

She made a sound against his lips, a small desperate sound that was not in any column. He answered with a sound of his own, low and rough, and pulled her closer.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

She was not sure. She was never sure. That was the problem.

But for once, she did not want to be sure. She did not want to analyse or calculate or add him to a spreadsheet. She wanted to feel.

"Yes," she said. "I am sure."

He led her to the bedroom. Slowly. Patiently. Giving her time to change her mind, to pull away, to retreat to the safety of her data.

She did not retreat.

What followed was unlike anything she had experienced.

He touched her like he was exploring a new country. Every inch of skin, every sound, every shudder. He asked questions she had never been asked. Does this feel good? Do you want more? Slower? Faster? Tell me. Tell me what you need.

She had never told anyone what she needed. Had never been asked.

"Touch me here," she whispered, guiding his hand. "Like that. Yes. Like that."

He learned her body the way she wanted to be learned. Not as a problem to be solved, not as a set of data points to be analysed. As a person. As someone worth taking the time to understand.

When she finally came apart beneath him, crying out with a pleasure she had never let herself feel, he held her through it and whispered her name like a secret.

Afterward, they lay tangled together in the dark.

"I do not know how to do this," she admitted. "The spreadsheet was easy. This is hard."

"This is life," he said. "It is supposed to be hard."

"I am afraid I will mess it up."

"You will. Probably. So will I." He kissed her forehead. "And then we will figure it out. Together."

She turned to face him. Looked at his face in the dim light.

"I want to try," she said. "I want to try without the spreadsheet."

"You do not have to delete it. You just have to trust yourself."

She thought about that. About trusting herself. About all the years she had spent hiding behind data because it was safer than feeling.

"Okay," she said. "I will try."

The next morning, she opened the spreadsheet.

Row 248. Dorian.

She looked at his score. 94. The highest she had ever given.

And then she did something she had never done before.

She deleted the row.

Not because he was not right. Because he was. Because the spreadsheet could not capture the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he made her feel seen in a way no algorithm ever could.

Some things could not be quantified. Some things could only be felt.

She closed her laptop, went back to bed, and curled up against his warmth.

"Good morning," he murmured, still half asleep.

"Good morning."

"What time is it?"

"Too early."

"Then come here."

She went. Not because the spreadsheet told her to. Because she wanted to. Because she was finally, finally learning to trust herself.

The spreadsheet had 246 rows now. The past.

And the future was a blank page.