They speak to each other in numbers. A perfect square for “we need more milk.” A sequence of “goodbye, see you soon.” Conic sections. Equations. A 42 for “I’ve no idea.” A parabola for “I love you.”

They had never discussed them beforehand—they’d simply understood. Having met under sudden circumstances, an abandoned bus station serving as a survivor camp, they were thrust into each other’s company without warning.

He drops by her bunk with a quick number and a slow smile. She responds, eyes sun-bright.

They’re awkward at first, disbelieving of their sudden mutual understanding, but they grow past it. Later, they’re closer—bumping shoulders, sharing secret numbers that flit about in the stale air.

Then he writes out a parabola and leaves it for her.




(god i am so romantic and lamecakes)