The decision felt less like a choice and more like the resolution of a complex mathematical proof. The path was elegant, inevitable, and terrifying in its finality. Lin Xiaoyang had spent his life trying to write clean, efficient code, and now he was about to execute the most beautifully inefficient function of his life.
He scheduled the call with Qinghe for 8:00 PM, a time he knew she would have finished her evening library session and would be at her most receptive. He spent the hour before pacing his small apartment, his mind running through a million different ways to present his conclusion. Should he frame it logically? Emotionally? With a slideshow?
When her face appeared on the screen, calm and composed as always, his carefully rehearsed scripts evaporated.
"Qinghe," he began, his voice slightly rougher than intended.
"Lin Xiaoyang. Your biometric data, extrapolated from camera input, suggests elevated stress levels. Has the decision matrix caused significant system strain?"
"You could say that." He took a deep breath. "I've run the calculations."
"And the output?"
"I'm turning down the Silicon Valley Summit."
There was a silence. It wasn't a shocked silence, or a pleased silence. It was a processing silence. He could see the subtle flicker in her eyes as she accessed, cross-referenced, and analyzed.
"Explain your reasoning," she said, her tone neutral. "The summit represents a significant career-optimization node."
"It does," he agreed. "But my optimization function has changed. The 'Life_Decision' heuristic I wrote… it prioritizes the preservation of a stable, high-value connection over a short-term, high-variance career opportunity."
He was speaking her language. He watched as she absorbed this, her head tilting a fraction of a degree.
"You have written a new core function," she stated.
"I have. And it compiles." He leaned closer to the camera, willing her to see the certainty in his eyes. "The most inefficient, and therefore most optimal, path for my system is the one that maintains proximity to yours. So, I'm going to look for developer jobs in Oxford."
The silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. Charged. He saw her blink, a slow, deliberate motion. Her gaze dropped for a moment, as if consulting an internal log file, before returning to his.
"That is… a significant deviation from your initial life-plan parameters," she said, her voice softer now. "The probability of finding a commensurate position in the Oxford tech ecosystem within the required timeframe is approximately 38.4%."
"I know. It's a risk."
"The energy expenditure for relocation, cultural acclimatization, and professional re-establishment will be substantial."
"I know that too."
"Your 'Energy-Saving Principle' would classify this decision as a catastrophic failure."
A small, wry smile finally broke through his nervousness. "My 'Energy-Saving Principle' was a legacy version. Prone to errors. Prone to missing the most important data points." He paused, gathering his courage. "The most valuable connection I have is one where silence is full of data, and a single look can compile an entire conversation. I am not willing to relegate that connection to a high-latency, low-bandwidth state for a year, or possibly forever. The system cannot run optimally under those conditions."
He had said it. He had translated the messy, illogical chaos of his heart into a systems-analysis report. It was the most honest thing he had ever said to her.
Shen Qinghe was utterly still. For a long moment, she simply looked at him, and he felt the full, unnerving force of her perception. She was running a deep-level diagnostic on his words, on his expression, on the very subtext of his soul.
Then, something remarkable happened.
A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. It was not accompanied by a sob or a change in expression. It was a discrete data point of pure emotion, a buffer overflow from a heart that had just received more input than it could logically process.
"You are crying," Xiaoyang whispered, his own heart clenching. "System error?"
"No," she said, her voice remarkably steady despite the tear. "Not an error. An… unexpected but valid output." She carefully, almost mechanically, wiped the tear away as if documenting an anomaly. "The emotional weight of your decision has exceeded the capacity of my standard emotional-processing subroutine. A temporary exception has been thrown."
He understood. For her, this was the equivalent of a standing ovation.
"The decision is… accepted," she said, her voice regaining its full composure, though her eyes shone with a new, unquantifiable light. "I will begin compiling a dataset of local tech firms, rental markets, and UK visa requirements. We will run this new branch of the code together."
Relief, warm and profound, washed over him. "Acknowledged."
The following weeks were a whirlwind of frantic, cross-continental coordination. It was the most complex project he had ever undertaken. Qinghe, true to her word, became his remote project manager, sending him dossiers on companies, links to relevant immigration forums, and meticulously researched cost-of-living spreadsheets.
He told his boss, who was surprisingly understanding. He told his parents, who were confused but supportive. And he told the team.
Chen Yuexi, upon hearing the news, burst into tears—loud, dramatic, happy tears. "HE CHOSE LOVE! HE CHOSE THE QUIET, BRILLIANT GIRL OVER THE GLITTERING SKYSCRAPERS! IT'S THE PERFECT ENDING TO HIS CHARACTER ARC!"
Su Yuning offered a more pragmatic response. "Your decision has a high potential for long-term relational ROI, though the short-term professional opportunity cost is significant. I have updated your profile in my database. Please forward your UK job applications for proofreading; your cover letters lack quantitative impact metrics."
Tang Youyou sent him a care package containing a "Safe Journey" talisman and a crystal specifically for "navigating bureaucratic labyrinths." "The energy in Oxford is very old and wise," she assured him. "It will welcome you."
The day before his flight, as he was zipping up his last suitcase, his phone buzzed. It was a notification from Qinghe. Not a spreadsheet or a list, but a simple text.
Qinghe: [22:47] The average temperature in Oxford tomorrow is 14 degrees Celsius, with an 80% probability of precipitation. The Heathrow Airport Express train to Paddington Station departs every 15 minutes. The journey to Oxford takes approximately 58 minutes. I will be waiting at the Oxford station platform at 16:30.
Beneath the text was a single, old, scanned image. It was a page from his high school notebook, showing a messy, hand-drawn diagram of a fictional app. Scribbled in the margin, in his younger self's handwriting, was a note: "Someday, I'll build something that matters."
She had kept it. All these years.
He stared at the image, his throat tight. She wasn't just giving him instructions. She was giving him context. She was showing him the thread that connected the boy he was to the man he had become, and the path that had led him to her.
Lin Xiaoyang, the boy who wanted to save energy, was getting on a plane to spend a massive amount of it. Lin Xiaoyang, the man, knew it was the best investment he would ever make.
He was ready to run the new code.