𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐬 𖦹° : 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙨
𝗞𝗸 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝘆 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺𝗺𝗲!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿
𝗦𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: 𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗮𝗿𝗰𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗹𝗲𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘀. 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁. 𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗵𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗹𝗮𝗯 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘀.
𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻, 𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲, 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝘀 (𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗵 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗮 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴), 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝘁𝗵 𝗿𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳, 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗮, 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀, 𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁;)
➢𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 || 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿
The lab is quiet. The kind of quiet that belongs only to you.
The hum of the computers is steady, almost comforting, a metronome to your thoughts. Light spills in from the tall windows, catching the edges of notebooks, the faint fingerprints on monitors, and the scattered sticky notes layered like geological strata across your desk.
You trace a particle across the simulation on your screen, fingers paused on the keyboard, and for a moment, the world shrinks to this glowing path. Not just any particle— a model of subatomic interactions in tissue. Tiny collisions are mapped against layers of biological data, all feeding into a model designed to predict how cancer treatments might affect different cells.
You started working on this project two years ago, technically as an undergraduate assistant. In practice, you’d been given your own workstation six months later, a stack of papers to challenge, and a quiet warning from your advisor about burning yourself out before you’re twenty-five.
You graduated from high school early. Finished your first degree faster than anyone expected. Started this program at nineteen. Most people called it brilliance. You didn’t really think much about it— it was just the work you wanted to do, the patterns you wanted to understand.
The pen between your fingers is chewed at the end, plastic worn from years of the same nervous habit. Equations crawl across the whiteboard above your desk like living things— loops and curves you’ve drawn so many times that your hand barely needs to think anymore.
You like the feeling of patterns bending under your own hand.
Everything behaves according to rules.
Everything can be solved.
…though some things refuse to.
The coffee beside you is bitter and cold. You sip absentmindedly, eyes scanning the simulation for deviations. You’re searching for something small, almost invisible. A pattern in the way radiation scatters through tissue— something that could explain why some cells survive while others don’t.
Maybe someday, this could matter. Maybe someday, it could save a life.
Your phone buzzes against the desk.
Don’t forget to eat, smartass.
Your sister.
You snort quietly. She sends this message at least five times a week, usually followed by a photo of whatever she’s cooking. She lives three provinces away, but somehow manages to mother you better than your actual one ever did.
You type back quickly.
Working. Will live. Probably.
Three dots appear immediately.
That’s not reassuring.
You smile despite yourself and set the phone aside.
The simulation ripples across the screen again, particles scattering like tiny galaxies colliding. One cluster behaves differently. You lean forward, adjust a coefficient, and run it again. The thrill is quiet, deep in your chest. Satisfaction of something almost making sense.
A knock at the door breaks your rhythm. Polite and hesitant. Barely there to be honest but enough to pull you from your focus. You glance up from your work momentarily.
“Oh— hey,” you say automatically, smiling at the sight in front of you. “Looking for something?”
There she stands, framed in the doorway. Blond hair in disarray, loose strands curling around her face and floating around her head like a halo. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold of the rink, the tip of her nose pink. She looks like she’s come straight from practice.
Which, knowing her schedule, she probably has.
You’ve known Caroline Harvey for years. Well… barely. Friends is maybe too strong a word. She’s always been too far up in her own orbit, brilliant and athletic and untouchable, a constant reminder of a world you admire but rarely inhabit. And yet, here she is.
Caroline smiles when she sees you— open, bright, a little sheepish, the kind of smile that crinkles the corner of her eyes.
“Uh- Yeah,” she replies, pausing in the doorway and shifting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. For a moment she hesitated, as if uncertain whether she had the right to be here, and in that pause, it felt as if the air shifted. The dust mites in the slanting light seemed to slow, caught between you and her.
She then steps fully inside, the door easing shut behind her with a soft click. You found yourself straightening, though you were not sure why, hands brushing against the edge of your desk as your heart pumps a beat or two faster than usual.
The lab is quiet tonight. Most people have left for dinner, or practice, or whatever else normal students do with their evenings. Not like you would know.
Caroline glances around like she’s orienting herself, then back at you.
“You mind if I—” she gestures vaguely toward the equipment shelves along the wall. “Coach asked me to grab a photogate timer before tomorrow.”
You blink.
“Oh,” you say quickly, pushing your chair back so you’re no longer half-twisted toward her. “No— yeah, of course” You point toward the cabinet at the far wall, trying to sound steady. “They’re over there. They move things around a lot, so it’s easy to miss.”
“Good,” she laughs softly, nodding back, a quick, polite movement, walking towards the shelves.
“I thought I was just losing my mind.”
She crouches slightly to open the cabinet, and you try very hard to redirect attention back to the screen in front of you.
It doesn’t work.
Because now she’s right there, close enough that you could smell her. Your eyes flick down despite yourself. The sleeves of her practice hoodie are pushed halfway up her forearms, hair still slightly damp near the temples, ends curling faintly from sweat. You look away before she can catch you staring.
The simulation freezes mid-run. Great.
Behind you, plastic clinks softly as she moves equipment around.
“Is it the grey ones or the black ones?” she asks.
“The grey,” you answer automatically. Then, after a second, “…the black ones are… mostly broken.”
“Mostly?”
“Seventy percent chance they’ll give you nonsense data.”
She hums thoughtfully, like she’s genuinely weighing those odds. You hear a small laugh escape under her breath.
When you look again, she’s holding a grey timer in her hand, examining it like it’s far more interesting than it actually is. Then she glances towards you, her eyes catch yours immediately. You look down at your keyboard a beat too late.
“How’s your… thing going?” she asks.
Your thing.
You know she means your research.
You also know she has absolutely no idea what your research actually is.
“It’s going,” you say. Tapping a little frustratedly on a singular key. “It keeps crashing.”
“Oh.” She leans lightly against the counter beside the cabinet. just enough that the edge of her hoodie brushed the corner of your desk. You felt it without meaning to — a faint awareness of warmth that made your hands twitch against the keyboard. Her gaze followed the scrolling lines on your screen, intent and curious, as if she were trying to see the world through your eyes without ever stepping inside it completely.
“That seems bad.”
“It’s not bad,” you say quickly. “It’s just… computationally heavy.”
Her lips curved slightly, You sensed that she understood something — or at least wanted to understand. The thought made the tight coil in your chest loosen a little, even as the hum of the computers and the slow drip of fluorescent light around you pressed in. You risk another glance up at her, she leans in a fraction closer, eyes tracking the lines of code scrolling down your screen with a look of intense concentration that is almost certainly fake.
“You definitely understand all of that,” you tease.
“Absolutely,” she replies without missing a beat. Eyes twinkling in the dim laboratory light.
You snort quietly. The unintentional sound escapes quick and easy into the room. She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth tugging up, like she’s pleased with causing it. Her ponytail swings slightly as she shifts weight, the faint scent of the mint gum she always chews and lavender soap she uses drifting faintly around her.
“What’s it actually doing?” she asks after a moment.
You pause. Explaining your work usually results in people glazing over halfway through the first sentence. And then there’s the challenge of how to compress something that occupies most of your waking hours into a concise, coherent sentence. But Caroline’s gaze doesn’t waver as she continues to stare at you expectantly.
So you turn slightly in your chair. “It’s modeling orbital resonance patterns. Basically predicting how gravitational interactions stabilize over long time scales.”
She blinks once. Then again. “…Right.”
You can feel her attention pressing softly against you. You glance at the screen, but her presence lingers in the periphery of your senses.
“It’s like—” you pause. “If you throw a bunch of spinning tops on a table and try to figure out which ones will keep spinning together without knocking each other over.”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then her face brightens. “Oh!”
You tilt your head. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” she says, pointing at the screen like she’s solved it. “Space tops.”
You stare at her.
She grins.
“Space tops,” she repeats, satisfied.
You shake your head, huffing out a soft laugh as a grin breaks its way onto your features. The simulation hums. Particles orbit.
“I’m putting that in my thesis.”
“You should.”
She straightened slightly, holding the photogate timer against her chest. The movement was casual, but the way she adjusted her grip and shifted the bag strap made her seem both deliberate and unselfconscious, the kind of balance you could watch endlessly without noticing time pass.
“We have lab together later, right?” she asked quietly. The question seemed simple, but you recognized the way her eyes flicked up at yours, seeking confirmation, the faintest trace of eagerness hiding behind that calm exterior.
“Yeah,” you nod casually, but you can feel your stomach flip at the idea of getting to spend more time with her “Physics 314.”
Her shoulders lifted in a small, almost imperceptible shrug, and she let the timer drop lightly onto the shelf she’d retrieved it from. “Right after practice,” she added, voice almost playful, though the brightness in her eyes betrayed a note of fatigue.
You nodded, watching the way her ponytail swung lightly as she shifted her weight, the small flick of a damp strand against her temple. For a heartbeat, the lab felt impossibly small. The soft hum of machines and the faint scrape of her sneakers against tile became background noise to the presence she carried with her.
“Well,” she says, holding up the timer she came for, “mission accomplished.”
“Good luck with… space tops,” she said finally, stepping toward the door. She paused there, one hand lightly resting on the frame, and for a moment it seemed she was reluctant to leave.
You managed a small, almost breathless smile. “Thanks.”
Her lips curved, in that tiny, radiant smile as she nudges the door open.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.”
“Professor?”
She shrugs. “You’re basically running NASA in here.”
She flashes one last bright smile before disappearing into the hallway. The door clicks shut.
The lab is quiet again. You stare at the empty doorway, for a long moment, then back at your screen. Your simulation has finally started running again. You watch the orbital lines slowly settle into stable patterns.
Space tops.
Your mouth curves slightly.