Harry and Samantha both submit their DNA to GeneMatch™

Samantha stood in her cramped Brooklyn bathroom three weeks later, the GeneMatch kit sitting on the edge of her sink like an unexploded bomb. The sleek black box had arrived six days ago, and she'd been finding excuses not to open it ever since. Work had been busy, she'd told herself. She needed to be in the right headspace. She wanted to do it when Mercury wasn't in retrograde, even though she didn't actually believe in astrology.

But tonight, after spending another Friday evening listening to Zoe complain about her latest Tinder disaster while Tina made sympathetic noises and fresh cocktails, something had shifted. She'd come home to her empty apartment, looked at herself in the bathroom mirror—really looked—and decided it was time to stop being a coward.

The instructions were printed on thick, expensive cardstock, the kind that suggested legitimacy and professionalism. Samantha read through them twice, her hands trembling slightly as she held the paper. It was simple enough: swab the inside of your cheek for thirty seconds, place the swab in the provided vial, seal it according to the specific instructions, place everything in the return box with its biometric seal. Easy. Clinical. Nothing to be nervous about.

So why were her palms sweating?

She tore open the sterile packaging and pulled out the long cotton swab. For a moment, she just stared at it, thinking about what it represented. This little stick was about to collect her DNA, the biological blueprint that made her who she was. And somewhere in Dr. Genet's laboratory, machines would analyze those cells and determine who she was meant to be with. The whole thing felt simultaneously scientific and magical, rational and absurd.

"Fuck it," Samantha whispered to her reflection, and opened her mouth, swab in hand.

***

Rain dripped from Harry's hair as he stood in front of the red Royal Mail drop box, the black package in his hands already speckled with raindrops. His dress shirt was getting soaked—he'd worn it to work that morning and hadn't bothered changing when he got home—but he didn't care. All he could focus on was the weight of the box and the decision he was about to make final.

This was stupid. This was probably the most impulsive, irrational thing he'd done in years. His rational brain was screaming that he was wasting seventy-nine quid on pseudoscience and false hope. But his rational brain had kept him safe and alone for twenty-six years, and he was so fucking tired of being safe.

Harry thought about the fantasy he'd indulged in the night he ordered the kit. The woman who would understand him, desire him, choose him not because of anything he said or did but because their bodies recognized each other on a cellular level. It seemed impossible. It seemed like magic disguised as science.

But what if it wasn't?

***

Samantha walked away from the mailbox with her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, but she only made it about ten steps before she had to stop and lean against a brick wall. Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with the short walk. A strange surge of hope was coursing through her veins, making her feel simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.

She'd done it. She'd actually done it. And now all she could do was wait and see if science could accomplish what she'd been unable to do on her own—find someone who fit.

The autumn breeze carried the smell of roasting coffee from a nearby cafe, and Samantha tilted her head back to look up at the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, maybe someone was dropping their own sample in the mail. Maybe someone whose DNA would align with hers like two puzzle pieces that had been searching for each other all along.

The thought made her smile despite the anxiety twisting in her stomach.

***

Harry walked away from the Royal Mail box with rain dripping down his face, but he barely noticed the cold or the wet. His mind was already racing ahead to the email he'd receive in a few weeks with his results. Would there be matches? Would there be someone whose genetic compatibility score suggested they were meant for each other?

The rational part of his brain tried to temper his expectations. The odds of finding a perfect match were probably slim. The whole thing might turn out to be an expensive disappointment. But for the first time in longer than he could remember, Harry felt something that wasn't anxiety or loneliness or self-doubt.

He felt hope.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, probably one of his mates asking if he wanted to join them at the pub, but Harry ignored it. He just kept walking through the rain, letting himself imagine—just for tonight—that he'd taken the first step toward solving a problem that had felt unsolvable for far too long.

Somewhere across the ocean, though he had no way of knowing it, someone else was imagining the exact same thing.