Stupid Bet

You’ve been staring at the soundboard for so long, the blinking green lights are starting to look an awful lot like red.

The campus radio booth smells of dust and burnt coffee and unwashed clothes that accumulate anywhere students live for too long. There’s a tangle of cables in the corner that might actually be sentient. The ceiling tiles are stained in patches, as if the building tried to cry once and then gave up halfway through.

On the wall, someone taped a crooked paper heart over the station logo. The marker bled through, leaving a fuzzy red halo around the letters.

It is unfortunately, Valentine’s Day.

You’re supposed to be testing the mics. Instead, you’re spinning a slider up and down with one finger, watching the levels bounce on the monitor like tiny, annoying heartbeats.

“You’re glaring at the sliders again,” Yunjin says from behind you. “Don’t tell me they rejected you on this very special day.”

You don’t jump. You just adjust your shoulders like you weren’t startled out of your skin.

“I’m practicing my stage presence,” you say, then spread your arms like wings. “This is my stage presence.”

“Right…” she says.

She squeezes into the space next to your chair without bothering with things like personal space or physics. Her citrus shampoo and cheap fabric softener brush against your nostrils; the cold from outside still clings to her coat.

Her hair’s braided back today, little flyaways escaping around her face, headphones pushed up like a lopsided crown. Her lipstick is slightly smeared at one corner where she probably wiped it with the back of her hand. There’s glitter on her cheekbone. You don’t want to know where that came from.

She leans over the console, close enough that her braid brushes your arm. “Levels look fine,” she says. “Unless you’re trying to blow out the speakers and take the entire building with us. Which, honestly, respect.”

“I would never do that,” you say. “The building’s innocent. It’s all the Valentine’s Day propaganda inside it that needs to go.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she says.

“You invited me to host a twenty-four-hour Valentine’s Day marathon. What did you expect?”

Her mouth twists like she wants to smile but is trying not to. “I expected a bit more enthusiasm,” she says. “You get to spend time with the prettiest girl on campus.”

“I’m quitting,” you say.

“You can’t,” she says. “You signed the volunteer form.”

You glare at the clipboard. The clipboard glares back. Twenty-four hours of themed programming. Love songs, dedication readings, call-in lines open all night.

You’d agreed because you needed credits, because you like the station, because Yunjin had looked at you with big eyes and said please.

Then you’d walked in and seen the paper hearts and remembered what day it is, and your stomach had folded in on itself.

“You still haven’t answered my question, by the way,” she says, twirling a pen between her fingers.

“What question?” you ask.

“Who hurt you,” she says, “and why do you hate Cupid?”

You spin in the chair just enough to face her. The headphones squeak against your shoulders.

“Okay. First of all, his whole vibe is suspicious. Creepy winged toddler with weapons? Red flag. Second of all, love is a capitalist scam. Third—”

She groans. “God, we’re really doing this. Right before we go live.”

“You asked.”

“I forgot you treat everything like philosophical debates,” she says. “Normal people just eat chocolate and watch a movie.”

“I can do that without the holiday,” you say.

She sighs, dramatic, and taps the clipboard against your arm. “Fine,” she says. “Lay it on me. Explain why love is fake, and I’ll explain why you’re wrong.”

You glance at the big window that looks into the hallway. The On Air sign above it is dark for now. In an hour, it’ll be red.

“In brief,” you say, “love is a series of chemical reactions designed to trick you into pairing up long enough to theoretically raise offspring. It’s inherently unstable and eventually breaks down into either resentment, indifference, or mutual tolerance. At best, you get long-term companionship with occasional affection, which you could also get from a very loyal dog.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “You sound like a professor who got divorced twice,” she says.

You shrug. “I read.”

“You got dumped once and turned it into a thesis,” she says.

“You’re telling me you buy this?” you ask her. “The hearts, the roses, the couple’s posts, the speeches. You think that’s… real?”

She looks at you as if you’ve suggested the sky is green. “Of course I do,” she says. “Love is amazing and beautiful and, most of all, real.”

“You’re so gullible,” you say.

“And you’re a baby,” she says, so casually you almost miss it.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

She turns a page on the clipboard like she didn’t just lob that at your head. “You’re scared,” she says. “Therefore, you’ve decided love isn’t real so you don’t have to want it.”

You laugh, sharp. “Wow. You diagnose me, you insult me, and you do it for free. I think you picked the wrong major, Yunjin.”

She spins the pen once, twice, and then points it at you, eyes suddenly very, very focused.

“Let’s make a bet,” she says.

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t know the terms yet.”

“You said the word ‘bet,’” you say. “And you have that look in your eyes. That’s enough.”

She ignores you. “You don’t believe in love,” she says. “I do. We’re about to be trapped in a small, sticky, questionably ventilated booth together for twenty-four hours of Valentine’s programming.”

“Your sales pitch needs work.”