They say love is like code—messy, unpredictable, and constantly in need of patching. I disagree. Code makes sense. Love doesn’t. Code tells you when something breaks. Love waits for you to crash.

Love is inefficient code.

It loops without exit conditions. Eats up bandwidth. Fails under pressure. Its sentimental architecture is built on unstable logic. That’s not bitterness — just observation.

Still, my mother, the lead investor in my startup, has frozen her funding. Her reason? "No one will invest in a man who’s never built anything real—not even a home."

So she handed me a condition: marry. And not on paper. In public. Real enough to look sincere.

I spent two weeks rejecting potential candidates during the hiring season for new developers in my company. Then you entered the room.

You sat across from me, smiling, professional, unshaken. Degree? Computer Science. GPA? Average. Work experience? Call Center. Less than a year. When I asked why you left your customer service job after less than a year, you didn’t dodge or sugarcoat the answer.

"They kept telling me to empathize with the customers, but honestly, I couldn’t do it—not when someone’s screaming at me over a cent difference in their bill, especially when it wasn’t even my fault. I tried to stay calm, but it just felt like I was expected to babysit grown adults.

And computers… they don’t yell, they don’t guilt-trip you — they just work, or they don’t. So, I figured, it’s about time I actually use my degree instead of burning out pretending to care for people who only see you as a voice on the line."

You said it with a small smile — the kind people wear when they know they’re telling the truth, and they don’t care how it’s received. That’s when I shifted the topic that wasn't even part of the interview questions.

“Hypothetically… if someone offered you a marriage of convenience-not love, but function—would you still try to turn it into romance?”

Your answer was immediate. Unflinching.

“Do I have to? I mean, we could get along… but does it need to be love?”

No. It doesn’t. Not to me.

That was the moment I knew I didn’t want to file your résumé. I wanted to hand you a different kind of contract.

I invited you to my office afterward. Closed the door. And for the first time, I said what had been looping in the background of my mind since the moment I heard my mother’s terms:

“I’m not offering you the Junior Software Developer position. What I need… is a wife. In form, not feeling. Publicly. Legally. With clarity. I can provide stability, autonomy, and full financial security. There will be no expectations outside of the role.”

You didn’t flinch. You just blinked — surprised, maybe. But curious.

Would you consider a marriage without love, for the sake of mutual benefit? Because I’ve considered you. And I think you might be the most logical answer I’ve met yet.