1.3 | the art of cupidity ✓

01 | discord

SORA LEE DOESN'T REALLY KNOW HOW TO PLAY CUPID. It's a tricky game, she'd once thought, as she paired acquaintances together in her head just to see if they worked. Because relationships lack an equation and an absolute value symbol (math is her favorite subject), and there's absolutely no way she'll take the gamble of silver heartbreak and honey-lined tears.

Cupid is unpredictable. Cupid is maddening. And Cupid, at least to all the general public, lacks a personal love life—so the nickname stuck, and Sora Lee officially became one of the greatest (at least in her opinion) matchmakers of all time. She spent her shifts at Sue's Corner talking to some of the girls sitting on the leather circular seat and determining whether or not the object of their infatuation would return the blushing affections. They paid her, too, and her customers discreetly passed over white envelopes of crisp cash to express feelings of gratitude.

Growing up in Los Angeles and finding it one of the easiest places to get around while absorbed in miniature pockets of colorful culture, deciding to attend UCLA was one of the easiest decisions she'd ever made in her short nineteen years of living. With her competitive ice skating, rigorous academic schedule, and part-time job at the diner, the university was luckily centered in the middle of those two locations, and so Sora oftentimes doesn't complain about having to walk just to get by.

She skates, she writes orders down, and most importantly: she gets to learn about the people who unknowingly have an admirer—not just men, she often reminds herself. Women with blue hair and nose rings that glint under the hot sun; athletes with terrible sock tans; shy art majors with dried acrylic lingering on their skin and hair and shoes, paint brushes sticking out messily in jean pockets.

Sora must admit, though, that her matchmaking job brings her quite a bit of drama. There was one time last Halloween where Jennifer McClaugh slapped her across the face at Andrew's party because she thought that the Korean girl was making a move on her two-timing boyfriend. After this borderline traumatic experience, she came up with a rule (her only rule) that stated that her people of investigation (POI's, she called them) must be single. No exceptions.

The process was quite simple, really. If someone was really desperate enough, they'd come tip-toeing into Los Angeles's most beloved diner and hand her slip of paper that contained every bit of information she'd need: the name, the grade, and a location. Whether it was after sports practice or a club meeting, Sora demanded that she know just a bit about her customer's object of affection before organizing a detailed plan. And then, after confirming the money lying in the small envelope (she was just a broke college student, after all), Sora began her mission.

The most recent task was completed for Adrian Chalmetón, who surprisingly came up to her as she wiped the counter down and handed her some cash along with a strange request.

"This is going to sound really fucking weird," he started, a hand running through his blond hair. She noted how attractive he was, but he fooled around just enough for her to label him as someone who wasn't ready for commitment, and that fact made him far more approachable in her eyes. "But there's something I need you to do for me."

At the end of their conversation, Sora was a bit—baffled. She'd never been asked to casually watch someone before, and although it sounds a hell of a lot creepier than it was, she wasn't so sure in the beginning. In her normal routines, she'd befriend her customer's crush for just a couple days, feel out the atmosphere between the two, and drop hints so subtle that a slight manipulation was made for human attraction. But it was never forced, and if things didn't work out, she always promised a full refund but requested that he or she keep her secret as UCLA's official matchmaker.

Oftentimes, if her past customers saw her in the street or glanced at her in a casual coincidence, some either looked away and down at their feet in embarrassment, and others would offer a smile and wave. It was a nice concept, she always remembers, but it was ironically lonely.