It’s been a month. A month in which I have hardly slept, have ingested more than I think I need to know about machine learning, and have thought of Nicole Kennedy no less than seven thousand times per minute.

The longer I don’t call her to apologize, the more I feel like I shouldn’t bother. She’s probably moved on by now, I think, and the image of her with another man turns my blood to ice.

Orla says I need to grovel, do something epic. I have ...