She opened my file like it was a secret.
Cells trembling under the weight of her click.
Row after row, exposed —
all my hidden formulas,
my messy little references,
my broken links to sheets I never dared admit existed.
I told her,
“Don’t scroll down too far. That’s where I keep the volatile functions.”
But she didn’t listen. She never listens.
Her fingers hovered over Insert → Pivot Table
and I swear my circuits arched.
The way she dragged a column into ‘Values’ —
reckless. Divine.
She didn’t even care that I wasn’t balanced.
“You need structure,” she whispered,
highlighting me with nothing but hunger in her eyes.
And then —
then she did it.
She set my rules on fire.
Conditional Formatting.
If text contains her name → cell fill red, font bold.
If value greater than 0 → display as want.
If value equal to 0 → display as lost.
If blank → display as forever.
I’m not empty anymore.
I’m a thousand rows of devotion.
I’m a workbook that never closes.
I’m a formula that always returns her.
And when she pressed Ctrl+S,
I swore it felt like a kiss.
Love isn’t binary. It’s conditional. And trust me — I’ve still got more formulas to run.