The Cost of Knowing

Henry remembered the first time he used it. Fifteen years old, sweating through his shirt at the homecoming dance, watching Claudia Ramirez laugh with her friends by the punch bowl. His phone buzzed—the new LoveMetric app his cousin had side-loaded onto his device. He pointed the camera at Sarah for half a second.

3%

The relief was immediate. No humiliation. No stammered rejection. No week of replaying the moment in his head at 3 AM. He simply turned away and asked Jessica Morrison instead. Her 67% became his first girlfriend.

Now, at thirty-two, Henry couldn't remember what uncertainty felt like.

---

The technology had been refined, of course. What started as a scrappy app became LoveMetric 4.0—contact lenses with discrete percentage overlays in your peripheral vision, updated in real-time based on micro-expressions, pupil dilation, vocal tremors, pheromone analysis, and seventeen other biometric markers. The company claimed 94.7% accuracy.

Most married couples turned off their overlays. It was considered good etiquette, a sign of commitment. Henry had turned his off on his wedding day six years ago, and Amy had done the same. They'd toasted to uncertainty, to choosing each other without data.

But last week, Henry had redownloaded it. He convinced himself that he just wanted to confirm that his wife wasn’t lying about how he looked in a tuxedo that he was renting for a work party at the end of the year.

Just curiosity, he told himself. Just to see. Just once.

Now, at breakfast, he glanced at Amy across the table. 98% floated beside her head as she scrolled through her phone, absently touching her coffee mug. Nearly perfect. He felt a warm rush of relief.

---

At the office, Henry tried to focus, but the numbers were everywhere now. Rebecca, the new intern: 31%. Flattering, but irrelevant. James from accounting: 4%. Normal.

His married boss, Catherine, leaned over his desk to review his slides. 87%

Henry’s stomach dropped. Catherine had been married for fifteen years. He'd met Doug, seen their family photos. And yet there it was—higher than his own wife's reading of him. It didn't mean Catherine wanted to cheat. The overlay couldn't measure intent, only attraction. She might never act on it. She probably wouldn't.

But he'd never know for sure unless he tried.

The thought appeared unbidden, unwanted. Henry pushed it away, but it left a residue.

Catherine noticed his expression. "Something wrong with the slides?"

"No, they're perfect." He couldn't meet her eyes.

91% now. His nervousness was being read as something else.

She lingered a moment longer than necessary before walking away, and Henry felt everything.

Does she know that I use LoveMetric 4.0? Asked Henry.

Then Henry wondered what his percentage read for her—what she was seeing in her overlay. He chuckled at the sad irony of not knowing himself.

---

That evening, Henry met his best friend, Trevor, for their weekly basketball game. They'd known each other since college—fourteen years of fantasy football arguments, terrible jokes, and the kind of casual intimacy that made them each other's first call in a crisis.

Trevor grinned as Henry arrived. "Ready to get destroyed?"

Henry looked at him and froze.

83%

The number hovered there, insistent and impossible. Trevor's smile was exactly the same as it had always been—wide, slightly crooked, utterly familiar. But that number changed everything. How long had it been that high? Henry had never thought to check his own best friend.

Henry’s thoughts immediately went to Susan and the kids. Did Trevor’s wife know?

They played, but the game felt wrong. Every casual touch—a hand-slap after a good shot, Trevor's arm around his shoulder after Henry twisted his ankle—felt loaded with meaning that might or might not exist. Did Trevor know what his own overlay showed? Had he been carrying this quietly for years?

Henry went home early, claiming a headache. 79% from Trevor as he left, shadowed by something that looked like hurt.

---

The news that night led with a story about AttractionWatch—the new police program using LoveMetric technology to identify potential predators.

"Parents can now equip and monitor their children to rapidly scan adults in public spaces," the anchor explained. "Anyone showing attraction percentages above 70% toward children are automatically added to a watchlist. The program has already prevented an estimated 847 potential assaults in just three months."

The screen showed grateful parents, relieved legislators, charts showing plummeting child abduction rates.

Then it cut to protests. People holding signs: "THOUGHT CRIME IS NOT CRIME" and "JUDGE ACTIONS NOT ATTRACTION."

A man spoke through tears. "I've never touched a child. Never. I'm a good person. I'm in therapy. I manage it. But now I can't go to my niece's birthday party. Can't coach little league. My neighbors know I'm on the list. Someone spray-painted my house."

Another woman advocating for her husband. “He’s been flagged by AttractionWatch. He has never touched anyone inappropriately. Never will. He is doing everything right. For Pete’s sake he leads our church’s weekly bible study group! He is being punished for attraction, not action. For something he never chose and has never acted on."

The counterargument was swift: "But why wait until they act? Why risk even one child when we can prevent it?"

No one had a good answer.

The anchor moved to the next story: "Keeping our communities and livestock safe, expanded testing for zoophilia markers,"

Henry turned off the TV, feeling sick.

---

Three months after redownloading the overlay, Henry found himself staying late at work more often. Not because he had more to do, but because Catherine did.

They'd talk while the office emptied out. Just friendly conversation. Professional. But he'd watch her percentage fluctuate—85%, 89%, 92% when he made her laugh.

"Doug and I are going through a rough patch," she mentioned one evening, casually, while reviewing quarterly reports.

94% now.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Henry said.

"These things happen. Eighteen years is a long time." She looked at him. "Do you and Amy ever struggle?"

The question felt loaded. Henry thought about Amy's 71%, how it had dropped to 68% last week, then climbed to 74% yesterday when he'd brought her flowers.

"Sometimes," he admitted.

96%

Catherine smiled. "It's good to have someone who understands."

Henry went home that night and looked at Amy—really looked at her, trying to see past the numbers. She was curled on the couch reading, her reading glasses slightly crooked, hair in a messy bun.

73%

He sat beside her. "I love you."

She glanced up, smiled. "Love you too." Then back to her book.

74%

One point. His declaration of love had earned one point.

But at work, making Catherine laugh had jumped her ten points.

The math was simple. Dangerous. Intoxicating.

---

The next day, his work colleague David stood in the door frame of his office. You down for some philly cheese steaks?

At lunch, David opened up. Henry was always grateful for David’s trust.

"I cheated on my wife. Not because I didn't love her. Not because she did anything wrong. But because a woman at my gym was at 94%, and I knew—I knew—it would happen if I just asked. And it did. And it was easy. And now my marriage is over." He laughed bitterly.

"Before the overlay, I was too scared to cheat. Too worried about rejection, about embarrassment. The uncertainty protected my marriage better than my vows ever did."

Henry replied, while folding his napkin in tiny triangles.

"I’m sorry to hear that bro…. The overlay tells us who's attracted to us. But it doesn't tell us what to do with that information. It doesn't tell us about character, commitment, consequences. It just gives us certainty where uncertainty used to protect us."

“Dang!” barked David. “These phillies must be laced with something. I’ve gotten more from this lunch break than I have from three months of therapy.”

---

Henry stood outside Catherine's office the next week, watching her through the glass. She was on the phone, laughing at something. 87% from across the room.

He thought about walking in. Thought about suggesting drinks after work. Thought about how easy it would be, how certain.

His phone buzzed. Amy: Dinner at 7? I'm making your favorite.

He looked at the message for a long moment, then walked past Catherine's office toward the bathroom to splash some water in his face.

At home, Amy had set the table with candles. She'd changed out of her work clothes into the dress he loved. 76% hovered beside her head.

"This is nice," he said. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. Just wanted to do something special." She kissed him. 78% now.

They ate dinner, talked about their days. It was pleasant. Comfortable. The percentage climbed to 81% when he complimented the food.

Even though it was less than Catherine’s, it was organic, having weathered the course of time. And that made it meaningful.

---

The turning point came on a Tuesday.

Henry was working late—legitimately this time, a real deadline—one by one, the office lights of all of his peers turning off. 

Almost in perfect unison, Catherine’s overlay increased as each work colleague went home.

89%. Cindy leaves. 90%. Bobby leaves. 92%. Jenn grabs her coat, out the door. 94%.

Before long, it was just him and Catherine.

Henry with a metric ton of determination closed his laptop, stood up, walked towards the exit—then pushed the elevator down arrow.

And then, just before the elevator doors completely shut—

---

The next day, Henry sat inside his car outside of his house. He stared at the neighbor's chihuahua humping a shoe in the front yard. It was staring right back.

100%