Mara didn't fall into sadness. She chose it—the way an alcoholic chooses the bottom of a bottle, knowing it will burn.Her algorithm knew her better than any lover. Spotify served minor keys and slow tempos. Netflix recommended films where someone died in the first act. Her camera roll was a museum of grey skies, empty streets, and her own face mid-cry, preserved like pressed flowers."Let's go out," her roommate Zoe said on a Friday. "Live music. Dancing."Mara shook her head. "I have a headache."What she had was a date with a rainy window and a 2010 breakup playlist. The headache