Page 10 of Glass Jawed
But I relent.
Because, despite everything, I love this story.
Even if it’s partially tainted now.
“One thing I want you all to take away from what I’m about to say...” I glance at her again—still hiding behind that damn notebook. Not a twitch. Not a lift of her gaze. “...is that entrepreneurship should be rooted in something you believe in. Deeply. Obsessively, even.”
I pause, sweeping my eyes over the sea of faces. Almost a hundred students in total. Some tuned in, some pretending.
“You might build something because there’s a known pain point. Or you want to innovate within a space you understand. Maybe it’s just passion—you love an idea enough to fight for it. Either way, you should want it. Not your advisor. Not your VC. You.”
I let the silence land for a second.
“I started this company because my own pet—my cat, Cooper—had chronic health issues. We were doing ER visits, checkups, follow-ups, insurance claims, med schedules... It was chaos. And I was trying to do a full-time job on the side of that chaos.”
My throat tightens.
Cooper.
A year without him, and it still hurts like hell.
“I was giving him medication every six hours. I barely slept. I worked with spreadsheets in one hand and a syringe in the other. It was relentless. And none of it was... connected. Every vet, every hospital, every clinic operated in silos. Nothing was seamless. Nothing made sense.”
A long breath. A beat.
“I started Kepler Health because of Cooper. I built it because the system wasn’t made for people like me. Not with empathy. Not with intelligence. And yeah, maybe I could claim our software is industry-agnostic. But I’d be lying. It was personal.And when we launched the prototype, the market validation proved that the gap was real.”
I nod, wrapping it up. “So... yeah. That’s the story.”
A few polite nods. Some scribbling. A few more hands go up.
I take more questions, but my mind’s elsewhere. Hyperaware of her still—not speaking. Not reacting. Not looking at me.
She doesn’t raise her hand. Doesn’t even blink.
And for some reason, that grates.
No. It burns.
I want her flustered. Uncomfortable. Shattered.
Because that’s what she left behind when she walked out of my apartment—naked, quiet, untouchable.
I don’t even know her fucking name.
And that’s the problem.
I want to give my nightmare a name.
As soon as the lecture ends, I casually step down from the podium. Smile at a few students. Nod at the coordinator.
Then I beeline toward her.
Not too fast.
Not too obvious.
Just enough.
