To Dr. Clive King From Stephanie Barker// May 19, 2032

RDear Clive,

First, let me offer my deepest and most heartfelt congratulations on what is unequivocally one of the greatest scientific achievements in modern history. E-38 isn’t just a milestone for science—it’s a beacon of hope in a world that so desperately needs one. I’ve read every paper, followed every trial, and watched from across the Atlantic as your name has become synonymous with the next great leap in environmental recovery. You’ve done it, Clive. You’ve given humanity a second chance.

I still remember when you first spoke about your fascination with microbial life back in university. You’d talk for hours about how these tiny organisms held the key to so many of our problems, how they could do things we couldn’t even imagine. At the time, I chalked it up to your unrelenting optimism—and, perhaps, a touch of arrogance. But now, seeing what you’ve achieved, I feel both humbled and awestruck. You were right. You saw this potential before anyone else did, and you never gave up on it.

The world owes you a debt it may never fully comprehend. E-38 is more than a solution to our plastic crisis—it’s a symbol of what humanity is capable of when we put our minds to solving the problems we’ve created. You’ve not only reshaped the future of our planet but also shown us that science can still be a force for good, even in an age of cynicism and doubt. I can only imagine how it feels to hold such a legacy in your hands.

But Clive, beyond the applause, the accolades, and the impact of E-38, I want to say something more personal—something I’ve been thinking about ever since I saw your name flash across the news with headlines proclaiming “The Man Who Saved the World.” Seeing your face brought back a flood of memories I wasn’t quite prepared for, but ones I now feel compelled to share with you.

Do you remember those late nights in the university library? You always chose the desk by the far window, the one where the streetlamp’s light spilled over the bookshelves just enough to keep the place from feeling oppressive. You’d be hunched over some dense biology textbook, muttering to yourself about enzymes and pathways, while I pretended to study just so I could be near you. I don’t think I ever admitted it, but half the time I didn’t understand a word of what you were saying. You spoke about science like it was poetry, and even though I struggled to follow, I found myself captivated—not by the subject, but by you.

You had this relentless drive, this insatiable curiosity that set you apart from everyone else. It was as if you were already living twenty years into the future, while the rest of us were still trying to figure out the present. And yet, for all your brilliance, you were so human, so grounded in your kindness and your humor. You made me feel like I could do anything, even when I doubted myself.

Do you remember our first “date”? I say it with quotes because, of course, you insisted it wasn’t a date. You claimed you just wanted to show me the natural history museum because “it’s important for every scientist to see the past before they plan the future.” But Clive, you wore a tie. And you carried my notebook for me. And when we wandered into the exhibit on ancient microbes, you gave me that impromptu lecture about extremophiles while holding my hand. If that wasn’t a date, then I don’t know what was.

Our time together was brief in the grand scheme of things, but it shaped me in ways I don’t think I fully appreciated until years later. You taught me to be fearless in my work, to pursue the questions that matter, even when the answers seem impossible to find. When we parted ways after graduation—me to Liverpool and you to Maine—it felt like the end of an era. I won’t lie: it hurt to watch you leave. But I knew, even then, that you were destined for something extraordinary, something bigger than the two of us.

Now, sitting here in my little flat in Liverpool, looking at your name splashed across every major scientific journal, I feel a sense of pride that’s almost overwhelming. Not just because of what you’ve accomplished, but because I had the privilege of knowing you before the world did. I knew the Clive King who stayed up all night dissecting the mysteries of the universe with nothing but a cup of black coffee and an unstoppable determination. I knew the Clive King who played bad guitar in the park on sunny afternoons, who quoted Carl Sagan like he was reciting Shakespeare, who kissed me under that old oak tree after our finals and made me believe, for one perfect moment, that the world was ours for the taking.

I wonder, sometimes, what might have been if we’d stayed together. Would I have been a distraction from your work, or would we have pushed each other to even greater heights? Would we have built a life together, one filled with shared dreams and quiet evenings and the occasional argument over who left the pipette out of the sterilizer? It’s a foolish line of thought, I know. Life took us where it needed to, and I have no regrets about the path I’ve chosen. But still, the memories linger.

Clive, if there’s one thing I regret, it’s not telling you how much you meant to me back then. You were more than a brilliant mind; you were my friend, my confidant, my greatest inspiration. And now, seeing the man you’ve become, I feel a mix of emotions I can’t quite put into words. Pride, of course. Gratitude. But also a sense of longing for a time when we were just two young scientists, full of hope and ambition, chasing dreams that seemed as distant as the stars.

I hope you’ll forgive my sentimentality. Writing this has been as much for me as it is for you—a way to process the kaleidoscope of feelings your success has stirred within me. You deserve every accolade, every standing ovation, every word of praise the world can offer. And you deserve to know that, no matter the distance or the years that have passed, there’s someone here in Liverpool who is cheering for you louder than anyone else.

Congratulations, Clive. You’ve changed the world, just like I always knew you would. And while I may not be by your side to see it firsthand, please know that I’m with you in spirit, every step of the way.

Yours always,

Stephanie

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