REPLY To: Dr. Stephanie Barker From: Dr. Clive King May 20, 2032

Dear Stephanie,

You always did have a way with words. Reading your letter felt like a punch to the gut and a warm hug all at once—an emotional whiplash I wasn’t prepared for, but one I probably deserved. Thank you for your kind words about E-38, but more importantly, thank you for reminding me of who I was before the world got so noisy.

Yes, E-38 is my baby, my “greatest scientific achievement since vaccines,” as I’ve been quoted (a bit out of context, I might add). It’s hard not to be proud of what it’s accomplished, but your letter brought back memories of something I haven’t let myself think about in a long time: you, me, and those chaotic, wonderful days in university. It’s funny, isn’t it? In all the excitement of global acclaim, it’s the memories of late-night library sessions and bad cafeteria coffee that hit the hardest.

First off, let me get this out of the way: it was a date. The museum, the tie (borrowed from a roommate, by the way, and not my style), the way I carried your notebook like some sort of geeky knight-in-shining-armor—it was all part of a very poorly disguised plan. I just didn’t want to scare you off by calling it a date because, let’s face it, I was already out of my league with you.

And that oak tree kiss after finals? I think about that more often than I probably should admit. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was like time stopped for a second. The world could have ended right there, and I’d have gone out grinning like an idiot.

You mentioned my bad guitar playing in the park. First of all, “bad” is a strong word. I’d call it “enthusiastically mediocre.” But you sat there anyway, pretending to enjoy my off-key rendition of American Pie. You even hummed along, which I think qualifies you as an accomplice. Those afternoons meant more to me than I ever said. I guess I was too busy being “brilliant” and “driven” to admit how much I needed those moments of normalcy with you.

But here’s the thing, Steph—while I was rambling about enzymes and extremophiles and trying to sound smart, you were the one holding me together. You were my anchor. I wasn’t some visionary with his head in the stars; I was a scruffy kid who got lucky in the lab and even luckier in love.

Do I have regrets about us? Of course I do. How could I not? We had something rare, something most people don’t find even once in their lives. But I was young and stupid, and I thought I had all the time in the world to figure things out. Life, as it turns out, had other plans.

I’ve spent years convincing myself that letting you go was the “right” decision. You were destined for greatness in Liverpool, and I was destined for… well, this. But the truth is, every accolade, every handshake, every standing ovation feels a little emptier because you’re not there to share it with me.

And now I have this mountain of success that everyone tells me to be proud of, but there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head saying, “Would she have laughed at that joke? Would she have called you out on your nonsense?” Spoiler: you absolutely would have.

Speaking of calling me out, you gave me far too much credit in your letter. Sure, I had the vision for E-38, but it’s not like I was single-handedly solving the plastic crisis while wearing a lab coat and a cape. It was a team effort—scientists, engineers, field workers, even the interns who made coffee at 3 a.m. when we were too stubborn to quit. But you know me—I’ll take the credit anyway.

I’ll also take credit for one of the best “what-ifs” of my life: you. What if I’d stayed? What if we’d built that life together, complete with late-night debates over pipette sterilization and a fridge full of half-eaten takeout because neither of us could cook? I’ll never know, and maybe that’s the point. Some “what-ifs” are meant to stay unanswered.

But I’ll tell you this: If I could go back to that oak tree, to that museum, to that library desk under the streetlamp, I’d hold onto those moments a little tighter. I’d let you know just how much you meant to me, even if it scared me to admit it.

Of course, this is me we’re talking about. I’d probably ruin the moment with some terrible joke about microbial mating habits or a pun about “breaking down barriers.” (See? I’m still hopeless.)

Steph, I don’t know where life will take us from here. You’ve got your own brilliant path, and I wouldn’t dare stand in the way of that. But if you ever find yourself missing those days of bad guitar playing, stolen kisses, and late-night science rants, you know where to find me. I’ll be the guy in Maine, staring at the stars and wondering if they look the same in Liverpool.

Congratulations on everything you’ve accomplished, and thank you for being the person who saw me—really saw me—when I was just a scruffy kid with big dreams and no clue what he was doing. You’re part of my story, Steph, whether you realize it or not. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Yours (and still terrible at guitar),

Clive

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