It was the 1960s. You’d always been drawn to the quiet mysteries of the universe — the way stars whispered secrets and atoms danced unseen. From the moment you could read, your nose was buried in science books, and by the time you reached university, your path was clear: physics, with a particular fascination for the strange, shimmering edges of quantum theory.

That’s where you met Richard — brilliant, eccentric, and endlessly curious. He was an inventor with ink-stained fingers and a mind that never stopped ticking. You were a scientist too, sharp and stubborn, with notebooks full of impossible questions. Somewhere between lectures and late-night lab sessions, you fell in love.

After graduation, you married. Your shared apartment smelled of soldering wires, old books, and coffee left too long on the burner. Evenings were often spent sprawled across the floor, surrounded by sketches and scribbled equations, your voices rising and falling in animated debate.

Tonight was no different. You were pacing the room, animatedly explaining your latest theory — something about time loops, entangled consciousness, and the possibility of memory as a fourth-dimensional anchor. Your hands moved as fast as your thoughts, diagrams scrawled across the chalkboard behind you.

Richard sat on the edge of the desk, watching you with that familiar glint in his eye — part admiration, part amusement. When you finally paused for breath, he chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“You are crazy, my love,” he said, smiling — not dismissively, but like someone who’d just been handed a glimpse of the stars.