Eternal Ephemerals

Always second

Every evening, before the sun had fully set, Adam found her in the same place—at her desk, bathed in the golden glow of her lamp, surrounded by books and papers in disarray. Her eyes were always glued to the computer screen, her lips slightly parted, and her fingers hovering over the keys as if poised to capture the next great revelation. Today, it was a lecture on the multiverse. Yesterday, it had been an analysis of 19th-century Romantic poets. The day before that, something about the neural pathways of songbirds and their ability to mimic sound. Every day, it was something different, something new.

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, just watching her. Her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, but her eyes shone with that gleam she always had when she was learning—hungry, electric, alive. There was a notebook beside her, crammed with scribbled thoughts, questions branching out into more questions. Diagrams, arrows, connections she couldn't stop exploring. In these moments, she was lost to the world, lost in the boundless ocean of knowledge she craved, and she didn't notice him standing there.

She didn't notice him at all.

He didn't say anything, just watched. He wasn't sure why he didn't break the silence—maybe because this was her space, her sacred moment. She was somewhere else, and to speak would be to pull her from the universe she had immersed herself in, a universe that didn't include him. It was a world where Adam didn't belong, and he wasn't sure if he ever could.

He loved her curiosity. He really did. It was one of the first things that had drawn him to her—the way she could lose herself in a subject, dive headfirst into the unknown with a kind of passion that was rare, uncontainable. She could speak about particle physics one moment, then effortlessly shift to the intricacies of Romantic poetry the next. She wasn't afraid of the abstract, the infinite, the things that made most people feel small or overwhelmed. She thrived there, in the unknown, in the complexities that most found intimidating.

And Adam admired that about her. It was one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with her. But sometimes—just sometimes—he wished he could pull her away from all of it. He wished that for once, he could be the thing she wanted to dive into, the subject she couldn't wait to learn more about. He wished he could be her discovery, her obsession.

Most days, he was content to sit beside her in her orbit, to be a part of her world even if he wasn't at its center. He knew she loved him. She told him so often enough, in her own quiet, distracted way. She'd brush a kiss across his cheek as she muttered something about a new idea, a new theory. She'd stay up late with him when he needed to talk, would wrap her arms around him when the day had been long, would hold him close when words weren't enough. In those moments, she was his, completely. And yet, even then, Adam could feel the pull—the way her mind wandered, the way she'd glance at the clock, as if eager to return to whatever idea had captured her attention that day.

He'd known this from the beginning. He'd known that her first love had always been knowledge itself—the thrill of discovery, the satisfaction of unlocking new mysteries. And he'd accepted it, because how could he not? To ask her to give that up, to ask her to make him her sole focus, would be like asking the stars to stop shining. Impossible. Selfish. He loved her too much to clip her wings.

But there were nights, like this one, where the ache in his chest was too strong to ignore. Nights when he stood in the doorway, watching her glow with a light that didn't come from him, and felt a deep, gnawing loneliness. Not jealousy of another person—there was no one else who could make her laugh like he did, no one else who knew the way her lips twitched when she was trying not to smile. No, it was something far less tangible. He was jealous of the books, the theories, the questions that filled her mind and lit up her face. He was jealous of the way her world expanded with every new idea, while he stayed rooted in place, watching her from the sidelines.

He knew it wasn't fair. He knew that expecting her to choose between him and her love of learning was a choice she couldn't make. And most days, he was proud—proud of her brilliance, proud of her insatiable curiosity. She was magnificent, in a way that few people were, and he loved her for it. But tonight, as he stood there in the doorway, he wanted something more. Just for once, he wanted to be her priority.

"Hey, Adam?" Her voice broke into his thoughts, soft and full of that familiar excitement. He blinked, realizing she had finally noticed him standing there. She turned toward him, her face lighting up with that bright, open smile she gave whenever she discovered something new. "You won't believe this, but I was just reading about this theory that particles can communicate across—"

He nodded, stepping into the room, forcing a smile. "Yeah?" His voice was steady, but the pang in his chest sharpened. She was excited, animated, eager to share this with him, and that should have been enough. It was enough. Wasn't it?

She launched into an explanation, her hands moving in the air as she spoke, her voice full of wonder. Adam listened, or at least he tried to. He tried to focus on her words, on the way her eyes sparkled, on the way her excitement made her cheeks flush. But underneath it all, he felt the ache growing.

How many times had they been here before? Him watching her from the doorway, him listening to her speak about things that stretched far beyond his understanding. She had a way of making the most complex ideas seem accessible, and he loved that about her too—the way she could make even the most abstract theories feel like stories. But no matter how much she shared, no matter how deeply she tried to pull him into her world, he always felt like an outsider.

He loved her. And he knew she loved him. But love didn't mean he was the center of her universe. Not in the way he sometimes wanted to be. And wasn't that the point? The thing that hurt the most? He wasn't her obsession. He wasn't the subject that kept her up at night, wasn't the discovery that thrilled her.

She was passionate, yes. But her passion had never been for him. It was for the unknown, the things she could never quite pin down. And deep down, Adam feared he was too known—too simple, too predictable. He could never hold her attention in the way the stars, or quantum mechanics, or obscure poets did. He could never light her up like that.

She finished speaking, her eyes searching his face for a response. "Isn't that wild?" she asked, her voice softening as she noticed something in his expression. Her excitement faltered, her brow furrowing in concern. "You okay?"

He smiled, forcing the ache back down. "Yeah," he said, though it wasn't entirely true. He stepped closer, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. She smiled, and for a moment, it felt like the world slowed. Just the two of them. No books, no theories, no distractions. Just her, just him. It was enough to make the ache ease—if only for a second.

"Tell me more," he said, even though part of him didn't want to hear about the particles or the multiverse. Even though part of him wanted to pull her away from her desk, to take her hand and lead her somewhere far from this world of questions and theories, somewhere where they could just be. But he didn't. Because this was her world. This was who she was. And if he wanted to be part of her life, he had to accept that he would never be the thing that consumed her.

She beamed at his response, launching back into her explanation, and he watched her, feeling the familiar pang in his chest. But with it came something else—something softer. Pride. He was proud of her. Proud that she was so brilliant, so curious, so endlessly hungry for more. She was unlike anyone else he had ever known, and that was why he had fallen in love with her in the first place.

As she reached for his hand, her fingers brushing against his, he squeezed gently, grounding himself in that small, shared moment. He knew he would never be her first passion, never the thing that made her light up the way knowledge did. But maybe that was okay. Maybe being second to the stars wasn't so bad, not when he got to be here, beside her, watching her shine.

And as her voice filled the room with possibilities, with dreams of things far beyond his understanding, Adam listened. He listened, and he loved her. Even if he would never be the thing she loved most.