My colleague, physicist Carlo Rovelli, says, we live in “a world of happenings, not of things,” likening his observations to the happenings of the sixties, when people would gather on a whim to do something crazy and unexpected—for no particular reason other than that they could and they wanted to. Though quantum mechanics is a very specific set of rules that provides an excellent description of the behavior of subatomic particles, I like to think of particle theory and quantum mechanics as the hippies of physics. The work scientists are doing in these realms show us how dynamic and ever-shifting the universe is, how it’s constantly engaged in such happenings. This is high-vibe science, where everything is in relationship, jumping from one interaction to the next, connecting, over and over. We could say that the very essence of the universe is connection: this particle with that particle, this atom with that atom. Particles move in swarms, like birds or bees, together, unpredictable, but together. In relationship. Continually. It is restless and searching and expanding and curious. The universe is so damn curious! The particles go here, there, then here again. Like my daughters, searching for shells on the beach.

My dad is saying that the universe doesn’t want us to be alone. It won’t let us be alone. Any of us.

I wish I could ask him why. Why did he fall out of love with Mom? Why did he do what he did? Maybe it’s just particle theory. Love jumping from one person to the next. He loved Mom, then he loved Rebecca. Without malice or intent. Love exists in the quantum realm. Predictably unpredictable.

I read and the darkness gathers, the sun goes down. My eyes grow heavy.

I wake to the sound of a key in the lock, the soft thud of a heavy backpack hitting the floor. A sharp intake of breath.

The door shuts, and then there is the click of the desk lamp, the mattress sagging, a warm hand on my shoulder.

I open my eyes. Ben’s wearing the thick, black-rimmed glasses he only puts on late at night, and his hair is a mess, and all I want to do is run my hands through it. He has the most awestruck expression on his face, looking at me. Like me being here is a scientific discovery.

“You’re going to die,” I blurt out.

He blinks. “Yes…”

I sit up. “I think … I think I’m okay with that.”

River’s right: Nothing—no one—is for keeps. Not Mom or Dad or Nah. Not Ben. Not even me.

“Someday you will leave me,” I say. “Or I will leave you. In this current collection of atoms or sooner. And it will hurt. But it will hurt more to not have this—to have you—while I can. I want to be here. I want to be now.”