Twenty-two years from now, on a bright day in a dim room, you will utter your last words. You will tell us you are sorry for the time you squandered chasing fruitless theories, time made precious to you now by the power of hindsight. 'You were my greatest discovery,' he will say.
The two of you will spend the nine years prior to your end on a new beginning, one free of your long nights tinkering in the lab and obsessing over notes. You will be ours for the duration of long walks through blossoming gardens, sunny days that do not cloud over save for those rare moments where he will stare unfocused, your poor, brilliant mind a million miles away as it tries to discover where your science failed.
A decade from now you will begin compromising those notes you obsesses over. While you are at universities and symposiums, giving lectures on quantum electrodynamics and zero-point energy, you will make small changes, unnoticeable changes to his equations, your sequences, your life's work.
Seven years from now you will rage in his lab, throwing your tools, smashing your beloved invention. You will tell them it's trash, which it is through no fault of your own, and that you must rebuild the space-time harmonic oscillator again from the ground up, which you must never do.