30 Years Later, Elon Musk’s Old Flame Sends a Message—His Shocking Response Breaks the Internet
Jenna Sorenson’s office was dark, save for the blue glow of her laptop. Outside, Cape Town’s harbor twinkled, but inside, the only movement was her hand, grading student papers long past midnight. She was a marine biology professor now, but tonight, her focus was shattered by a news alert: “SpaceX Starship Makes Mars Orbit. Musk: Human Landing Next.”
She hesitated. For years she’d avoided stories about Elon Musk, her high school boyfriend from Pretoria. But tonight, curiosity won. She clicked, and there he was—older, thinner hair, but the same spark in his eyes. She remembered him at seventeen, sketching rockets in the margins of his math notes, telling her, “One day, I’ll send ships to Mars.” She’d laughed, but he hadn’t.
On impulse, Jenna searched for an email address. It was a fool’s errand, she told herself—he was the world’s busiest man. But after twenty minutes, she found a likely address. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then typed: “It’s Jenna from Pretoria—from a lifetime ago. I saw the news about Mars. Congratulations. I remember you telling me under the jacaranda tree that you’d do it. I thought you were dreaming too big. Shows what I knew, right? I’m a marine biology professor now. Not as exciting as space, but I love it. Sometimes I tell my students about a boy who wasn’t afraid to dream impossible dreams. I never use your name, but it’s always you I mean. I hope life has brought you happiness along with all the success. Take care, Jenna.”
She hovered over delete. This was ridiculous. He wouldn’t reply. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her. But her finger slipped, and the message whooshed off into cyberspace.
Jenna groaned, shut her laptop, and packed up. She was halfway to her car when her phone chimed. Probably a student. She checked anyway. The subject line read: “Re: It’s Jenna from Pretoria.” The sender: [email protected].
.
.
.
Her heart hammered as she opened it. Five words: “I never forgot your voice.”
She stared, stunned. Another message arrived: “Your email just appeared. I’m up late working on Starship, and suddenly I’m seventeen again under that tree. There’s so much I want to ask, and so much I want to tell you. But not like this. I’ll be in Cape Town next month for meetings. Will you meet me?”
Jenna sat in her car, breathless. Was this real? What would she even say to Elon Musk after thirty years?
She replied: “Yes. Let me know when.”
The weeks crawled. She taught classes, met with her daughter Ila, tried to forget about Elon, but couldn’t. The night before their dinner, Jenna stood before her closet, panicking. What did one wear to dinner with an old boyfriend who was now one of the world’s most famous men?
Ila, now a university student herself, came to help. “You dated Elon Musk and never told me?” Ila squealed. “Mom, this is insane!”
“It was high school,” Jenna protested. “He was just a skinny boy with big dreams and a battered notebook.”
The next evening, Jenna arrived at Cape Town’s finest restaurant, heart pounding. Elon was already there, out of place in a simple black shirt, looking tired but smiling when he saw her.
“Jenna,” he said, standing. “You came.”
“You invited me,” she replied, nerves vanishing in the warmth of his grin.
Dinner began awkwardly, but soon the years melted away. They talked about their lives—her research on tidepools and climate change, his relentless pursuit of impossible goals. He listened with the same intensity as when they were teens, asking questions about her work, genuinely interested.
After dessert, Elon leaned in. “You know, I still have that old notebook. The one you used to write in, too. I kept it all these years.”
Jenna laughed. “I can’t believe you still have that. I thought you’d forgotten all about Pretoria.”
He shook his head. “Never. I carried your voice with me. Whenever I got stuck, I’d think, ‘What would Jenna ask? What would she challenge?’”
She was silent, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know I mattered that much.”
“You did. More than you realize.”
After dinner, he asked, “Will you show me your research sites tomorrow? I want to see what matters to you.”
The next morning, Elon arrived at her home—no driver, no entourage, just him. They drove to Boulders Beach, walking among tidepools teeming with life. Jenna explained how rising temperatures were changing everything. Elon listened, then knelt to examine a starfish, his curiosity undimmed.
“People think climate change is slow,” Jenna said. “But the tidepools show changes year to year. It’s like an early warning system.”
Elon nodded. “That’s why I push so hard for sustainable energy. It’s not just about rockets—it’s about preserving what we have.”
As they sat on a boulder, watching the waves, Elon turned to her. “Jenna, I want to show you something.” He drove her to a discreet research facility near Cape Point. Inside, scientists worked on climate adaptation—solar-powered desalination, artificial reefs, drought-resistant crops.
“This is Project Threshold,” Elon explained. “We’re developing tech to help communities adapt to climate change. But we’re missing marine expertise. Your expertise. Will you join us? Lead the marine research team?”
Jenna was stunned. “Me? I have a job, a life—”
“You’d have freedom, resources, impact. And you’d be working with people who believe in your vision.”
She hesitated. “It’s a lot.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to answer now. But I want you to know—your questions, your perspective—they helped shape everything I’ve built. I want you to help shape what comes next.”
That night, Jenna read through the detailed proposal. Attached was a handwritten note: “The voice in my head still asks the best questions. This is your project as much as mine. Say yes.”
She called Ila. “Should I do this?”
“Mom, you always tell me to take risks for things that matter. Maybe it’s your turn.”
Jenna accepted. The next months were a whirlwind—new lab, new team, new challenges. She and Elon worked together, their partnership reignited not just professionally, but personally. They spent long hours debating, designing, dreaming. The media caught wind of their collaboration, but they ignored the noise.
One evening, after a breakthrough on a coral restoration project, Elon handed Jenna his old notebook. “Open it,” he said.
Inside were sketches, equations, and notes in two handwritings—his and hers. In the margins, she saw: “JS: Not everyone wants a sports car. Make one for families.” “JS: Where does the electricity go when the sun isn’t shining?” “Discuss with JS.”
Tears pricked Jenna’s eyes. “I didn’t know I mattered so much.”
“You were my sounding board. My challenger. My partner—even when you didn’t know it.”
Jenna closed the notebook and looked at Elon. “So what now?”
He smiled. “Now we build something new. Together.”
As the sun set over the Cape, Jenna realized her life had changed in ways she could never have imagined. She had taken a chance—on an old friend, on a new project, on herself. And in doing so, she’d discovered that sometimes, the voices from our past are the ones that guide us to our future.
