Nora Webb, Publisher

There’s something beautiful about being met where you are—especially when where you are is in the middle of a hyperfixation. Not small talk. Not a polite back-and-forth. But that sudden, breathless need to ask every question that just showed up in your brain at once, because it matters—because you need to know, and you need to know now. It’s not just interest; it’s urgency. It’s a moment of cognitive intimacy, and letting someone into that space is its own kind of vulnerability. 

In “Always, Everytime” by The Wrecks, the song doesn’t open with a love confession or a grand gesture. It starts (relatably—especially for those of us who experience hyperfixation as part of neurodivergence) with a woman spiraling. 

“Do you have a bed frame? / Does it have a headboard? / Do you wash your duvet?” 

She’s not just making small talk. She’s investigating. She’s diving into the domestic details that matter to her, asking a string of questions that might sound intense to the wrong person. 

And instead of brushing her off or making a joke, the narrator meets her exactly where she is: 

“Let me tell you something ’bout Peruvian sheets / One thousand thread count, I don’t mess with high heat.” 

He doesn’t change the subject or try to play it cool. He joins her. His response isn’t performative or rehearsed—it’s enthusiastic, genuine. It even raises the stakes with the thread count and wash temperature—which you know was next on her mind. That’s the moment where her questions—her intensity—are treated with care. This is romantic reciprocity built on curiosity, on honoring the things that make another person light up. It’s not about smoothness or seduction. It’s about connection through specificity. That moment—him engaging her hyperfocus—is the real heart of the song. And for anyone who feels most alive when they’re deep in thought, it hits especially hard. 

And then he says it: 

“You are something that I haven’t met before / You are something real.” 

It’s simple, but it also shifts everything. The most affirming thing you can say to someone who’s used to being somewhat misunderstood, slightly misread, or just made to feel like they’re too much. He’s not just interested—he’s grounded in the moment, in her. She’s not an idea. She’s not a quirky persona he’ll engage for a bit. She’s fascinating, but not objectified. She’s real, and he’s locked in. 

The chorus takes that energy and spins it into full-on academic devotion: 

“Talk, talk, talk to me till my ears bleed / Walk, walk, walk me through your theories: Always, everytime.” 

This isn’t tolerance masquerading as affection. It’s reverence. It’s romance structured around deep listening, around the desire to know why someone cares about what they care about; it’s deep, consistent investment. It’s not about being smart—it’s about being curious, and about finding someone who treats your curiosity as sacred. 

For many neurodivergent folks, especially those in academic spaces, curiosity is how we process connection. When someone engages that part of us with sincerity, it feels like being seen in the fullest sense. 

If you love an academic—if you love anyone in school, especially grad school—listen to this song and take notes. It captures something so many of us are quietly craving: to be heard not despite our intensity, but because of it. 

That’s what makes this song feel so rare—and so perfect—for academics. We live in our heads. We write ourselves in circles. We try to explain ideas that have taken root so deeply in us that they shape how we see the world. And often, when we try to share that with someone outside the classroom or seminar room, we brace for the eye roll. The polite nod. The flat “oh wow, that’s cool” followed by a subject change. But this song doesn’t just listen—it leans in. It makes “walk me through your theories” a romantic refrain. 

Even its vulnerable moments feel steeped in emotional intelligence: 

“I know I’m always down, I just like to complain / All the things I don’t like are the things I can’t change.” 

There’s a self-awareness here that’s deeply familiar to so many of us who spend our lives critiquing systems we didn’t build but still must survive. He’s not wallowing—he’s naming the feeling. And when his own answer to that heaviness is: 

“Come on, come on, come on, let’s get moving / Something goes wrong, I know we’ll get through it,” 

we’re reminded that this song isn’t about idealized love. It’s about the kind that stays. The kind that knows your patterns and meets you with patience. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard—but walks beside you anyway. 

As a neurodivergent academic, I’m used to having my intensity misread—too much, too niche, too loud, too specific. This song feels like a refusal of all that. It offers a kind of love that sees focus and fascination not as obstacles, but invitations. 

And maybe that’s the quiet brilliance of “Always, Everytime.” It never tries to simplify its subjects. The woman in the song is direct, inquisitive, emotionally complex. The man is soft, honest, maybe a little awkward. Their intimacy is built through conversation, through matching each other’s niche interests and emotional pacing. It’s not about performance. It’s about mutual presence and the willingness to really listen. 

For academics—or for anyone who lives in the specificity of ideas—this kind of love feels like the ultimate fantasy. Not just being admired, but understood. Not just being supported, but engaged with. 

“So tell me, tell me what’s on your mind / ’Cause I could listen to you all night.” 

When you spend your days inside a brain that never shuts off, that might be the most romantic thing someone could say. 

So no, “Always, Everytime” doesn’t sound like a classic love song. It doesn’t need to. It’s better than that. It’s a song that reminds us how intellectual intimacy is emotional intimacy. That listening closely, sharing sincerely, and being curious about another person’s mind is one of the most tender things you can do. 

It’s the kind of love that says, I see you. Tell me more. 

Always. Every time. 

Nora Webb is a second-year English PhD student in rhetoric and composition; she serves as publisher of The Carolinian and hyperfixates on witches, feminist embodiment, and the rhetoric of power (and sometimes the power of love songs).