Open up the book and pretend it's your life. Flip to the first page and there are two options: stay or go. Pick one. No, you don't get to take it back. No, you don't get another chance. There's a girl and she's going to die or she's going to live, but you don't know which option leads to which outcome. No, you can't have a minute to think it over. Pick one now.

You pick "go" and everything is set into motion.

.

You mess up first. The timing is off and you're too late by a second, a millisecond, and her blood is all over the concrete floor. The man twitches and walks off, tapping the gun against his thigh. Everything hurts. She screams. You can't comfort her. You can only let things play out as they already have.

When she's finally dead, you walk out to the lake and drown yourself.

.

Revert.

Time for take two.

.

Open your book again, there's another two options. Stay or go. You hate this decision even though you've never had to make it before, but it makes you feel stifled. Pick one now. Pick one now. There's a girl and she's dead but you might save her. Might. Or you might make everything worse.

You don't know why you have to do this, because you're nobody special. You're a freak who can make yourself disappear and you're a little too obsessed with a beautiful corpse. You pick up litter every afternoon with the same old people, minus one.

Nothing special, really.

But maybe you can be.

You pick "go" and everything is set into motion.

.

Sometimes you dream. She's laughing at someone far away, and everything is lit so bright it's blinding. When she turns to face you, there's a bullet hole in her chest.

"Wake up," she says, and keeps laughing until you do.

.

She asks you point-blank: "Am I going to die?"

(Sometimes, before you fall asleep, your mind forces you to relive the light leaving her eyes, the sick smell of her blood.)

"I'm not going to let that happen."

.

This time, she ruins the plan. She turns left instead of right in the building that's begun to haunt you, and you are left waiting to jump down in front of someone who never arrives. When you find her, she's already dead. Still, you brush the tangles out of her hair. Still, you hold her hand.

Then you walk out to the lake and drown yourself.

.

Revert.

Take three.

.

Open your book, you know the drill. Two options, go on, pick one. No, you have to. No, you can't put the book down and pretend you never opened it. Pick one, pick it now. Stay or go? Stay or go? Stay or go? It would be easiest to pick "stay." Much less complicated, you know. You don't want to go, you think. You want the most normal thing.

Staying means simple.

(Staying means the rest of your life will have a constant back beat of— what if?)

You pick "go" and everything is set into motion.

.

This time everything works, and she holds you as you die.

.

You're nothing special, really. Talking to people frightens you. Editing videos is the most fun you ever have. There's this beautiful girl you speak to sometimes, who wouldn't actually give you the time of day.

"I brought you a drink."

It should make you nervous, and it does, really. You can mess up in so many ways, make her hate you a hundred times over, but. But.

It doesn't feel like an interruption in your life. It feels like something being slipped into place.

.

Open the book. The page is probably dog-eared. Stay or go, but not to the same place. A choice within a choice. Stay or go to the way things have already gone. Stay or go to another time. Fix it that way. Fix everything. It's "go," it's always been "go." But where?

You pick the way things have already gone and everything is set into motion.

.

Dying doesn't scare you. It's enough to know that you've done it before.

.

Okay, flip to the back of the book. Look, it's all laid out there. Pick "go to another time" and it's not the bullet that gets her, it's the razor. If you pick that, you lock the door. She and you can't get out. It's okay. Well, it's not— someone else will have to die. But that's alright. A little. It has to happen. Someone has to be offered up and it's already been her too many times. She counts. She's a person too.

You pick go to another time and everything is set into motion.

.

"Hey— hey, someone open the door already! Jesus, what took you so—"

"What happened?"

"Oh God—"

"Call a fucking ambulance—"

"Kelly!"

.

(You get married in Vegas.)

.

Oh, sorry— plot hole. Next page. You can't keep existing while she and another you are still alive. Worst paradox. It's wrong and you can't stay. Your atoms rip apart at the seams and suddenly you have never existed at all.

Revert.

.

You save her and you save her and you save her, but never in the way that matters.

.

Revert.

.

Revert.

.

Revert.

.

You stumble, once.

"Oh, shit— what the hell are you doing, all ramming into people?"

"I'm— I'm sorry. Here, do you— do you need some—"

"Yes, I need a bloody napkin! Honestly, just because it's a club doesn't mean you can go batshit crazy. No, give them to me! Are you trying to feel me up or something?"

"N-No. No. No."

"Jesus, they could turn down the sodding music for a minute… What's your name?"

"…Simon."

"Simon? Like, Simon Says? …Oh, I'm just fucking with you, don't look at me like I've just killed your dog or something. Ugh, I've got to go back inside. That runner guy was chatting me up and I'm not missing that shag just because you've spilt a drink all over me."

"I'm sorry."

"Never mind. Just never mind. I'm— shit, that's going to stain— I'm Alisha. …Jesus, do your eyes get any wider?"

"Um."

"Just throw these napkins away for me, yeah?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

"Ha. Yeah."

.

The night of the storm, she's letting you show her the classic episodes of Dr. Who you have on DVD. When hail starts to pound on the roof, she slams her hands to her ears and tells you to turn up the volume. She also lets you hold her hand, something she usually hates.

Everything is normal, for you two.

.

Revert.