Before I reached my thirties, it became apparent that I had abused my undo button a little too much.

It should have worried me, but it didn't seem like a big deal. Everyone had their own undo button, and if I used mine more often, so what? Most people kept theirs locked in safes and closets, but I kept mine in my pocket. There were just too many reasons to use it. I was a habitual screw-up, and it was really convenient to always have the option to redo the situations that I ruined. Every time I was unhappy with how I handled something, I'd press my button, and through some magic that I didn't understand, I could be transported anywhere from a few seconds to a few hours back in time.

In high school, I used my button to curb my procrastination. I liked to put off all my homework until the last second, and instead of rushing to finish like any other insane person, I'd buy myself some more time. I also used it pretty often as a snooze button, which ensured that I never had a consistent sleep schedule, but that was a minor problem. I could have fixed it if I had wanted to.

After I graduated high school, it only got worse. I went to college, and all my problems followed me. I used my button to relive moments that I felt I hadn't enjoyed to their fullest, to redo interviews where I had stuttered a little too much, and to erase my awkward blunders from people's minds. When I came out as bisexual to my friends, it took me a few tries because I wanted to get it perfect. When one of those friends asked me out, I had to rewind to make sure I had heard him correctly.

"You could've asked me to say it again," Santi pointed out when I admitted that on our date. "I would've been happy to repeat it for you."

"It wouldn't have been the same," I insisted. "The second time you say it, you would have been smiling and looking less nervous. Completely different vibe."

Santi laughed. "Probably. You know what I think? You should put the button away and try to live life as it happens. People go through life just fine without a single redo. What makes you think you need so many?"

I didn't want Santi to know the extent to which I was a disaster, so I pressed my button and didn't bring up the topic on the second run of our conversation.

A few dates later, Santi asked me to be his boyfriend. The moment was perfect, so I was content to move on with my life, but a voice in my mind convinced me to reach for my pocket.

This went on for a few more years. I went so far as to enchant my button so that it would always appear in my pocket no matter what clothes I wore. My hand constantly hovered over it, and sometimes, I'd push it for no reason other than I was addicted to the rush I got every time I traveled back. I loved the thrill of experiencing something multiple times, knowing exactly what was going to happen when I did everything exactly the same. There were a few moments with Santi that I must have replayed at least a dozen times. These include our first time attending pride together, the day we moved in together, and the day he proposed.

The most I ever used my button was the day we got married. On our wedding day, I stood at the altar and replayed his vows over and over until I had them memorized. At the reception, we danced until I was sure that my legs would fall off. I needed to be sure that I lived the day to its fullest before I left it in the past.

I remember the day that everything began falling apart for the exact opposite reason that I remembered everything else.

It went like this. When I woke up, the space next to me on the bed was empty, and there was a burning smell. I immediately knew that today was pancake today. It was my favorite Saturday morning tradition, and it always began with smoke. I sighed, rolled out of bed, and made my way to the kitchen. I didn't see burnt pancakes anywhere, and Santi was acting like nothing was wrong, so I figured that he had already thrown them away.

"You weren't supposed to wake up yet," he told me. "I'm not done. Go back to bed."

I slumped down in a chair at our breakfast table. "Can't. Someone's awful cooking woke me up."

"You know the first batch always burns," Santi reminded me patiently. "If that's a problem, you can make your own food."

"Tempting, but I'll pass," I said. "You need any help?"

Santi walked over with a plate of pancakes that weren't burnt. "You can help by eating these so I don't have to hear your voice for ten seconds. How does that sound?"

I would have retorted, but the pancakes seemed like the better option. I squeezed some maple-flavored high fructose corn syrup onto my plate and dug in. A minute later, Santi joined me with his own plate. Today was one of those days where neither of us tried to keep up a conversation, so we ate in silence. The silence persisted as we finished our food and as Santi collected our dirty dishes. It was then that I finally thought to ask if anything was wrong.

Santi's response was a sad smile. "I don't wanna say yes. But we do need to talk about something."

I ran through all the worst case scenarios. "You're not gonna ask me for divorce, are you?"

"I'm not that lucky," he joked, but then he turned serious again. "No. It's not anything like that."

I relaxed a little. "Okay. Good. What's up?"

Santi leaned over, reached into my shorts pocket, and retrieved my undo button. He set it on the table in front of us. It was covered with my greasy fingerprints because I hadn't cleaned it in a while, and there was a dent the shape of my thumb from pushing it so much.

"Have you ever looked into what happens when you use this too much?" Santi asked me.

I shook my head. I vaguely remembered the list of warnings that had come attached, but I hadn't read it since I tossed it in the trash. I didn't think it was important.

Santi's hand landed on my arm. "I didn't think it caused problems either until this month. You've been forgetting things. Your brain only has so much space, and if you remember every version of every moment you live, you'll run out of space much quicker. That's why older people are more likely to suffer from memory loss. But... I think it's happening to you."

It took me by surprise. I didn't think Santi was even aware how much I undid and redid. I hardly ever talked to him about my nasty habit, but I figured he knew about it to some extent. His claim made sense, and that was what had startled me. I had been forgetting random things recently, but I had brushed it off as being too stressed out from work. The other day, Santi's birthday completely slipped my mind. I never would have pinned that on my mind running out of space.

"You're too young," Santi said quietly. "Maybe you've known me for the equivalent of fifty years, but I've known you for a lot less than that. I've undone things before, but I haven't touched my button once ever since we started dating."

"I... I have a problem." I blinked. "Oh my... I didn't even know. Has this been happening for a long time?"

Santi grabbed both of my hands and squeezed them like his life depended on it. "It has to have been. I don't know what to do other than to let you know. I don't want to lose you. I have so much more life to live, and you should have that too."

He was getting choked up now, but I was numb. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

"What if you forget that you love me?" he asked.

It was the first time in so long that I didn't feel the need to replay a moment because it got burned into my memory the first time.

That was the day I locked my button away like I should have done a long time ago. This slowed down my memory loss, but the damage was already done. My mind had to let go of old memories to make room for the new ones that came with existing every day. I was out of space, and the worst part was that I didn't get to choose what I remembered.

Santi tried his best to be there for me. Every night, before we went to sleep, he would recite a speech that reminded me of the most important things.

"I'm Santi. Your husband. I love you with my whole heart. I liked you for years before you came out, and when you told our friends that you were bi, I took my chance and asked you on a date. We dated though the rest of college, and we got married after we graduated. That wasn't too long after gay marriage was legalized. We've had this apartment ever since we got back from our honeymoon, but this won't be our forever home. One day, we'll have a nice house in a suburb, and we'll have kids and dogs and a garden. We'll have pancakes for breakfast every Saturday, and I'll always burn the first batch because it takes me a few minutes to get the stove under control. The smell of smoke wakes you up, and you'll stumble into the kitchen as I'm finishing up. We'll eat together. We always try to eat together whenever we can. We'll spend the rest of our lives together like that. Don't lose sight of our future, okay?"

He told me this over and over, again and again.
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"Again (And Again)" by wwl1102