Chapter 3 - The Butterfly Edits

Chapter 3: The Butterfly Edits

The second rewind came sooner than he’d expected.

He hadn’t planned on using it—not yet. He wanted to observe, to savor the changes, to understand what ripple he’d made. But the silence that followed Siena’s disappearance gnawed at him, slow and serrated.

It felt like waking from a dream you didn’t want to leave, only to realize you’d been wide awake all along.

He couldn’t bear to lose her again. Not when he’d almost gotten it right.

The app pulsed again that morning: You have 2 rewinds remaining.

So he tapped yes—before hesitation could anchor him.

Back in time again. Same bar. Same hour. Same rainless sky.

The return felt smoother now, less jarring—like his body had started learning the rhythm of dislocation. He stood at the same entryway, hands in the same hoodie pockets, as if watching a scene he’d already memorized but wasn’t sure how to alter.

Alright, he thought. Subtle. Don’t scare it off.

He brought flowers this time. Nothing loud—just white lilies. The kind she once said reminded her of her grandmother’s garden in spring. A small offering. A breadcrumb across timelines.

He spotted her by the back again. Same coat, same guarded expression.

“Hi,” he said as he approached, holding out the flowers like a question.

She blinked, taken aback, then softened.

“White lilies?” she said. “My grandmother loved these.”

“I know,” he said before catching himself. “You mentioned it once.”

A pause.

She didn’t leave. That was something. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took the flowers gently. “Thanks, Julian.”

They talked for a few minutes—awkwardly, lightly. Then he excused himself to the stage.

He changed the song. Not theirs, not yet. Something neutral. Something open-ended, like a story waiting for its first sentence.

Siena smiled this time. Only slightly. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. But she stayed longer. Bought a drink. Left without a word, but not without a glance.

Julian sat there after, nursing the silence like an old wound.

Was that enough?

Rewind. Again.

He had barely slept the night before. His notebook had new scribbles—timings, expressions, small talk refinements. Like a playwright mid-revision.

This time, he arrived earlier. Not just to play, but to prepare.

He made sure to speak to Miles about the lighting—softer tonight. He asked the bartender what drink Siena used to order. Had it ready before she arrived.

She walked in at 9:11.

“Whiskey, neat,” the bartender said as she reached the counter.

Siena raised an eyebrow. “You remembered.”

Julian offered a casual shrug. “Some things are hard to forget.”

Her lips curved, faintly.

During the set, he slipped in a line she used to hum unconsciously when she thought he wasn’t listening. It was a soft echo in the chorus. He watched her eyes widen, just a little, like she heard a ghost of a memory.

Afterward, he told a better joke. It wasn’t even that funny, but she laughed. A soft, surprised kind of laugh. Her laughter had always been honest.

When they crossed paths at the bar, he said, “Olive green suits you. That embroidery—really delicate.”

She touched the scarf absently. “I didn’t think you noticed details like that.”

He smiled. I do now, he wanted to say. But he just nodded.

She stayed until the end.

“You sound lighter tonight,” she said.

“Maybe I’m starting to remember how.”

But the smile he gave her felt borrowed, like a line from a script he’d only just rehearsed.

Rewind.

Again.

This time, they took a walk after the show. It had taken him three tries to even dare asking. They wandered through the city like strangers trying to remember where they left off. She told him about her students, about the boy who drew galaxies in the margins of his homework.

He listened—truly listened—and asked the kind of questions that showed he had held on to the pieces of her that weren’t just his.

She touched his arm at the corner of 7th and Layton. “I don’t know what’s different, but you’re… more present.”

Julian froze for half a second, just long enough for the lie to catch up to him.

He nodded, swallowing the guilt like bad whiskey.

Present, he thought. Funny word.

Because what she didn’t know—what she couldn’t know—was that he had lived this moment three times already. Four, maybe. He’d lost count.

Rewind.

This time, he didn’t approach her at all. He watched from the shadows. Let her order her drink, take her seat, and leave on her own terms. He didn’t sing. Didn’t play. Just observed.

When she left, there was no glance back. No change.

But he felt something shift within himself. The urge to control bent inward, gnawed at the edges of who he used to be.

Rewind.

He tried something spontaneous. Invited her up for a duet mid-set. She blinked, confused, but stepped onto the stage. Her voice cracked on the first note, then steadied. Their harmonies collided, imperfect and alive.

She laughed afterward. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You always could,” he said. “You just forgot.”

Her expression turned soft, but wary. “Sometimes forgetting’s easier.”

That night, he didn’t write anything in the notebook. Just stared at the ceiling and wondered what it meant when you started to love a ghost of someone who might no longer exist.

Each version blurred into the next.

Julian kept the notebook by the bed—scrawled with fragments:

Compliment scarf. No lilies twice in a row. Don’t bring up the Venice trip. She likes when you ask about her students. Let her sing.

He read it like gospel. Annotated it. Refined it. Every night became a dress rehearsal for love.

The rewinds gave him what memory alone never could: strategy.

But strategy was not sincerity. Not really. It was performance. And he wasn’t sure anymore if he was trying to win her back, or just win.

And worse still—he was starting to forget which version of her he loved most.