[ WP ] You have many regrets in your life , but one regret stands out above all the others . You wake up on the day of your biggest regret , and you get to relive that day the way you want it to be

It wasn ’ t a bad life. He turned the lights on, the people laughed, he smiled, the glasses tapped against each other and the money slid along the counter. That ’ s how every day went, and he didn ’ t stop to think about why he was there. He took the money, he put it in the register, he turned off the lights, and he went home. He turned a few pages of a book, he showered, he smiled to himself in the mirror, and he turned off the lights. The sirens cried and his neighbors laughed through the walls. The people shouted in the streets. The smoke from the factories dusted his windows. Everything stayed the same, and sometimes something about that itched at him as he fell asleep but the nights were never quiet enough to think about it. 
 
 But tonight, he couldn ’ t sleep; and tonight, there were no sirens and nobody was shouting. And so, laying in his bed, he thought about it. He couldn ’ t describe to himself what ‘ it ’ was, but he realized it weighed on him. At the bar, he worked and the people smiled, but they never smiled at him. He knew what he did today, he knew what he would do tomorrow, and it always brought him comfort but now it unsettled him. 
 
 He remembered all those years before, when he was younger and thought he was going to be someone else. Back in school, he always worked hard and he did well. He was going to go to college and become a scientist, but something about that bothered him too. It imposed on him. His parents told him he was bright and could do anything, he got good grades, and so he was going to be a scientist. He didn ’ t have any plans beyond that, because as much as he was looking towards his future it worried him, and so he tried not to think about it too much. And so his days went by, and he moved forward but he still wasn ’ t sure why. He went to his classes, and he worked at the bar. He slowly needed to work at the bar more and more. It all moved along slowly and back then it didn ’ t bother him, he reveled in it. His days were all the same and for a while he didn ’ t have to think about anything else. 
 
 But as he remembered the rest, he thought he felt himself moving. He wasn ’ t in his bed anymore. No, it was his bed, but it was a different bed. Before he was on his own. Hadn ’ t he been here already? Didn ’ t this happen before? Maybe he had been dreaming. Everything was different. There were no sirens outside, just the rustling of leaves in the wind and the neighbors ’ dog barking. He could hear soft snoring from downstairs, but no neighbors moving around. He could still smell the city, but it was a faint invitation, not the thick smoke holding his window shut. The light came in through the hole in the blinds, reminding him to check on Dad. That ’ s right, Dad was still sick. Mom was gone and Dad was sick. It felt different now, but he knew he had to check on Dad. 
 
 And so he came downstairs, where he made sure that Dad was still fast asleep. He fixed the blanket over his chair and made sure he had taken his pills during the night. He stepped outside to get the mail, and paused. The city rose on the horizon, smoke drifting slowly to the clouds. This was different. He shouldn ’ t be here, he should be in the city. He hadn ’ t been dreaming, he had been in the city too long for it to be a dream. But he was here. He opened the mailbox and reached inside where, stuffed between magazines and catalogues, were two letters. The first was a white letter, with that golden university crest. The other was a red hospital bill, addressed to his father. And suddenly, he remembered what day it was, and he remembered what he did next. He took the letters inside and set them on the counter. 
 
 Inside, everything felt different. He was frozen for a moment, because he remembered what came next. His father had woken up and was talking, but the air felt muffled and so he couldn ’ t make out the words. He could only hear his father ’ s voice when it started to break and so he remembered how he would sit by his father, and how they would talk until he had calmed down again. And so he sat. 
 
 And then he knew his father would ask if there was any mail, and he would bring it over. They ’ d skim the magazines and catalogues, smiling together. They ’ d open that red bill and he would have to sit and they would talk again. And then he remembered what happened next, and everything seemed to freeze again. 
 
 “ What ’ s this last one? ” his father would ask. And so he would open the letter and read it and just before he could tell his father, he stopped—he remembered what he was going to say, and wondered if he should still say it. He remembered saying it because they had just read that bill together; he remembered saying it because he was thinking about what would be expected of him. He remembered saying it because he didn ’ t want to have to see his father ’ s face if he told the truth. 
 
 He realized that he was here, now, after living in the city. He could say whatever he wanted. But he thought about what the letter meant. It meant that everything would have to change. And more than anything else that had eaten away at him as he fell asleep every night all these years, that idea of change upset him. It loomed over him, and in that moment it overwhelmed him and tore at him. He had to stop thinking about it. And so he didn ’ t change his answer: 
 
 “ Just more junk, ” he said, tearing it in half. 
 
 He woke up in the morning and showered. He didn ’ t like looking at that face smiling at him from the mirror anymore, so he ignored it and went out his door. He walked for a while, he got to the bar, and he turned the lights on. 

