[ WP ] You 've managed to create a `` what-if '' machine . This allows users to analyze past decisions and receive a read out of alternative events .

The decision of choosing my first question for the “ What-If? ” machine had been weighing on me for days. 
 
 The very ramifications of the knowledge I would ascertain were enough to fuel my hesitation. Would I want to know? How would I process the information? There was always the possibility that what I would learn would leave a deep wound of regret or curiosity much worse than before. 
 
 Even after leaving all apprehension behind me, still there was the importance of choosing a question. What would I most want to know? There would be infinite possibilities, and some of those possibilities would hold more importance beyond my own greedy need to know how my own life could have gone differently. 
 
 In the end, I decided on the question that had been burned into my mind for the last two years. This was the loose end that was racking my thoughts and deeply dementing my emotions for months. The hesitation was a healthy first response, but I somehow knew that my curiosity would lead me back to my initial wondering. 
 
 “ Machine. ” 
 
 “ Yes? ” 
 
 “ I am ready to ask my first question, ” I answered, taking a seat in the chair that sat across from the table on which it laid. 
 
 “ When ready, please, ask your question, ” the machine replied, its screen changing from its default character face display to a black screen with a blinking cursor of anticipation. 
 
 I leaned forward onto the table with my elbows, putting my chin into my crossed hands. 
 
 “ Machine, how would my life be now if Ashley had married me instead of Matt? ” I asked, letting out a sigh of emotion, my eyes welling up at the fear of my future regret. 
 
 “ One moment, please, ” the machine responded. 
 
 The screen began to show a series of letters, forming into my question. I waited more than patiently, rubbing my forehead, a small part of me wishing I had not asked the question. There was a subtle beeping from the machine and I glanced up at the alert. 
 
 “ ‘ How would my life be now if Ashley had married me instead of Matt? ’ ” the machine spoke. “ Is this your question? Please, confirm. ” 
 
 It all hit me right then. In my wonderment about my past and how differently things could have gone with second chances, I was now given a second chance to save myself from knowing. The hesitation all came back. Was it that important that I know? 
 
 “ Please, confirm. ” 
 
 There it was, again: a third chance to deny myself that agony. 
 
 Did it matter? What could I change? It wasn ’ t as if I could go back and change the way things happened. Of all the possibilities, did I really need to see the certainty that I had made a mistake? I knew, already, that I had regretted not pursuing Ashley while I had the chance. What did I have to gain in that instance than more regret? 
 
 Still, though, the question weighed on me. There was always the chance that things had worked out for the better in my current life. What the machine might have shown me could have been a worse future than the present in which I was living. Was that worth knowing? That I had no reason to feel regret? 
 
 “ Please, confirm. ” 
 
 “ No, ” I finally gasped. “ That is not my question. ” 
 
 The weight of the moment was relieved. I cherished the next few seconds of not toying with my own feelings. My heart rate slowed from its steady increase to its regular beating. 
 
 “ Computing deletion, ” the machine said, the question disappearing from its screen. The blinking cursor had soon returned to tempt my curiosity. “ When ready, please, ask your question. ” 
 
 I was too specific in what I had asked the “ What-If? ” machine. I knew then that my question was ill-formed. My regret wasn ’ t that Ashley had married another man. Beyond not wanting to see an impossible future, it would be selfish to want see things play out in such a black-and-white way of “ married him/married me. ” 
 
 “ Machine, ” I began to speak, this time with more confidence masking my emotions, “ was Ashley ‘ the one? ’ ” 
 
 “ One moment, please. ” 
 
 This time I was certain: this is what I had to know. If Ashley wasn ’ t “ the one, ” then I could move past all of the regret of not having her, but if she was my only chance at love, then there was still a chance for me with her. Regret is a shadow of hope. 
 
 This answer might have given me hope, regrets be damned. 
 
 The machine broke its silence, having completed the same process as before: “ ‘ Was Ashley ‘ the one? ’ Is this your question? Please, confirm. ” 
 
 I pushed all doubt down inside of me. 
 
 “ Yes, ” I answered, “ that is my question. ” 
 
 “ Do you confirm? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I confirm. ” 
 
 “ Thank you! I will display your response, shortly! ” 
 
 The screen changed again to the machine ’ s default face, displaying a cheerful smile. 
 
 I stood up from the chair and turned my back to the machine. Walking over to the living room, I rested my hands on the back of the couch and hung my head between my shoulders. A wobbly feeling began to creep into my legs. 
 
 Soon, I would know the answer to the question that had choked my heart. The consequences of the moment were jarring. For so long I had shut myself up away from the world- away from love. 
 
 My doubts had clouded my perceptions. 
 
 Not knowing if I had missed my one chance at love, I had assumed that I would not find another woman who I could call mine, and those others that had come and went had been held to the standard that they would never be Ashley. Now, I could know if I was holding out for a real chance, or if I had been depriving myself of another chance at love. 
 
 There was another quiet “ beep ” from the machine, followed by a loud buzzing. 
 
 I turned to look at the machine. The screen had changed to a face bearing a look of confusion. 
 
 “ Machine? Is there something wrong? ” I asked, walking over to return to my adjacent chair. 
 
 “ There is no discernible error, ” the machine replied. “ The question you have asked does not yield alternate possibilities. ” 
 
 “ I- I don ’ t understand. ” 
 
 “ The question ‘ Was Ashley ‘ the one? ’ does not yield any one or alternate possibility. The implied answer is an absolute. ” 
 
 “ So, you know the answer? ” 
 
 “ Incorrect. My primary function is to answer the questions of ‘ What-If? ’ scenarios. As there are no alternatives to the absolute answer to your question, there are no scenarios which differ from the present scenario in which you are involved. ” 
 
 The machine ’ s response was a morbid truth. I had asked a question to which, from the machine ’ s perspective, there was no answer. That truth took my senses from me for the moment. 
 
 “ Would you like to ask another question? ” the machine asked, displaying its cheerful face once again. 
 
 I glared at the screen. 
 
 Why was I even wasting my time with this nonsense? 
 
 “ No, ” I mumbled under my breath. 
 
 “ Very well. I am currently operating at 24 % power. Would you like me to power down? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ” I answered, standing, “ power down. ” 
 
 The face changed to one of concern before quickly powering down. 
 
 I abruptly grabbed my chair and threw it against the far wall. 
 
 I dropped to floor in despair in a cross-legged position. I was behaving irrationally, but what was left to do? I think that my deepest motivation in building the machine had been to answer this question all along, and now it was clear that I had strived in vain. 
 
 Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. 
 
 At first, I believed that the machine had once again powered on. I rushed to the table and grabbed the device, shaking it wildly with frustration. Then, I heard the knocking again. 
 
 I hurriedly hid the “ What-If? ” Machine in the living room closet and jogged to the front door of my apartment. 
 
 When I opened the door, no one was there. 
 
 “ Damn kids, ” I grumbled, slamming the door behind me as I turned away. “ This isn ’ t the night… ” 
 
 Then, something struck me- a possibility. 
 
 I ran back to the door and swung it open, nearly hitting myself in the face in my frantic motion. 
 
 There was Ashley, standing in my doorway. 
 
 “ Hi, Evan. ” 
 
... 
 
 For anyone interested, this is a pseudo-sequel to a [ previous /r/WritingPrompts response. ] ( http: //www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ax3rd/wp_a_man_or_woman_stands_before_a_mirror_that/cizr8t5? context=3 )
