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Thursday, February fourteenth. Six forty-five AM. You've woken up so many times today, it's starting to feel familiar. Already, last month--or had it been a week?--begins to feel like a dream. You grasp for memories and come up empty. Your mind is a sieve, and you stand in a vast field of water. Alone, save for Her shadow. The promise of the day after junior prom taunts you like a mirage in the desert. You can't keep going on like this forever. [[Next|page2]]

Your first three classes pass in a blur. She is waiting for you at the end, after all. Lunch is when you seriously consider, for what may be the last time you can, making a run for it. She has gone through each one of your friends in the order She shares classes with them. Plays with them until She's satisfied, then moves on to the next one. She took the football player on three dates, on three different tonights, before giving up on him. Only tried once with the guy from the math olympiad. Took her bio labmate all the way to junior prom--twice--but he wasn't good enough, evidently, because now you are back here this morning and he doesn't remember. (None of them do. None of them ever did. It's just you and Her.) You are Her seventh-period deskmate in art studio. Today, She will either retrace Her steps with her sixth-period labmate, or move on to you. And given his panicked call to you last night--She's a "total psycho lunatic" with "crazy talk about past lives and shit"--you don't think She will try again with him. [[Run|page3]] [[Stay|pottery]]

You can, of course, take the bus home early. Take the second car. Keys are on the table. Make a run for it. To where exactly, you don't know. Away from Her, you do. But it will be different. She remembers. She is the only reason anything changes. She is the stone in the pond, the butterfly flapping Her wings. You don't think She knows you remember. But if you change anything, this late in the game, She will. She will know that you were trying to escape Her. How many times will She wake up this morning and go to school and wait for you in seventh period? More than you can make the same drive out of town to nowhere. [[Stay|pottery]]

She is waiting for you, as She always is. You give the same mindless greeting as ever before. She laughs, faker than ever. She must've heard it twenty times by now. She could have dropped the pretense at any time. Still could. You feel no pity. You are lucky you were so unsociable that first day. Made it easier to hide the deja vu from the second time. Made it easier, the third time and onwards, to hide the dread you felt as you pieced together that the girl next to you was the reason you woke up this morning again and again and again. The sculpture She makes this time is different. She's done a rose for as long as She's been repeating this day, and only altered the initials carved into its stem. But today, She forms a ball of clay, and steals glances at you as you desperately attempt to repeat the mistake that will, in thirty minutes, require you to rethink your entire clay piece. ... She's making a bust of your head. You've seen it in the mirror this morning enough times. She doesn't make the part--you didn't brush your hair--crooked enough, and smooths the skin on your temple where the same pimple shows itself during lunch. It's... [[oddly charming, maybe.|charm]] [[total freak behaviour.|freak]]

She leaves class early, and for the five minutes until the bell rings, you think you might have mistaken things. Maybe she was just doing something different because she was bored. You encounter her, instead, at your locker. She blushes. You know what she will ask, but you let her. [[Yes|movie]] [[No|no]]

"...Oh," She says, sounding hurt. She does not look hurt at all. She wears the face of someone who was reading a choose-your-own-adventure book and wound up at a page at which their story ended. The truth hits you like the realization your clay piece was unfireable: inevitably, and a bit late. Today was unfruitful for Her. This does not mean She will stop. "I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it. Maybe for Her. Mostly for yourself. You get on the bus to your house and watch a few episodes of a show you'd been meaning to catch up on. Any other day, you'd do your homework, just to keep continuity. Today, you'll lie about it at dinner. And tomorrow, you'll wake up and-- [[Next|page1-loop]]

You show up to your front door in a collared shirt and an ill-fitting blazer at the bell. She's in a dress that probably has a fancy name. Her car is nicer than both your parents' cars put together. You didn't offer to drive. If She thinks you're an asshole, maybe She won't try again. Your parents will be furious with how you behave around Her if this lasts. With any luck, it won't. To add insult to injury, it's a movie you've already seen. It was, at least, in another version of today, so your memories of it are hazy. You remember the twists, though, and how it ended up being a romance in the end. She leans into you near the finale. You [[lean into her.|lean1]] [[pull away.|lean2]]

She sighs, and doesn't talk to you on the ride home, except for a tired "goodbye" as you shut the car door. You don't bother to fold the clothes you shuck off as you crawl into bed. You know they won't be there in the morning. [[Next|page1-loop]]

So this is your life. You are Her boyfriend, as your friends were before you. You do what She wants, with your typical air of reservedness and quietude. After weeks of listening to the same relationship struggles of each friend at the lunch table as She moved through them, you know what She wants before She asks for it. Of course, this is not easy. If you are too good at anticipating, She will think something is wrong. You pretend not to understand what She means. You pretend it hurts you when She cries. Crocodile tears, you remind yourself. She has felt it all before. She is putting on as much of a show for you as you are putting on for Her. Before you know it, junior prom is the upcoming weekend, and then it is tomorrow, and then it is tonight. Of course you are going with Her. How could you not? This is the culmination of what She has been working for. What you have been giving her, slowly, meteredly. Your newly-starched shirt itches the back of your neck. [[Next|night]]

She's holding a special after-after-party at Her place, She tells you. Limited invitation. [[You want nothing less.|nobed]] [[You want nothing more.|Untitled Passage]]

But it's your wrists that end up in Her grip, and then you're flat on your back in Her room on Her bed and your blazer's on the floor in a heap and your shirt's undone halfway down your chest. She straddles you and guides one of your hands to Her shoulder to slip off the strap of Her dress. You know what She wants. "It's my first time," She breathes, rapid and shallow after kissing you. "...Is that okay?" [["Liar."|Liar]] [[Say nothing.|nothing]] [[Yes.|yesbed]] [[Stop.|nobed]]

"...What?" She looks confused. Hurt, even. Thrown off, for once in her life. "I-I'm a virgin, I can prove it!" She leans back and hikes up the skirt of Her dress, trying to show you-- "That's not what I mean," you interrupt. She freezes. "Then what--" [["I've been lying to you too."|metoo]] [["I can't go on like this!"|thiscantgoon]]

You struggle upright and bring your shirt back together back with one hand. The other, you point, accusing, at Her. "You've been lying to me this whole goddamn time. You're--I don't know what you're doing, I don't know how you're doing it, but you've been going back to Valentine's Day every time something goes wrong, and I know the others can't tell, but I know. I remember." You don't know when you end up on top of Her, pinning Her down with an arm on each shoulder. She's scared. She tries to say something. You move a hand to Her mouth to shut her up. "And you always know the right thing to say, because every goddamn time you can come back and try again. You always know the right moment to flirt, to kiss, to do anything, because if you mess up, you can just start over! And you don't think about how that hurt me!" She struggles underneath you, clawing at you. Her painted nails don't catch on your skin. "Even if you get what you want--even if this ends--then what? Will I just live in fear that someday down the line I'll go wrong and you'll jump back here? What if it didn't end with me, what if you found a different boyfriend, would you come back if you messed up with him? What if you didn't get into the college you wanted? What if you didn't get a job?" Your face is hot. Wet with sweat or tears, you can't tell. "Would I have to relive years of my fucking life for you?!" [[Next|end1]]

You sit back, panting, waiting for Her to respond. To tell you Her side. To try and justify how it was all okay, or how She couldn't control it, or something to drum up sympathy you don't have. At first, you think She's too shocked to move. Then you realize She's not breathing. Fuck. It'll be okay, you tell yourself. You'll wake up tomorrow and it'll be February 14th and it'll all be just some fucked-up dream you had. None of this will have been real. How could She have been turning back time? Why would you, specifically, remember? It doesn't make any sense. It has to be a dream. ... Somehow, that doesn't comfort you. Will She remember that you told Her that you know? Will She try to kill you, get revenge on you somehow, when you go back? A pit of dread forms in your stomach. Now that She's dead... can you go back?

"I'm sorry," you tell Her. And then you tell Her everything. It's really not much, in the grand scheme of things. You haven't been changing, throughout these loops. She's the only one who has. But you tell Her how it feels to go to bed each night uncertain that you'd see the next morning. How it feels to forget whether you've had a conversation with your friends, to know things they haven't told you yet. How, even three weeks without a loop, you feel a pit forming in your stomach if the morning's too dark, like it was on that day, and you can't see the clock yet. How you'll probably feel the same for months. She asks you why you didn't tell Her sooner, if you knew She was the one responsible. You say you don't know. You were scared, maybe, of what She could do to you if She knew. She leans into you, but instead of a kiss, She wraps Her arms around you and sobs. [[Next|end2]]

"Maybe it's fate," She breathes, after the tears have run out, "that you remember me, and I remember you." She smiles up at you, but there's something in Her smile that doesn't reach Her eyes. Maybe tomorrow you will wake up in Her bed and not yours, and your life will continue on the path set by this today. Or maybe She will find a way to make you forget, and live out Her fantasies alone. Maybe it was never Her fault at all, but at least if the day resets now, you'll be able to figure things out together. Whatever happens next, you think you've reached some sort of conclusion.

She does most of the work, and you let Her. Whether or not it's truly Her first time, it's definitely yours. When you agreed to date Her, you didn't sign up for this. You just wanted it all to end. You wish there was another way it could have gone. You didn't want to lose your virginity as a means to an end. You didn't want to live in fear of your girlfriend, under Her complete control. Though you're the one penetrating Her, you feel violated, somehow. You stare up at the ceiling of Her four-poster bed and try not to cry. In the afterglow, as She showers alone and you lay catatonic, you think, somehow, this wasn't what She wanted. She seemed almost disappointed. She won't take you home tonight. She doesn't need to. You'll wake up tomorrow, and it won't be March 9th. And She'll try again. [[Next|page1end]]

"Oh." Her voice loses every hint of emotion. "That's... alright. I can drive you back home, if you want." You fucked up. You can't stop thinking about it: you fucked up. Three weeks of playing pretend and you were too much of a coward to finish it. You know what this means. Those three weeks, again, and again, until She gets what She wants. She won't leave this at "nearly". "I'm sorry. I'd like to come over, I mean. I was just nervous," you offer. "It's alright." She's perfectly neutral. "It can always happen some other time. No need to feel pressured." Some other time. She's fucking with you. You know damn well you're not waking up tomorrow morning. How is she okay with losing three weeks of her own life? Messing with her own memories? Is this a game to her? You're silent the whole drive back to your house. It doesn't matter. You won't make this mistake again. [[Next|page1-loop]]

You tell her it's alright. Everything's alright. And then it's more than alright. She lets you have your way with her, gently, the gentlest you've ever been with each other. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe you've always felt this way. But now, in this moment, you tell her you truly love her, and you mean it. You hold each other tight for a while, afterwards, before you fall asleep. [[Next|mar9]]

Sunday, March 9th. It feels surreal to be awake today, and not just because you aren't in your own bed. You're still sticky from last night. Your girlfriend lies next to you, breathing slowly. In this part of town, you hear birds outside the window, not cars. Even the sunlight seems softer, more golden-yellow than harsh white. She chose you. She doesn't know that you remember, and She still chose you. You're the only one who's made it this far, to the day after junior prom. You told Her you loved Her. She told you She loved you. For some reason, you're pretty sure that you won't wake up on Valentine's Day again. (...Are you?)

She is waiting for you, as She always is. You give the same mindless greeting as ever before. She laughs, faker than ever. She must've heard it twenty times by now. She could have dropped the pretense at any time. Still could. You feel no pity. You are lucky you were so unsociable that first day. Made it easier to hide the deja vu from the second time. Made it easier, the third time and onwards, to hide the dread you felt as you pieced together that the girl next to you was the reason you woke up this morning again and again and again. The sculpture She makes this time is different. She's done a rose for as long as She's been repeating this day, and only altered the initials carved into its stem. But today, She forms a ball of clay, and steals glances at you as you desperately attempt to repeat the mistake that will, in thirty minutes, require you to rethink your entire clay piece. ... She's making a bust of your head. You've seen it in the mirror this morning enough times. She doesn't make the part--you didn't brush your hair--crooked enough, and smooths the skin on your temple where the same pimple shows itself during lunch. It's total freak behaviour. You suppress a shudder and focus harder on your own pottery. Of course, She's courting you in a personalized manner. Probably dissected a frog last period, last time, and gave Her labmate the heart. Fifteen more minutes, and you'll need to dramatically melt down about forgetting you couldn't kiln-fire closed bubbles. Stick to the script. [[Next|locker]]

She is waiting for you, as She always is. You give the same mindless greeting as ever before. She laughs, faker than ever. She must've heard it twenty times by now. She could have dropped the pretense at any time. Still could. You feel no pity. You are lucky you were so unsociable that first day. Made it easier to hide the deja vu from the second time. Made it easier, the third time and onwards, to hide the dread you felt as you pieced together that the girl next to you was the reason you woke up this morning again and again and again. The sculpture She makes this time is different. She's done a rose for as long as She's been repeating this day, and only altered the initials carved into its stem. But today, She forms a ball of clay, and steals glances at you as you desperately attempt to repeat the mistake that will, in thirty minutes, require you to rethink your entire clay piece. ... She's making a bust of your head. You've seen it in the mirror this morning enough times. She doesn't make the part--you didn't brush your hair--crooked enough, and smooths the skin on your temple where the same pimple shows itself during lunch. It's oddly charming, maybe. "Is that me?" you ask quietly, barely audible over the normal conversation of your classmates with each other. Don't want Her to get embarrassed--She might decide it's not worth it and start the whole day again. Colour comes to Her cheeks. She nods. "It was... supposed to be a surprise, but I guess I can't hide that you're my model when you're my desk-partner." Short-and-sweet grin. [[Next|locker]]

It's a quick contact. You can't hold it for long without it feeling forced to you and Her both. But She nudges your head with Her own. You turn toward Her after the credits roll, and She surges up into a kiss. Together, you mirror the characters in the final scene. When you look in the mirror in the bathroom, you notice a trace of red on your lips, perfectly outlining Her own. Fuck no it's not cute. She's probably practiced that move twenty times, making you wake up twenty times this morning, and for what? So you could wash it off in the shower tonight? You can't tell what's real any more, and if She does let today pass, you'll never shake the feeling that you'll wake up this morning, no matter how far behind you've left it, just so She can kiss you perfectly? But you don't wipe it off. It has to mean something--to Her, at least--or you'll never get out of here. [[Next|chainer]]

She's holding a special after-after-party at Her place, She tells you. Limited invitation. You text your mom that you won't be home until late. The driveway is empty as she pulls in. It's a fairly fancy house--you'd call it a mansion if you saw it while driving--nestled in a rich enclave of suburbia, one step from a gated community. Having taken the same English classes for an eternity and a half, or three weeks, you're reminded of Gatsby's house. The light on Her porch is red, not green. The carpets are plush and well-trodden. She takes a bottle of dark red from a cabinet with panels engraved floor-to-ceiling. A nice break from mocktails, She offers. The afterparty's hosts already took care of that, you say. The alcohol in the punch could've sterilized a hospital for a year. You're cute when you're funny, She giggles, and moves to smudge your cheek with Her lipstick. It's the first time in a long time you've heard Her laugh properly. She must be as bored of the same old scripted jokes as you are. The red is ten times as classy as anything you've managed to get into before and the bottle's probably twice as expensive as your prom suit would've gone for new. You snuggle into each other as you sip on the drinks. Your head's fuzzy enough that, for this one instant, you can't bring yourself to mind either way. She sets Her glass down softly on the end table. "I don't have anything to do with my hands," She murmurs, breath tickling your ear. "Can you hold them for me?" [[Next|night 2]]