Revisions

Christina had long given up on writing anything. The words were always in her head—swirling, swarming—but never making it to the page. They just festered. Like a cesspool.

By day, she clanked away behind a screen—serving the man. By night, she’d stare into another screen, doom-scrolling to avoid the story looping in her mind. A story about a girl who couldn’t stop time but desperately needed to. She couldn’t decide if it was autobiographical or just pathetic.

On an oppressively hot Tuesday afternoon, she stopped by Target. The moment she walked through the automatic doors, she was hit with that wave of climate-controlled relief: air-conditioning tinged with scented candles, fresh clothes, and the sterile-yet-cozy smell of unopened packaging. It was the scent of freshly stocked shelves, laundry detergent samples, and synthetic optimism. Familiar. Empty. Oddly comforting—like consumer therapy in a bottle.

Therapy was what she was searching for.

Her only intention was to escape the heat, rack up a few more steps, and buy a journal. She had to start writing again. She needed to do the work.

She wandered the aisles, looking for the right journal. Something leather-bound would feel official. Maybe a brightly colored or citrus-themed cover would spark creativity. What she settled on instead was a purple, college-ruled composition notebook—buried in a pile of black ones, already on sale in early July. Consumerism always ran a few months ahead of schedule. No title. Blank pages. Simple.

It wasn’t memorable or fancy. But it would get the job done.

Just like Christina.

It was on sale for $0.45. Sold.

That night, more out of habit than hope, Christina wrote:

“Christina got a full night of sleep. No nightmares. No racing thoughts. No 3 a.m. existential spirals.”

She rolled her eyes, shut the notebook, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. She didn’t expect anything. It was just something to do—a placebo for the mind.

But when she woke up, sunlight was already spilling through the blinds. The clock read 7:13 a.m.

She had slept straight through.

Her Apple Watch confirmed it: 8 hours and 3 minutes of “deep + restful” sleep. No jaw pain. No fog. No mental hangover.

Weird.

She opened the notebook. The page was exactly as she’d left it. No glowing runes. No cryptic symbols. Just her messy handwriting.

The next night, she wrote again.

By the end of the week, she’d written her bank account out of overdraft, her favorite coffee shop back into business, and her ex’s new girlfriend a “surprising opportunity to study abroad indefinitely.”

Each sentence shaped reality. But only one change worked per day. A kind of magical rationing.

Christina began choosing her words more carefully.

She rewrote her home: refinished hardwood floors, better lighting, fresh paint, a new bathroom, plants that stayed alive.

She rewrote her career: a personal essay went viral. A book deal followed.

She rewrote her family: an apology voicemail from a long-dead grandfather, the one she’d waited twenty years to hear.

The next few days passed in a dreamlike haze. Everything she’d ever wanted was finally real—happiness, healing, success.

But the world felt... thinner.

On day seventeen, Christina woke up to her alarm blaring. The clock read 8:15 a.m. No forehead kiss. No “I love you.” No husband heading off to work.

Strange.

She padded barefoot through the house, calling for the dog. Nothing. She checked every room, the backyard, even the neighbor’s porch. Nowhere.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face. Then she saw it.

A sticky note on the mirror, scrawled in her own handwriting—but she had no memory of writing it.

“You asked for this.”

Her heart pounded as she opened her contacts.

Marshall—her husband—was gone.

Not unresponsive. Gone. No number. No message threads. No albums of shameless selfies. His Facebook led to a 404. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t even recall his last name. Just that he’d smelled like fresh laundry, leather, and musk—and had felt like home.

She looked around the house she’d written into existence. The walls were filled with smiling faces and well-framed memories. But not a single one of them included him.

It was as if he had never existed.

Christina ran to the journal. She flipped to the last entry.

The ink had bled slightly, like the words themselves were sweating. And beneath them, in handwriting that wasn’t hers:

Nothing comes for free.

She slammed it shut. Her mind spiraled.

Maybe this was a breakdown. A grief-induced hallucination. A delayed reaction to trauma.

But deep down, in a part of her she rarely touched, she knew: the journal was real.

And it had rules.

She had tested its limits.

That night, with her hand trembling and her heart hollow, Christina opened the notebook one last time and wrote:

“Today, Christina writes the truth—even if it hurts.”

She wrote for ten straight hours. Words poured out of her—sharp, aching, overdue. She didn’t try to shape the story. She let it shape her.

Mentally drained, she climbed into bed with the journal clutched to her chest. She reread every line, needing to remember what she had lost. She had rewritten too much. Forgotten that pain served a purpose. And in her quest for perfection, she had erased everything that made her life real.

She fell asleep not to the sound of her husband’s snores, but to the hollow quiet of a truth too late realized.

The next morning, sunlight was already creeping in through the blinds. The clock read 7:13 a.m.

Marshall kissed her on the forehead.

“I love you,” he said, heading off to work.

Christina shot upright, heart pounding. She reached for the journal.

But it was gone.

All that remained on the bedside table was a stack of printed pages. A manuscript. 300 of them.

Her truth.

Something real.

Something alive.

Christina didn’t call out to Marshall. Not right away.

She held the manuscript in her lap, fingers ghosting over the pages. It had weight. Ink stains. Dog-eared corners. It felt real.

But so had everything else.

She glanced around the room. Marshall’s wet towel still steamed in the laundry basket from his shower. The dog barked at something outside.

She held the manuscript against her chest and closed her eyes. She let herself feel it—fully, finally—the grief, the gratitude, the quiet, necessary ache of being alive. The messiness of truth.

She had written her way back to herself. Not through shortcuts or edits, but by honoring every painful, imperfect chapter.

And maybe that was the real magic.

The past hadn’t been perfect, but it had prepared her. Every wound, every loss, every version of her that had clawed toward the light—it had brought her to this page. To this morning. To this truth.

Marshall’s footsteps faded down the hall. She heard him close the door behind him with a thud.

Christina stood, opened a fresh notebook, and wrote the first line of her second book.

This time, it wouldn’t be about fixing anything.

It would be about remembering—and choosing.

Because the future isn’t found. It’s written.

And it must be your truth.

Written for you.