The Ever-Changing Romance

Hello, my name’s Emma. I’m 28, I’m a graphic designer living in New York City, and I’m pretty sure my life is being written by an indecisive author named Logan. How do I know this? Well, it’s a long story—one that keeps changing.

It all started on a Tuesday. Or was it a Friday? Honestly, the days blur together when your reality shifts as often as mine does. One minute, I’m working on a logo design for a new eco-friendly smoothie bar in Brooklyn, and the next, I feel a strange tingle at the base of my skull. Suddenly, I’m not in my apartment anymore. I’m standing in front of the 9/11 Memorial, holding hands with a man I’ve never seen before.

"I can't believe it's been 13 years," he says, squeezing my hand. His eyes are red-rimmed, and I can feel the weight of his grief.

Thirteen years since what? Who was this guy? I open my mouth to ask, but instead, I hear myself say, "I know, Alex. I miss them too."

Alex? Miss who? My mind is reeling, trying to make sense of this sudden change. I have memories—vague, dreamlike memories—of a life with Alex. We met in culinary school. He was a rising star chef, and I designed the logo for his first restaurant. We fell in love over late-night taste tests and wine-fueled brainstorming sessions. And now we’re engaged, mourning the loss of his parents who died in the 9/11 attacks.

But none of that is real. Or is it? I can’t tell anymore.

I blink, and the world shifts again. The somber atmosphere of the memorial dissolves, replaced by the chaotic energy of Times Square. The scent of melting cheese and tomato sauce fills the air, and I find myself sitting across from a woman with a mischievous smile and bright green hair.

"Earth to Emma," she says, waving a slice of pizza in front of my face. "You zoned out again. Is my story about the possessed photocopier that boring?"

I stare at her, trying to recall her name. Sam. Short for Samantha. My childhood best friend turned… girlfriend? Yes, that feels right. We grew up together in a small town upstate, bonding over our shared love of art and dreams of making it big in the city. Now here we are, on our third date, giggling over slices at Joe’s Pizza.

"Sorry," I say, grabbing the slice from her hand and taking a big bite. "Just lost in thought. Tell me more about this demon copier."

As Sam launches back into her story, I try to shake off the lingering sadness from my previous reality. Alex and his parents felt so real, so important. But now they’re gone, replaced by this vibrant woman across from me. I wonder if I should feel guilty for moving on so quickly, but how can you mourn people who never existed?

Just as I’m starting to relax into this new narrative, that familiar tingle returns. The world blurs, and when it comes back into focus, I’m on Staten Island, of all places. The salt air tickles my nose as I stand in front of a stately colonial home, part of a tour group led by an enthusiastic guide in period costume.

“And this,” the guide is saying, “is the home of Captain Christopher Billopp. His descendant, Colonel Christopher Billop, hosted representatives from the Continental Congress and King George III in 1776, right here in this very house. The goal was to prevent the Revolutionary War, but sadly, no agreement was reached.”

I nod along, pretending I’ve been listening the whole time. A warm hand slips into mine, and I turn to see a tall, bespectacled man smiling down at me.

“Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?” he says. “I knew you’d love this tour, Emma.”

I smile back, searching my newly implanted memories for a name. Jordan. My fiancé. We met at a comic book convention—I was there promoting my graphic novel, and he was cosplaying as Spider-Man. It was love at first sight, bonding over our shared passion for history and pop culture. Now we’re planning a themed wedding, combining elements of colonial America with superhero flair.

As we move on to the next house, I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Three drastically different lives, three different loves, all in the span of what feels like minutes. I wonder what Logan, my supposed author, is thinking. Were they struggling with writer’s block? Having an existential crisis? Or maybe they were just really, really indecisive.

“What’s so funny?” Jordan asks, raising an eyebrow.

I shake my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how life can take you in unexpected directions.”

He squeezes my hand. “Tell me about it. If you had told me a year ago that I’d be engaged to a brilliant artist and planning a Captain America meets John Adams wedding, I would have thought you were crazy.”

As Jordan rambles on about potential centerpieces, I find myself wondering about Sam and Alex. Are they still out there somewhere, living lives that no longer include me? Or did they simply cease to exist the moment Logan decided to change the story?

The tour ends, and Jordan suggests we grab dinner at a nearby seafood restaurant. As we walk, hand in hand, I decide to test the boundaries of this reality.

“Hey, do you remember that pizza place we went to in Times Square?” I ask casually.

Jordan furrows his brow. “I don’t think we’ve ever been to a pizza place in Times Square together. You know I’m gluten-free.”

“Right, of course,” I say quickly. “I must be thinking of someone else.”

“Someone else?” Jordan’s voice has an edge to it now. “Is there something you want to tell me, Emma?”

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the world starts to blur again. “No, not now!” I shout. I try to hold onto Jordan, to anchor myself in this reality, but it’s no use. The tingle at the base of my skull intensifies, and everything goes dark.

When the world comes back into focus, I’m back in my apartment, staring at my computer screen. The logo design for the smoothie bar is still there, half-finished. I look at the clock—only ten minutes have passed since I last checked it.

I slump back in my chair, exhausted. How many more times will this happen? How many more lives will I live and lose in the blink of an eye?

As I sit there, contemplating my bizarre situation, an idea strikes me. If Logan is the author of my story, maybe I can communicate with them somehow. It’s a long shot, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything.

I open a new document and start typing:

Dear Logan,

I know you’re out there, rewriting my life over and over again. I get it—writing is hard, and sometimes you need to explore different options. But do you have any idea what this is doing to me? I’ve loved and lost more times than I can count. I’ve been engaged, single, straight, gay, grieving, ecstatic—sometimes all in the same day.

I’m not asking you to stop writing. I’m just asking for a little consistency. Maybe we could work together? I’ve got some ideas about where this story could go. For one thing, I’d love to actually finish a project at work without being whisked away to another reality.

What do you say? Partners?

Your ever-changing protagonist,

Emma

I sit back, staring at the screen. Part of me feels ridiculous—was I really expecting an answer from my fictional author? But then again, is it any more ridiculous than everything else that has happened to me?

Suddenly, words begin to appear on the screen, as if typed by invisible hands:

Dear Emma,

I had no idea you were aware of the changes. I’m so sorry for putting you through all of this. The truth is, I’ve been struggling to find the right direction for your story. But you’re right—it’s not fair to keep jerking you around like this.

I’m intrigued by your offer of partnership. What did you have in mind?

Your Faithful Author,

Logan

I stare at the screen in disbelief. It worked. I’m actually communicating with my author. With shaking hands, I begin to type again:

Logan,

Thank you for listening. Here’s what I propose: instead of constantly changing my entire life, why don’t we explore one path fully? Let’s pick a starting point and see where it goes naturally. No more sudden engagements or long-lost loves popping up out of nowhere.

And please, can we keep my job consistent? I really do love being a graphic designer.

What do you think?

Emma

The response comes quickly:

Emma,

I think that’s a brilliant idea. You’re right—I’ve been so focused on finding the perfect story that I haven’t given any of them a chance to develop organically.

So, let’s start fresh. You’re Emma, 28, a graphic designer in New York City. Single, but open to love. No predetermined soulmates or tragic backstories. We’ll let your experiences and choices shape the narrative.

How does that sound?

Logan

I feel a wave of relief wash over me. Finally, a chance at some stability, a chance to live a life that unfolds naturally without the constant rewrites. I type my reply with a smile on my face.

Logan,

That sounds perfect. Thank you for understanding. I'm excited to see where this story goes – and to actually remember it all this time!

One last thing – can we keep Sam as my best friend? I've grown quite fond of her, even if we're not romantically involved in this version.

Looking forward to our collaboration,

Emma

As I hit send, I felt that familiar tingle at the base of my skull. But this time, instead of dread, I felt a sense of anticipation. The world blurred and reshaped itself one last time.

I found myself back at my desk, the logo design still on my screen. But now there was a post-it note stuck to the monitor that wasn't there before. In messy handwriting, it read:

"Drinks with Sam tonight at O'Malley's. Don't forget!"

I smiled. A fresh start, but with a familiar face. As I turned back to my work, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't experienced in what felt like lifetimes. For the first time in a long while, I was excited about my future – a future I would help write.

Who knows? Maybe I'll even find love along the way. But this time, it'll be on my terms. And if Logan ever gets the urge to throw in a sudden plot twist or a long-lost twin, well... they know where to find me.

After all, every good story needs an editor. And who better to edit my life than me?