The Rewind

The Rewind

I learned to pause time on Tuesdays because that was when he called. Not the world — just myself. I would hold my breath, keep my face still, and preserve my life exactly as it was while his voice crossed three countries and a poor internet connection to reach me. I couldn’t prevent his words from arriving, nor my responses from forming, but I could sit within the moment and decide which version of myself he was permitted to hear. By the time I pressed play again, I was certain he believed I had simply been thinking.

He never noticed the pauses. Or if he did, he was kind enough to pretend he hadn’t. He would be walking somewhere — an airport corridor, a pavement near his flat, once a supermarket aisle where I could hear bottles clink — while I sat perfectly still in my chair, suspended between words. In those frozen seconds, I rehearsed gentler answers, braver ones, truer ones. Sometimes I rewound only a sentence. Sometimes I rewound whole versions of myself. He thought our conversations were effortless. What he didn’t know was how carefully I edited my courage.

By now, we had been apart for so long that I could no longer remember the last time we stood under the same sky. We recognised each other’s voices more than faces, moods more than routines. I could tell when he was lying by the way his breath changed. He knew when I was tired by how quickly I laughed. It felt like intimacy, even though we never touched. It felt like honesty, even though I never quite finished my many conversations.

Pausing time teaches you how often you would rather edit than live.

We had met earlier, when I first arrived in Gnahc, a community on the eastern side of my new planet. He had been my shy neighbour next door, and the role I chose — and thoroughly enjoyed — was that of a convincingly overconfident, worldly woman.

He made it clear that, as a woman, I held no romantic interest for him. In truth, he hardly wanted a friendship at all. Still, he seemed happy to visit, eat whatever I cooked, and then get up to wash the dishes — for which I was grateful. Our connection never extended beyond meals and polite conversations about our home countries. Nothing personal.

During those evenings, I warned myself never to reveal my true self. Alex was the last man I could risk telling. Not because I didn’t trust him — but because I was certain I would frighten him. Getting him to accept my fabricated homeland had been difficult enough. My backstory, sadly, involved the one nation his own disliked most. A careless mistake.

Maybe it was his foreignness that made me notice how carefully he chose his words.

When he left Gnahc, I expected the connection to fade with him. I was genuinely surprised when he later messaged to ask if we could talk.

Last week, he rang while walking home from shopping, and I realised — with quiet shock — that I missed him. I was still surprised that I could feel anything at all for an Earth acquaintance.

I had no choice but to be here. My home planet had destroyed itself in a massive war. Some of us escaped and drifted between worlds until we found places that might tolerate an alien presence.

I experimented with different locations, creating backstories, testing faces, bodies, and voices. I finally settled on a light complexion, blonde hair, a medium build — and, most importantly, an age that would not draw attention. This worked. I felt no attraction to my Earth companions either.

At first, I stayed unobtrusive. It helped me manage small mistakes, though near disasters still waited. Every day felt like navigating a minefield.

“Hi Melissa, let’s have lunch together,” a colleague said.

A problem.

I hadn’t learned to eat their food yet.

Pause. Rewind.

“How about a walk and then a coffee?” I said, gently overriding the invitation.

Perfect. She noticed nothing, and we went for our walk.

“Which hairdresser do you use?” asked another.

Pause. Rewind.

“Do me a favour — my hairdresser has moved away. Can you recommend one nearby?” I asked.

Slowly, I blended in.

Covid was my first genuine mistake.

I had never heard of it. I soon realised there was not a country on Earth — nor a single person — who had not.

Everyone had a story. Except me.

At first, I did not understand how universal it was. Pausing and rewinding for one or two people was manageable. A pandemic was not. If I erased it here in Gnahc, what would happen when someone travelled elsewhere and discovered no one shared their memory? I could not remove something so large without breaking too many threads.

So I adapted.

“What was it like in your country during Covid?” people asked. “Did your government handle it well? Were your borders closed?”

I waited until they finished.

Pause. Rewind.

Then I returned the question.

“What was your experience of Covid like?”

They spoke for a long time. About fear. About isolation. About loss. About anger. About boredom. About the strange silence of cities.

By the time they finished, they believed I had shared everything.

I soon understood that this method worked for almost anything.

Everything was going smoothly until one afternoon when I grew overconfident and chose the wrong subject.

“Where was your last holiday, Melissa?”

Pause. Rewind.

Go on, I told myself. What harm can it do?

“London,” I said lightly.

“Oh, did you enjoy it? When did you go?”

I decided I could manage a little more. After all, there was no one from the UK in our small community.

I was wrong.

“Let’s see… a couple of years ago. Autumn, I think. 2022,” I said, pretending to consider it.

“Early September?”

“Probably. I need to think.”

I knew then I had made a mistake. Why did she need so much detail?

“So, not when Queen Elizabeth died?”

I felt the familiar tightening behind my eyes.

“No, no,” I said lightly. “Late September. The end of the month, perhaps.”

“Oh my God — did you see the funeral? We all watched it on telly. You must have seen it in person.”

I smiled. I nodded. I said nothing of importance.

Inside, I wondered who Queen Elizabeth II had been, and why she had suddenly become so crucial to my survival.

It became clear that without my ability to edit myself, my secret would have been exposed many times over. Any shared memory on Earth could undo me.

I understood then that I would need to be even more careful.

Then I met him.

He was my first truly quiet Earthling. He kept very much to himself. Unfortunately, Sylvie decided she wanted him and made it clear to anyone who would listen. I admired her courage. Alex looked at me during our introduction with the uncomfortable resignation of a prisoner. My sarcastic smile slipped away entirely. I felt oddly unsteady.

And then, when I looked again, his expression had changed — as if I had missed the moment it happened.

Shortly after our meeting, Sylvie announced she was leaving Gnahc. She delivered the news with a brightness that did not quite suit the decision. Alex did not look surprised. He did not look relieved. He did not look at her at all.

That same evening, Alex knocked on my door.

After that, he visited most evenings. We cooked, ate, and shopped. We spoke very little. He washed the dishes and then went home.

Somehow, I had acquired a friend.

Not an acquaintance.

A friend.

His quietness saved me. If he had talked too much, I would have had to let him go. There would have been too many edits. Too many loose ends.

When he left Gnahc, it hurt. No one mentioned him. It was as if he had never existed — except to me.

Then the Tuesday calls began.

He never explained why he had left. I knew nothing about his new life. Only airports. Supermarkets. No specific locations.

We talked about environmental collapse, wars, and leaders. I edited myself constantly. He never seemed to notice.

Then, one Tuesday:

I sensed something was wrong and waited for him to move past the small talk. The longer he avoided it, the more I realised I would need to call on one of my hidden strengths.

I pressed pause. I needed time to think.

For the first time, I genuinely wondered if he was about to tell me that he knew. Truly knew — and was about to break the unspoken enigma that inexplicably seemed to exist between us.

“Melissa, I’m concerned about the water.”

My body swayed. That faint nausea that sometimes came when Alex and I spoke.

The call reset.

Another call.

Another reset.

Then:

“I’m being sent back to Gnahc.”

He did not rewind.

I did not pause.

For the first time, I allowed the moment between us to continue.

As I replaced the phone, I hoped — above all else — that the dizziness would not return. I looked around my flat, calculating how long, if necessary, it would take to erase myself.

And, for the first time, whether I truly wanted to.

“Melissa?” Meghan called. She lived opposite, along the corridor.

I could have paused. I could have rewound. But I knew this would be my last moment with Meghan, and I let it run.

She studied me with an expression I didn’t recognise. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Happy. And… pretty.”

No one had ever called me pretty. Not even kindly. Not even by accident.

Meghan herself looked different — brighter, less folded in on herself. Alive.

“I’m not sure I should tell you this,” she said, then smiled. “But I want to.”

I waited. I felt the pause button beneath my thoughts and chose not to touch it.

“I’m leaving.”

“When?”

“A friend is coming for me. We’re going to find somewhere else to live.”

I studied her carefully. Meghan was the last person I would ever have expected to carry a secret.

“Don’t rewind,” I said softly.

She frowned. “What?”

“I’m coming with you.”