Not unless…
Is it possible?
I deflate, realizing I’m probably being too optimistic. Rethinking my whole existence on the basis of five words sent by an anonymous person on the internet—how pathetic. I go to their profile and see that they have never posted anything—but their account was created over three years ago. That feels… strange.
I carefully craft my response.
Me: Even if it had, I wouldn’t exactly be allowed to tell you.
Their reply comes almost immediately.
SecondTakeAnon: Of course. Wouldn’t want to be erased from existence.
Holy. Shit.
This is real. This is another person with the same experience. A person who wants to talk about it with me. What do I do? What do I say? WhatcanI say?
Before I can think of anything, the person messages again. And again.
SecondTakeAnon: You’re not alone.
SecondTakeAnon: We have meetings in most major cities. We call ourselves Second Take Anonymous—and officially, we are all addicted to this game. I can connect you to the person running your local chapter meetings if you’d like.
The message includes a link that I’m afraid to click, so I don’t. I copy it and paste it into Google to see where it leads, and sure enough, it’s a website for some obscure online video game called Second Take. The summary: “Second Take is an online RPG where a player can relive their life multiple times.”
I run a Google search forSecond Take RPG. Other than the same link this Reddit stranger sent, very little comes up.
This is getting weirder and weirder.
I go back to my DMs to find that the person sent more.
SecondTakeAnon: Before I give you any more information, you’ll have to tell me something you could ONLY know if what you’re saying is true. I will extend the same courtesy.
I think for a moment before I respond. What could I say that would prove I’d actually experienced what I experienced?
On a whim, I type:
Me: Ugly-ass olive-green shag carpet.
Again, their response comes swiftly.
SecondTakeAnon: HA. Mine was mustard. I’ve talked to a lot of people, but none of us really understand the ’70s decor. Someone who visited the office before the ’70s claims it always looked that way.
SecondTakeAnon: Okay. My turn.
SecondTakeAnon: Caseworker.
As I stare at those words on my screen, I marvel at how shortsighted I’ve been.Of coursethere are other people going through what I’m going through. Other people living their lives over again.
Why the hell wouldn’t there be?
And suddenly, I wonder—how many of usarethere?
Once I get over my shock that this is really happening, I manage to type a coherent response. She writes back and tells me that her name is Pam. She currently lives in Tokyo but is originally from a small town inKentucky. I tell her I’m in Los Angeles, and she sends me the address and time of meetings that take place in Hollywood the first and third Thursday of every month as well as an email address for Richard, the local chapter organizer.
Suddenly, I feel a little less alone.
15
