The audience waited patiently, silently, as the entire theater remained enveloped in an expectant hush.
Yet, even as the credits rolled to their end, the anticipated twist never came—
Click.
The theater lights gradually brightened, momentarily piercing Nicholas's eyes, forcing him to shut them reflexively. He thought he might find himself overcome with tears, yet none came.
On the contrary, his eyes were unbearably dry, stinging as though he had pulled three consecutive all-nighters. The discomfort made even closing them an ordeal.
Thoughts surged through his mind, waves crashing one after another.
But how could he describe it?
For once, Nicholas found himself at a loss for words, unable to articulate his feelings precisely.
Almost everyone has likely pondered this at least once in their lives:
What if things could start over—would everything turn out perfect?
What if those moments of sorrow and pain had never happened—how much happiness and joy would remain?
What if changing just one thing could bring completeness to life?
The "what if" question, inherently hypothetical, carried with it a storm of emotions—regret, remorse, greed, desire, frustration, anger, and resentment. People cannot help but imagine that, given another chance, they could make better choices, prevent tragedies, and rewrite their destiny.
However, only a rare few are willing to accept this truth:
Pain and suffering are as much a part of life as joy and triumph.
Without sorrow, there is no appreciation for happiness. Without challenges, triumph loses its depth. Victory gains meaning only through the trials of defeat.
Everything is relative.
Perfection does not exist because everything exists in duality. Denying one side risks annihilating the whole.
Darkness often serves as the backdrop against which dawn breaks. Without it, light—like the unending sun of polar day—loses its significance.
Paradoxically, the very suffering, trials, and failures we resist with every fiber of our being are what ultimately shape our character and soul, defining who we are. Denying them is, in essence, denying oneself.
And so, in the movie's final scene, Evan used the umbilical cord to end his own life.
Yet, this was no motivational fable nor a tale of triumphant inspiration.
It was a tragedy—a philosophical tragedy, pure and unrelenting.
Evan obliterated his existence, leaving not a trace.
It was a tragedy because Evan believed the world would be a happier place without him, representing complete self-denial.
Do you remember?
Evan had once lived a happy life. He attended college, lived carefree, and grew up healthily without blackouts. But when he tried to play God—correcting mistakes and pursuing perfection—everything began to crumble.
Humans, oh humans, are like that.
Time and again, we attempt to play God, to manipulate others' destinies or rewrite our own, only to find the outcome unchanged—
Tragedy, tragedy, and more tragedy.
And yet, do we ever learn?
No, we don't. Humanity continues to repeat the same cycles of despair.
Greed, arrogance, pride—like the "seven deadly sins," humanity remains shackled by its inherent flaws.
Will Tommy, Kayleigh, Lenny, or Andrea ever know that someone sacrificed himself for their happiness?
The answer is harsh—
They won't.
Because Evan erased himself. He never existed in this world. Only the audience in the theater knew of his fleeting yet impactful existence, his whirlwind of a journey, and his ultimate disappearance.
This is the most sorrowful, despairing part of all.
Perhaps the only way to find true happiness is to face those scars and pains with courage, relinquish the fantasy of perfection, let go of the past, and seize the present to build the future with our own hands.
Heh.
Such a simple truth—everyone knows it. Do we really need a film to teach us?
But the absurdity of reality lies in this: we often grasp life's simplest truths only through the most agonizing lessons. Pride and arrogance blind us, making us forget what we take for granted until harshly reminded.
Nicholas exhaled deeply, an action that felt like it drained his entire being. The weariness, rooted in his soul, clung to him, impossible to shake.
In just two short hours, he felt as if he had lived through three lifetimes alongside Evan. Now, he finally understood the sentiment of the child in Yi Yi:
"I feel like I've grown old, too."
In that film, there was a line that went, "I thought living life again would make a difference, but it turned out to be the same. I suddenly feel that maybe, living again, there's no need for it."
Who would have thought that after watching The Butterfly Effect, Nicholas would be reminded of Yi Yi, a completely unrelated movie?
Involuntarily, the corners of his mouth curled into a small smile—a sense of contentment.
Watching movies—what a joy.
For no other reason than this simple realization: they allowed him to immerse himself in a world of light and shadow, extending his life and broadening his perspective.
The bitterness and sorrow faded slightly, giving way to a rush of mixed emotions. As his muddled mind cleared, a faint strength returned to his body, and he felt the warmth of his fingertips once more.
A tingle coursed through him.
Finally, he came back to himself.
Nicholas straightened in his seat, glancing around—
What was going on?
No applause was understandable; not all premieres ended with thunderous ovations, especially not at an art house screening. This wasn't the Toronto Film Festival, after all. Besides, the film's bleak ending wasn't the sort to leave audiences cheering.
But no one leaving? No chatter? No movement? That was unusual.
Could it be… the audience didn't like it?
Was this Anson's first flop? Was the ending simply too dark and tragic?
Nicholas was caught off guard. He hadn't expected Anson to favor this type of film.
Not just as a producer, but in taking on a role so distinct from the norm, one requiring genuine acting to breathe life into the character. This project was unique, reflective of Anson's refined taste.
But how would the market respond?
After all, this wasn't hard sci-fi or an action-adventure masquerading as sci-fi—it was cerebral. Though it had its diehard fans, it was still niche and challenging to promote.
And with this ending… the protagonist vanishing? Wasn't that too daring?
Phew.
Nicholas let out a heavy sigh, feeling anxious on Anson's behalf.
He debated whether to start clapping, to stir some energy. Often, it only took one person to lead, and others would follow out of courtesy.
Just then, a faint commotion stirred from the front row.
What was happening?
(End of Chapter)