The speaker, writing under the name mayothegalileo, begins with a wish most people recognize: to go back and fix the past. The title, with its video-game "load new save point" question, sets that up. The early lines list regrets, like saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, or thinking the right thing in the wrong place. There's also a quieter ache about who the speaker belongs to and who they wish they were.
Then the poem turns on the word "but." Changing anything would erase the small moments that shaped them: a show that made them scream at their phone at fourteen, a song that made them cry under the covers at sixteen. These feel tiny, yet the speaker treats them as the stuff they're made of. The mood is tender, a little sad, and quietly hopeful. The last two lines hold the tension: the speaker feels empty often, but concludes they are whole. Their past, mistakes included, is what makes that wholeness possible.