The woman I had spent years becoming—the one who paid her bills on time, ran a business, survived heartbreaks, and learned to love her solitude—where did she fit into this sleek, new body? Or was she even supposed to fit at all?
I ran a hand through my silky black hair. It was soft, bouncy, with none of the brittle ends I used to battle with conditioners and oils.
That woman, the 40-year-old me, had finally learned to embrace the imperfect version of herself. I had liked her—well, mostly.
Sure, she had been lonely sometimes and maybe spent a little too much time watching K-dramas while binge-eating dark chocolate, but she had grit. She knew what she wanted—or at least what she didn't want.
Now? I felt like a glitch in the matrix.
I pulled down the visor mirror, staring hard at my reflection. "Did people even talk to mirrors in their twenties? Or was that just something sad older women did?" I asked myself, half-joking.
Suddenly, Mavrik—the system administrator—popped up in the corner of the screen with his bright, annoyingly cheerful avatar. He wore the same smug expression as always, like an overenthusiastic life coach with zero personal experience.
"Self-talk is essential," Mavrik said, his voice calm and instructional. "Studies show it helps build confidence. Would you like me to recommend a mantra?"
I rolled my eyes. "No thanks, I'm already a walking self-help disaster."
Mavrik's pixelated face shifted into a smile. "If you change your mind, I have a few top-rated affirmations on file. Just say, 'Activate Empower Mode.'"
"Yeah, no. That sounds like a yoga cult thing."
Mavrik winked. "Your loss."
I groaned and tossed the phone back onto the seat. That stupid administrator had been one of those impulse downloads after SCAL had sucked me into this nightmare. I had thought it might help me manage the chaos of reliving my twenties, but so far, it was just a digital nuisance with a creepy habit of popping up at inconvenient times.
I sat there in silence, the weight of my thoughts sinking deeper. How did you reconcile two halves of yourself that no longer fit together?
The young Arisa had been naive, desperate for approval, and way too eager to chase love. The older me—the one I had woken up as just yesterday—had built walls so high that nobody could climb them, not even the good ones.
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat. Memories of past relationships flooded my mind—the way they had started full of promise and excitement, only to end with awkward texts or silent goodbyes.
The most recent one stung the hardest—Andrew, a charming startup CEO with a taste for expensive wine and terrible communication. He had ghosted me after a three-month whirlwind romance, leaving me clutching a bottle of Pinot Noir and an Uber receipt for a ride home from our "last date."
Forty-year-old me would never have let that happen again, I thought bitterly. But here I was, back in my twenty-year-old skin, carrying the same emotional baggage but none of the wisdom that came with the wrinkles.
I let out a heavy sigh and gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. "Who do I want to be now?" I whispered to myself.
I sat with the question for a moment, feeling it settle into the pit of my stomach like a stone. The answer didn't come, but it lingered—taunting me, daring me to figure it out.
Finally, I grabbed my phone again, dismissing Mavrik's smug avatar with a swipe. I pulled up the map and searched for somewhere I could think—a café, maybe. Somewhere with overpriced lattes and people who looked like they had their lives together.
"Fake it 'til you make it," I muttered, starting the car. If I was going to survive in this body, I had to act like my younger self—at least for now.
The café I found was quaint, tucked between two towering office buildings like a secret hideaway. It had wood-paneled walls, soft lighting, and a faint aroma of cinnamon that reminded me of Christmas. I pushed open the door, the small bell above it chiming, and stepped inside.
The place buzzed with chatter—couples sharing desserts, friends laughing over coffee, and solo patrons glued to their laptops. I scanned the room, feeling a little out of place, until my eyes landed on a familiar face near the counter.
It was Joshua.
My heart skipped a beat. Joshua had been a model I worked with a few years ago during a promotional photoshoot for my online fashion brand. He was the kind of guy who made you feel simultaneously giddy and annoyed—charming, but in that insufferable, I-know-I'm-handsome way.
He sat there, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression, his sharp jawline catching the soft glow of the overhead light. He hadn't changed a bit—still effortlessly good-looking, still exuding that carefree energy that used to drive me mad.
I froze. Did he recognize me? Or was I just another pretty stranger to him now?
For a moment, I considered turning around and leaving before he noticed me. But before I could act, Joshua looked up. His eyes met mine, and a slow smile spread across his face—one of those easy, cocky grins that made you want to both slap him and kiss him at the same time.
"Well, well," he said, standing up from his chair. "If it isn't the prettiest girl in town."
I blinked, caught off guard by the familiarity in his tone. Did he know who I was? Or was this just his default flirting mode?