I am a 30-year-old man with an average salary, working at an average company.
In my younger days, I thought I would be a millionaire—rich and successful, admired by others, financially free, maybe even a bit arrogant. I used to dream of cars, a nice apartment, a life where I'd never have to worry about money. But life doesn't always go the way you expect.
And I've made peace with that.
It was my fault. I won't blame anyone.
I won't complain.
I failed in life because of me. Simple as that.
If I had started a little earlier, maybe things would have been different.
If I had been a little wiser, more patient, more disciplined.
But "maybe" doesn't change the past.
I did well in school. Not exceptional, but good enough.
I graduated from college with average scores—nothing impressive, nothing terrible.
Still, I didn't get a job. Not one that meant anything.
I thought, "If I start a business, I'll make it big."
The usual dream. Be your own boss. Build something. Earn more than a monthly salary.
But I didn't even know how to spell "business," let alone run one.
I failed three times.
Not once. Not twice. Three.
Each time I lost a huge sum of money. Not just mine—some borrowed from friends, some taken as loans.
I fell into debt, and I couldn't climb out.
But I learned.
Huh. I learned so much from those failures, more than I ever did in school.
About people. About risk. About discipline. About myself.
If I ever get the chance to start again—maybe this time it won't end in loss.
But I can't. Not right now. Not with all this debt strangling me.
Still... once I'm free, I'll definitely try again.
Even if I have to start in my 40s—or even at 100.
It's funny how I still carry that tiny flame of hope.
Maybe foolish, but it's still burning.
That evening, I was deep in thought, walking without paying attention.
Crossing the road. I wasn't even looking.
The signal was red.
And a truck was coming.
Fast.
Damn.
I'm such a fool.
This is why daydreaming is dangerous.
In one moment, there was brightness—the red lights, the headlights—
And then nothing.
No sound. No pain. No impact.
Just darkness.
Was I going to die?
Why was I so sure?
Maybe I'd just end up in a hospital with a few broken bones.
Maybe I'd survive.
Or maybe not.
The truck hit me.
And then—
I don't remember anything after that.
**
And then—
I opened my eyes. Slowly.
Everything was blurry at first.
I blinked, trying to focus.
I wasn't in a hospital.
There were no beeping machines.
The place looked... familiar. But also strange.
Like something from the past.
My body moved on its own. I wasn't doing anything.
I stood up. Walked toward the bathroom.
[What!?]
I couldn't control myself.
But my legs moved. My hands opened the door.
I turned on the tap.
My hands—my hands—washed my face.
I looked up at the mirror.
It was my face.
But—
I looked younger.
Much younger.
I stared at the reflection.
The skin was smooth. The dark circles under my eyes were gone.
No tiredness. No lines from years of stress.
It was me. But it wasn't me.
What the hell was happening?
I screamed.
And then—he screamed too, his voice echoing mine.
"Who is that?" he muttered, confused.
He looked around. Left and right.
"Who are you?" His voice trembled, filled with fear and caution.
"I don't have any money—" he said instinctively.
[Can you hear me...?] I said, more to myself than to him.
"Is that voice... in my head?" he asked.
"Finally, I've lost it. My mind's gone."
[Listen to what I'm going to tell you.]
[I was you.]
He froze.
I explained everything.
As much as I could.
The road. The truck. The accident. The darkness. And then… this.
**
"You're telling me," My younger version said slowly, trying to process,
"you were me in the future, then died in an accident, and somehow… you regressed?"
[Yeah. I don't know how. I don't know why. But here I am.]
He scoffed. "Why are you yapping in my head then? If you want to take my body, take it. I don't mind."
[I want to take control. Trust me, I would. But I can't do anything except yap in your head.]
He shook his head, almost amused.
"It feels like I've turned into the protagonist of a novel... haha."
[You don't.] I said sharply.
[This isn't fiction. I don't know what miracle happened, but I do know one thing: if you keep daydreaming like I did, you'll regret it one day.]
"I don't care," he cut in, flatly.
And just like that, he picked up his phone and started scrolling.
I felt anger rise in me.
[You always do this!] I snapped.
[Always on your phone. Always wasting time. You're wasting your life.]
I was telling myself that.
"I know I'm wasting my life," he said.
"So what?"
I was annoyed. Furious, even.
But how could I scold him?
I was once him, after all.
I knew what he was thinking.
How he felt.
What he feared and avoided.
[Hey,] I said more calmly, [do you want to be rich?]
He paused.
Looked up—though not directly at me, since he couldn't see me.
"What kind of question is that?" he said.
"Of course I do."
"Don't tell me I was rich in the future."
I sighed.
[No. We just work at an average company.
Average salary. And debt. Lots of debt.]
He blinked. His mouth tightened.
He looked at his phone again.
Then said, dryly:
"Then forget about it."
I told him about the day my first business collapsed, how I lost everything. His eyes flickered with something—fear, maybe.
I didn't reply after that.
What was the point?
A few seconds passed.
Then he tossed his phone onto the bed and grinned.
"What do you want me to do?" he said.
He smiled the exact same way I used to—
that mix of false confidence and foolish courage.
But this time, it was different.
This time, he had me inside his head.
And I knew myself better than anyone.
He was me, after all.
Haha.
[This time, I will definitely become rich.
No—]
[We will.]