Life is like a leaf that the waves carry. You can't predict where the waves will carry you. You can only influence the course of your ambitions with perseverance and hard work. The waves will carry you on an unknown path if you remain mute; nobody can tell for sure if it will be a success or failure. The course that has been predetermined for you from the start is represented by the wave.
I don't need to be overly philosophical about it. Hi there, I'm Ari. I was born into a wealthy and proud second-generation family. From as early as I can remember, life revolved around luxury, power, and control. I never cared about school or ambition—I didn't have to. My future was already decided: I was going to inherit my father's business, whether I earned it or not.
I'll admit it—I despised poor people. To me, they were beneath consideration. My friends adored me, fawned over my wealth, and lived in my shadow. It was effortless, and I liked it that way. Nothing and no one could touch me.
At least, that's what I believed.
Everything changed because of one mistake. My father, in all his confidence, insulted someone he shouldn't have. I don't know the details of who or why, but it didn't take long to see the consequences. Like a storm sweeping through a grand estate, everything fell apart.
The business went bankrupt, and the debts swallowed us whole. One by one, the things I'd always taken for granted vanished—homes, possessions, savings—all sold off to pay for the mess left behind. My life, so carefully built on the foundations of privilege, crumbled into nothing.
I never thought it could come to this. My family—wealthy, powerful, untouchable—was reduced to nothing overnight. Unexpectedly impoverished, I find myself completely unprepared to live this way. Poverty feels foreign and hostile, like being dropped into a world where everything I once relied on is irrelevant.
My so-called "friends"? They've all turned their backs on me. People I once thought admired me now pretend they don't even know who I am. It hurts more than I care to admit, but maybe I deserve it.
Then there's my mother. She used to adore me—spoil me endlessly, never ask for more than I felt like giving. Now? She despises me. She lashes out constantly, both with her words and her hands. I've lost count of the times she's yelled, "Why don't you get a job?!" And I get it. I really do. I let her down. I let everyone down.
So, I did what she asked. I tried. I looked for a job, but what could I offer? I have no skills, no qualifications, nothing to prove I'm worth hiring. Every rejection felt like a reminder of just how much I wasted my life. If only I'd taken school seriously, if only I'd prepared myself, maybe this wouldn't feel so impossible.
But all I do now is sit around—useless and stuck, filled with regrets I can't change. My world used to feel so big, and now it feels unbearably small.
All I could find were odd jobs, and even those felt unbearable. I didn't want to settle for those scraps, but eventually, I landed a job at a port warehouse. It wasn't glamorous, but it felt better than nothing—or so I thought.
That job was pure torture.
Every day, I was expected to haul heavy boxes of frozen fish inside freezing containers. The temperature felt like it was piercing my bones. Management didn't even care to provide proper equipment, just the bare minimum to keep things running. After only one day of lifting those boxes and braving those conditions, I collapsed with a fever so high I could barely move. I was sick for an entire week, but that didn't matter to them.
When I didn't show up on the second day, they fired me. No warnings, no questions—just gone. They didn't even pay me for the hours I worked.
When I finally recovered enough to drag myself out of bed, my mother yelled at me. She called me useless, a failure, and worse than garbage. And honestly? I couldn't argue with her. She's the only one keeping this family afloat. My father's no better than me—he lazes around all day, waiting for something to change. Like father, like son, I guess.
We survive on what my mother earns. She's the one doing all the hard work now, just like she did before she married my father. I used to think she'd always been like us, living in luxury, but she grew up poor. She used to tell me not to look down on people poor people—to value hard work, to take school seriously.
Did I ever listen? Of course not. I'm the same selfish jerk I've always been. My mother has every right to be angry with me. She has every right to despise the person I've become.
Then the pandemic hit.
Jobs that were already hard to find became nearly impossible. My mother's temper grew worse with the stress of trying to keep us fed and housed. She and my father started fighting—shouting matches that started over money but spiraled into everything they'd bottled up over the years. Sometimes their arguments turned physical. Watching them scream and lash out at each other was unbearable.
I hate to admit it, but a part of me understands their anger. I've contributed nothing, learned nothing, and become nothing. My father's no different. And my mother—once the glue holding us together—is unravelling under the weight of it all.
I can't blame anyone but myself.
Then, I saw it with my own two eyes.
My mother—the woman I once adored and feared—stabbed my father. Not just once, but over and over again. I stood there, frozen, as the knife tore into him, and his lifeless body slumped to the floor. I watched, and yet I did nothing. I didn't scream, didn't cry, didn't run. I just stood there, rooted in silence, unsure of how to react.
When she was done, my mother turned to me. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I might finally feel fear. But no. There was none.
I knew what was coming. I understood it as clearly as if she'd spoken it aloud. I wasn't going to run. Why would I? I've been tired of this life for as long as I can remember.
How many nights had I contemplated ending it myself? I've lost count. The thought of escaping this endless cycle of regret and misery lingered in my mind like a poisonous whisper. But I could never do it. A small, foolish part of me worried about how my mother might feel. Would she be heartbroken? Would she care?
Now I see the irony. My mother's not heartbroken. She's the one about to end my life.
She moved toward me slowly, her face expressionless, the bloodied knife still in her hand. And yet, I just smiled. It wasn't a smile of defiance or bravery—just weary acceptance.
When she reached me, she raised the knife and stabbed me in the chest, slowly and deliberately. As she did, her voice trembled with the words:
"Don't blame me for this."
I felt the pain, sharp and cold, but it didn't matter. I smiled through it, blood pooling in my mouth as I replied:
"There's nothing wrong with what you did, Mom. I understand. I deserve this."
And I do.
I deserve this end. A bastard like me deserves no more than a tragic, quiet end at the hands of the only person who ever truly mattered.
My mother fell to her knees then, her face contorted in anguish as she began to cry uncontrollably. Her tears splattered onto my face as the world around me faded. I watched her crumble under the weight of her sorrow, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I felt something almost like peace.
"Why do you always…!!" my mother's voice cracked as her grip tightened on the knife. "If you understood, you should have...!!"
Her words trailed off, leaving her trembling in silence.
I could barely process her anguish. My vision blurred, the edges of the world turning dark.
"Forget it," she whispered at last, her voice thick with despair. "I hope you mourn all of this in the next life. Don't make the same mistake. I just want to…"
I couldn't hear the rest. The pain in my chest dulled as my consciousness began to fade. Her voice became an echo, distant and faint. The last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me was my mother—she stabbed her own throat, collapsing beside me in a pool of blood.
And then, nothing.
Everything faded, and the world became silent and dark.
If I had a second chance, maybe things would be different. Maybe I'd choose a different path. But deep down, I know the truth: I'd probably still end up like this. My laziness and lack of ambition are the root of my failure. My arrogance—my condescension toward others—sealed my fate long before poverty brought me to my knees. Only after I lost everything did I finally understand what it meant to truly have nothing.
Still, if there's an afterlife, I'll try to be different. I'll be humble and treat people with kindness. I'll live with ambition and work hard to achieve something meaningful. I'll walk a path opposite to this one, a life shaped by wisdom instead of ignorance.
My second chance will be;
Everything went dark. I couldn't feel my body anymore. The pain, once unbearable, had completely vanished. Was this death? If so, it wasn't as terrifying as I'd imagined—just endless emptiness and solitude, stretching on forever.
Oddly enough, it felt nostalgic, as though I'd been here before. Was this all that was left for me? To fade away, forgotten, and let every memory be erased?
The longer I drifted in this void, the more fragments of my memory vanished. Faces, names, moments—all blurring, slipping from my grasp like sand through my fingers. Should I be grateful for this release, or terrified of losing myself entirely?
"God," I whispered into the emptiness, unsure if anyone—anything—could hear me. "If you exist, please, let me keep the beautiful memories. Even if I'm dead, let me live through them. Please!"
But everything kept fading. My thoughts scattered, disjointed. I couldn't even remember who I was.
Then,
nothing.
I opened my eyes.
The world was no longer dark. Light flooded my vision, soft and warm, and I felt the unfamiliar softness of a bed beneath me. For a moment, I thought I might still be alive—but something was wrong. My body felt different, smaller somehow.
Where was I? A hospital? No, this wasn't a hospital. The room was filled with toys, pastel walls, and tiny furniture. It looked like a little girl's bedroom.
I sat up and rubbed my aching head, and that's when it hit me—a torrent of memories, unfamiliar and overwhelming.
My name is Aria.
I'm three years old.
But those weren't the only memories. Another life came rushing back—mine, but not mine. A boy, an arrogant boy who wasted his life, his opportunities, everything he was given. How could that be me?
"No," I murmured, shaking my head. "It can't be real. It was just a strange dream. That's all. Just a dream."
A new thought crossed my mind, childish and whimsical, and I latched onto it. "I'll be the cutest girl in the world! Irana and I—we'll conquer the world together!"
A small voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Onee-chan... why did you wake up? Need to pee?"
I turned to see Irana sitting up, her sleepy eyes looking at me, her little head tilted in confusion. She was adorable—far too adorable. How could anyone be this cute?!
"Ah, forgive me, Irana," I said, the words spilling out naturally. "Onee-chan had a strange dream. Let's go back to sleep, okay?"
"Is that so?" she mumbled, already starting to lie back down.
Looking at her tiny, peaceful face, I smiled. Whatever that dream had been—whatever that other life was—I didn't want to dwell on it. This was my second chance. My reverse life had just begun.