Second Chance At Love: I Become Young Again To Overhaul My Love Life!

I stirred my latte aimlessly, watching the foam swirl like a miniature storm trapped in a porcelain cup. The air smelled of roasted beans and freshly baked croissants, and somewhere in the distance, jazz music hummed from the café's speakers. It had been the perfect morning, at least from the outside.

On the inside, though? Absolute chaos.

I was spiraling, and I knew it. My love life had always been an intricate web of disasters—and that was before I had magically woken up in the body of my 20-year-old self. Now, everything felt even more unhinged.

On my phone screen, Mavrik lounged in hologram form, looking far too smug for a virtual assistant. He leaned back as if he were a life coach hosting a Zoom call, dressed in an annoyingly perfect virtual suit that probably belonged in a GQ spread.

"You've got that look again," Mavrik had said, one eyebrow raised. "The one that screams: I need therapy but will settle for caffeine."

I sighed, pushing my sunglasses higher on my head. "You're lucky you don't have a face I can punch."

Mavrik tapped on an invisible tablet in front of him, all business. "Let's get right to it, shall we? Your love life."

I groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Yes. It's long overdue. Your romantic strategy—or lack thereof—is a dumpster fire. And I say that with love."

He had flicked his wrist, and a holographic graph popped up, hovering above my phone. Red bars rose and fell like the stock market had crashed solely because of my dating history.

"Let's break it down," he had said cheerfully. "According to my data, you've been ghosted ten times in the past five years."

"Ten?" I had sputtered, almost choking on my coffee. "That's—okay, that's not even possible. Ten?!"

"Yes, and statistically, that's impressive," Mavrik had said with an encouraging smile. "Most people only get ghosted about three times. So, kudos to you. You're an overachiever."

"Great," I had muttered. "What's my prize? A bottle of wine? A slap to the face?"

"Honestly? You could use the slap. Might knock some sense into you before your next CEO scare-off."

Mavrik had tapped his chin thoughtfully. "See, here's the thing, Arisa. You approach relationships the way you run your business: efficiently, decisively, and with a five-year plan. Admirable in the boardroom. Terrifying in romance."

I had narrowed my eyes. "I'm not that bad."

Mavrik's hologram raised an eyebrow, summoning another chart. "Oh really? Let's review the highlights."

He had gestured to the graph, where my previous relationships had lit up like warning signs.

2016: Scared off a lawyer by planning hypothetical baby names on the second date.

2018: Dumped a guy for proposing too soon—after four years of dating.

2021: Blocked three different guys in one month for texting 'wyd?' instead of meaningful conversation.

"You don't compromise. You expect perfection," Mavrik had said with a shrug. "And when you don't get it, you're out."

I had groaned, rubbing my temples. "I don't expect perfection. I just have standards."

Mavrik had smirked. "Standards are great. But so are second chances—and you've been allergic to those lately."

He had leaned forward, his expression shifting to something almost sincere. "Look, if you want love, you need to change your strategy. Dating isn't a job interview. You can't optimize your way into someone's heart."

I had scoffed, though his words had hit harder than I cared to admit. "So what, I should just start swiping right on random guys and hope for the best?"

"Not exactly." Mavrik had tapped his temple knowingly. "You need to stop trying to control the outcome. Be curious, not controlling. Go with the flow. See where things take you."

"Easy for you to say," I had muttered. "You're not the one risking awkward first dates and weird text messages."

Mavrik had smiled. "No, but I am the one logging them. And trust me, your data could use an upgrade."

Just as I had been about to respond with a sarcastic retort, my phone buzzed with a new notification from the SCAL app. I had glanced down, reading the message with a mixture of dread and curiosity.

SCAL Notification: "Your next romantic opportunity is near. Proceed with caution—and maybe a smile."

My heart had skipped a beat. I had glanced around the café, wondering what SCAL's idea of a 'romantic opportunity' looked like. For all I knew, it could mean running into my ex, spilling coffee on someone, or worse—another awkward encounter with Joshua.

And then I had seen him.

Sitting just a few tables away, wearing a casual denim jacket and scrolling through his phone, was… Joshua.

My breath had caught in my throat. What were the odds? No—scratch that—was this coincidence? Or was SCAL really that terrifyingly accurate?

I had felt Mavrik's eyes on me, even through the screen. "Well, well," he had said, his voice laced with amusement. "What are you waiting for? Your love life needs a makeover—starting now."

I had glared at him. "It's not that simple."

"Sure it is." Mavrik had given me a sly smile. "All you have to do is walk over there. Say hi. Maybe even smile. You can handle that, right?"

I had bitten my lip, debating my options. I could leave then, avoid the awkwardness, and chalk this encounter up to the universe's twisted sense of humor.

Or… I could take a chance. I could go with the flow, like Mavrik had suggested, and see where this led.

I had taken a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. My coffee had sat forgotten on the table, the foam swirling into oblivion.

"Go on," Mavrik had urged. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Plenty, I had thought. But I had known the real answer: the worst thing wasn't rejection. It was regret.

Slowly, I had stood up, clutching my phone in one hand and my courage in the other. As I had taken the first step toward Joshua's table, my heart had pounded like a drumbeat of anticipation.

Joshua had glanced up from his phone, his eyes meeting mine—and in that split second, the world had seemed to hold its breath.

What had I said? Did I play it cool? Or did I admit that I wasn't who he thought I was—that I was far more complicated than Ariana, the niece who idolized her aunt?

Before I could decide, Joshua had smiled—an easy, familiar smile that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I'd been given a second chance.

But would I take it?