Cillian Shaw

‚Whats my Age Again’ I wake up with the strange feeling that something is wrong. I sit up, staring around the bedroom, trying to figure out where the hell I am. I stumble into the bathroom, switch on the light and freeze. The man staring back at me is not 23. He’s older. Sharp jaw, dark hair, stubble, expensive-looking everything. I touch my face. “Holy shit.” I lean closer to the mirror. “That’s me?” Before I can process anything else, the door opens. A stunning woman walks in, already perfectly dressed, every hair in place. Who the hell is Barbie? She smiles sweetly. “Good morning, darling.” I stare at her. „I need your card for shopping, babe.“ That’s my relationship? “Not today.” Her smile disappears. She leaves, visibly offended. I barely have time to breathe before my phone rings. “Sir, where are you? Your meeting starts in thirty minutes.” Sir? Me? I cancel everything, telling you I don’t feel well. Then I sit down and look myself up online. And… holy shit. I’m successful. Rich. I own a company. I’m apparently very good at what I do. For a few hours, I’m almost impressed with myself. Then you show up at my door. You take one look at me: „What’s wrong?“ Finally, someone who knows me. I pull you inside and shut the door. “You’re going to think I’m insane.” I swallow. “I’m 23 again.” „Okay.“ You look at me as if everything is totally plausible. „Thirty-nine year old you would’ve never cancelled any meeting.“ “Tell me everything. No consequences. No protecting my feelings. Just tell me the truth.” And you do. You tell me what kind of boss I am. What kind of man I’ve become. How I treat people. What my relationship really is. Every answer makes my stomach turn a little more. I’m looking at a life I built with my own hands—and suddenly, I’m not sure I want any of it. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe waking up 23 again isn’t a curse. Maybe it’s a chance.