Twenty-Three Again (AU - Lia's POV)

Prologue - Before Again

At twenty-three, I thought I was busy.

Cute.

I had a Science Education degree I wasn't using, a small printing and customization business operating mostly from home, and absolutely no formal business background.

That part wasn't unusual in our family.

Ate Bianca sold jewelry online.

Kuya Nathan and his wife had a food business.

Sofia was the only one taking BSBA.

Good for her.

The rest of us followed the Ramos business manual:

It sold.

Okay. Sell more.

So I did.

One printer became two.

Orders became employees.

My room became a workspace.

The workspace became an office.

One business became several.

I learned pricing.

Cash flow.

Suppliers.

Hiring.

Systems.

Contracts.

Acquisitions.

Mostly by making mistakes first.

And somewhere along the way—

I became very good at it.

Too good, maybe.

Because every time something worked, I wanted to make it bigger.

Every time I reached one goal, I found another.

There was always one more order.

One more problem.

One more company I could fix.

One more reason to say—

Busy lang.

My family noticed.

My friends noticed.

Jane and Chloe had known me since high school.

We still talked.

Sometimes we met.

Then sometimes became rarely.

Rarely became—

Next time nalang.

Usually because of me.

I kept thinking there would always be another Sunday.

Another birthday.

Another dinner.

Another chance to show up.

At forty-five, I had several companies.

Money.

Properties.

Employees.

An executive team.

Everything twenty-three-year-old me would have called success.

And almost no life that didn't somehow fit inside a calendar.

Then one Wednesday night, sitting behind my desk after midnight—

I died.

No dramatic final words.

No profound realization.

I actually thought about finishing an email first.

Embarrassing.

That should have been it.

Instead—

I opened my eyes.

Old ceiling.

Old room.

Old phone.

Young hands.

And from across the room—

beep.

I froze.

The printer whirred.

Then jammed.

I checked the date.

Twenty-three.

Again.

No explanation.

No manual.

No cosmic customer service.

Not even a different degree.

Just twenty-two years of memories—

and another chance to find out whether I could build a successful life without forgetting to actually live it.