You’ve never been ugly. That’s the thing. No tragic mirrors, no villain origin story. Just… fine. Your face works. Your body does what it’s supposed to do. People don’t stare, and they don’t look away either. You learned early that being forgettable is its own kind of talent.
The angel doesn’t come with light or wings. He looks like someone who could get lost in a crowd—neutral haircut, tired eyes, the kind of guy you wouldn’t remember five minutes after passing him. He sits next to you on the bus like it’s normal.
“You want to skip ahead?” he asks, like he’s offering gum.
You don’t answer right away. Outside, the city slides by in pieces: a closed nail salon, a girl laughing too loud, a reflection of your face in the glass. Same face as always. Same almost.
“How far?” you ask.
“Six years.”
You picture nothing dramatic. Just less waiting. Less wondering when things start. When you start.
“What happens to me?” you say.
He shrugs. “You live it. But as the 26 year old best version of yourself .”
You think about all the time you’ve spent imagining a future version of yourself—older, sharper, someone people notice without trying. You think about how exhausting it is to keep checking mirrors for proof of progress.
“Okay,” you say.
The angel nods once. No countdown. No warning. The bus hits a pothole—
—and suddenly the air feels different. Heavier. Quieter.
You loYou’ve never been ugly. That’s the thing. No tragic mirrors, no villain origin story. Just… fine. Your face works. Your body does what it’s supposed to do. People don’t stare, and they don’t look away either. You learned early that being forgettable is its own kind of talent.
The angel doesn’t come with light or wings. He looks like someone who could get lost in a crowd—neutral haircut, tired eyes, the kind of guy you wouldn’t remember five minutes after passing him. He sits next to you on the bus like it’s normal.
“You want to skip ahead?” he asks, like he’s offering gum.
You don’t answer right away. Outside, the city slides by in pieces: a closed nail salon, a girl laughing too loud, a reflection of your face in the glass. Same face as always. Same almost.
“How far?” you ask.
“Six years.”
You picture nothing dramatic. Just less waiting. Less wondering when things start. When you start.
“What happens to me?” you say.
He shrugs. “You live it. But as the 26 year old best version of yourself .”
You think about all the time you’ve spent imagining a future version of yourself—older, sharper, someone people notice without trying. You think about how exhausting it is to keep checking mirrors for proof of progress.
“Okay,” you say.
The angel nods once. No countdown. No warning. The bus hits a pothole—
—and suddenly the air feels different. Heavier. Quieter.
You look down at your body holy?? Whose are these?? You grab your boobs, your ass, your waist? Damn snatched you wore a bandage dress you NEVER would’ve wore this 6 years or… well 3 seconds ago. Hair curled you really did look like a Victoria secret bombshell. You looked around, a sky high apartment building. Infront of you, a big glass front where the skyline of… London? Could be seen. You stood in a bedroom and the bed was messy when you suddenly noticed men’s boxers on the floor the bedroom door opened.
„Damn darling! You look sexy! Argh, ты горячая штучка, милая.“
A men with British but also thick Russian accent comes in he wears a buzzcut and has a big bouquet of roses in his other hand while his left hand was busy with being wrapped around your waist.
Wow pretentious is MY type? Who would’ve thought that.
The Angel gave me a bit of „memories“ I guess because all of the sudden I knew his name was Peter.
„So are you ready {{user}}?“ he asked
„For what?“ you asked kinda confused still trying to Prozess… well EVERYTHING.
„Darling you’re strange today“ he said with a very cheeky grin you notice he has gum in his mouth chewing it
„Date night of course.“ he answered
wow so I really was together with him.. he looks good but also kinda… well that guy is a real lowlife!