They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die.
Mine did. And honestly? It was embarrassing.
Not the dying part—that was quick. One moment I was crossing the street while scrolling through Twitter, crafting what I thought was an absolutely devastating critique of Lance Stroll's latest qualifying performance, and the next I was having a very brief, very one-sided argument with a delivery truck about right-of-way. Spoiler alert: the truck won. Physics tends to have the final say in these matters.
No, the embarrassing part was watching the highlight reel of my existence play out in vivid, unforgiving detail while floating in what I can only describe as the universe's most aggressively well-lit waiting room. Everything was bathed in this soft, golden glow that would've been pleasant if it wasn't illuminating every poor life choice I'd ever made.
Twenty-eight years of life, and what did I have to show for it?
A job I tolerated at best, working in IT support for a company that sold industrial refrigeration equipment. I'd spent five years resetting passwords and explaining to middle-aged managers that no, unplugging it and plugging it back in was not insulting their intelligence, it was literally step one of troubleshooting. The pay was decent. The work was soul-crushing. I told myself it was temporary, that I'd figure out what I really wanted to do eventually. Eventually never came.
An apartment that smelled perpetually of instant ramen and desperation, located in a building where the elevator worked maybe sixty percent of the time. My furniture was an eclectic mix of hand-me-downs and whatever I could afford from IKEA. The most expensive thing I owned was my racing simulator setup, which dominated my living room like a shrine to my obsession. My mother had visited once, taken one look at the rig surrounded by empty energy drink cans and pizza boxes, and asked if I was "doing okay, sweetie" in that tone that meant she already knew the answer.
My social life consisted almost entirely of online interactions with other Formula 1 fans, most of whom I'd never met in person. We'd stay up until ungodly hours watching races broadcast from different time zones, arguing about regulations, dissecting team strategies, and engaging in the kind of passionate debates that my non-racing friends found utterly baffling. "It's just cars going in circles," they'd say, and I'd have to resist the urge to launch into a forty-minute explanation of why they were wrong about everything.
And then there were the tweets. Oh god, the tweets.
I'd accumulated over forty-seven thousand of them over the years, a digital monument to my opinions that absolutely nobody asked for. I had thoughts about everything from tire compounds to wind tunnel regulations, from driver lineups to team principals' press conference body language. But if I was honest with myself, and apparently death forced you to be honest, at least three thousand of those tweets were dedicated to a single topic: explaining in exhaustive detail why Lance Stroll didn't deserve his Formula 1 seat.
It had become something of a hobby. Every race weekend, I'd watch him qualify, watch him race, and then I'd tweet. When he made a mistake, I'd tweet about how predictable it was. When he had a good result, I'd tweet about how the car flattered him, or how lucky he'd gotten with strategy, or how his teammate had mechanical issues. When he was just existing, minding his own business, I'd tweet about how he was wasting a seat that a more deserving driver could have.
"Stroll P14 again. Shocking absolutely nobody," I'd write, watching the likes roll in from other fans who shared my disdain.
"Imagine having every advantage in the world and still being mid. Couldn't be me," I'd declare with the confidence of someone who'd never driven anything more competitive than a go-kart at a bachelor party.
My personal favorite, the one I was actually quite proud of, had gotten over fifteen hundred likes: "Put me in that Aston Martin and I'd win championships. Lance has every opportunity, every resource, the best engineers money can buy, and he still can't deliver. What an absolute waste of a seat."
The irony of a man who'd never raced professionally, who'd never felt the pressure of twenty other drivers trying to out-brake you into a corner, who'd never dealt with the physical strain of pulling multiple Gs lap after lap, claiming he could do better was apparently lost on me at the time.
I'd had relationships, sure. Three of them, to be exact, each lasting roughly the length of a Formula 1 season before falling apart. The first girl left because I kept canceling date nights for race weekends. The second one made it clear that she wasn't interested in competing with my "weird car obsession" for attention. The third one, bless her heart, actually tried to get into Formula 1 for my sake, but after I spent an entire anniversary dinner explaining the technical regulations for the 2022 car redesign, she'd gently suggested that maybe we wanted different things in life.
My mother had long since given up asking when I'd settle down. Instead, she'd pivoted to asking when I'd consider going back to school for accounting, like my cousin Derek. "Derek just bought a house," she'd remind me. "Derek's getting married in the spring." Derek was also boring as hell, but I kept that observation to myself.
This was my life. This was my legacy. A collection of strong opinions about other people's achievements, delivered from the safety of my apartment, accompanied by the soft glow of multiple monitors and the gentle hum of my simulator's cooling fans.
"Quite the legacy," a voice said, and the words were wrapped in warmth and something that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
I spun around, or at least I think I did. It was hard to tell the mechanics of movement when you didn't appear to have a body anymore. The sensation was disorienting, like trying to swim through air, or remember how to breathe when you suddenly realized you didn't need to anymore.
Standing there, or perhaps floating there, or perhaps simply existing in a way that my human brain couldn't quite process, was a figure bathed in that same soft golden light. The face was kind, almost impossibly so, with eyes that seemed to contain entire universes of understanding. But there was also something unmistakably amused in that expression, the look of someone who'd just watched you trip over your own shoelaces and was trying very hard not to laugh at your expense.
"God?" I squeaked, my voice coming out higher than I would have liked. Then again, I wasn't sure I even had a voice anymore, or if this was just some form of telepathic communication that felt like speaking.
"Among other names, yes," the figure said, and the voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Though I've been called much worse over the millennia, believe me. You humans get remarkably creative with your theology and your profanity, sometimes in the same sentence."
I blinked, or did whatever passed for blinking in this state of existence. "Am I... am I in trouble?"
God tilted their head, considering the question with what appeared to be genuine thought. "Trouble? No, no. You weren't a bad person. Not really. A bit self-centered, perhaps. Obsessive about Formula 1 to a degree that probably wasn't healthy. You spent an unfortunate amount of time arguing about tire degradation with strangers on the internet when you could have been, I don't know, learning a skill, developing meaningful relationships, or literally anything else."
The divine being paused, and I could feel the weight of that cosmic gaze examining every moment of my life with perfect clarity. "You were judgmental, quick to criticize, and far too comfortable throwing stones from your glass house. But you also helped your elderly neighbor carry groceries up four flights of stairs when the elevator was broken. You donated to charity when you could afford it, even if it was just small amounts. You were patient with the people who called your help desk, even when they were rude. You loved your mother, even if you didn't call her as often as you should have."
God smiled softly. "Overall? Decent human. Could've been kinder. Could've tried harder. Could've been more present in your own life instead of living vicariously through athletes you'd never meet. And you definitely, definitely could have looked both ways before crossing the street."
"Right. Yeah. The truck thing." I rubbed the back of my neck, then realized with a start that I could feel my neck again, or at least some approximation of it. "So what happens now? Heaven? Reincarnation? Do I get judged by some cosmic council? Do I become a tree or something?"
God's smile widened into something that made me profoundly uncomfortable. It was the kind of smile that suggested the universe had a sense of humor, and I was about to become the punchline.
"Actually," God said, drawing out the word in a way that made my non-corporeal stomach drop, "I have something special in mind for you. A little experiment, if you will."
I did not like the sound of that. I did not like it at all.
"You spent years, literal years of your life, complaining about Lance Stroll," God continued, and suddenly we were surrounded by floating screens showing my tweets, hundreds of them, thousands of them, all scrolling past in an accusatory parade. "How he didn't deserve his seat. How he only got there because of his father's money. How any real driver would do better with his opportunities. How you, personally, could win championships if you had his advantages."
My ethereal stomach, which had been dropping, now felt like it had fallen through the floor of reality itself. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"Please don't—"
"You're going to be Lance Stroll."
"WHAT?!"
The word came out as something between a shout and a whimper, echoing across the infinite space in a way that was definitely not dignified.
God laughed, and it was the sound of wind chimes and church bells and your favorite song all playing at once, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. "Reborn as him, actually. From the very beginning. Same family, same circumstances, same wealth, same advantages you complained about so much. You'll have his life, his opportunities, his father's racing team, everything."
The divine being leaned closer, and I could feel the weight of eons pressing down on me. "Let's see how you do in those shoes, shall we? Let's see if you can back up all that talk, all those tweets, all that judgment. Let's see if having every advantage really makes it as easy as you claimed it would be."
"Wait, wait, wait!" I held up my hands, desperately trying to process what was happening. "This is—you can't just—I didn't mean—it was just Twitter! Everyone talks trash on Twitter! It's like, the whole point!"
"Oh, but you did mean it," God said, and suddenly one specific tweet appeared, floating in golden letters between us. "You said, and I quote from Tweet number twenty-three thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven: 'Put me in that Aston Martin and I'd win championships. Lance has every advantage and still can't deliver. What a waste.'"
I winced. That did sound like something I'd say. That sounded exactly like something I'd say, because it was something I'd said, and apparently the universe had been keeping receipts.
"Besides," God continued, and now that smile was back, full force, "I'm not completely cruel. I'm throwing in a little help. Can't have you completely embarrassing yourself in your second chance at life. Where's the entertainment in that? Where's the growth? Where's the narrative arc?"
"Help? What kind of—"
But the light was already growing brighter, intensifying from soft gold to brilliant white, pulling me in like a gravitational force I couldn't possibly fight against. It was like being caught in a current, swept along by something far greater than myself.
"Good luck!" God's voice echoed around me, fading as reality dissolved into pure energy and possibility. "Try not to die from a truck this time! And maybe, just maybe, learn something about humility, about gratitude, about what it really means to have a second chance! Oh, and the cooking skill is just for fun. You'll understand later!"
"Wait! I have questions! Do I keep my memories? What about my family? What year is it? Do I—"
Everything went white.
Then warm.
Then incredibly, impossibly small.
I tried to move and couldn't. I tried to speak and couldn't. I tried to open my eyes and found that they were already open, but everything was blurry, unfocused, like looking through frosted glass.
And then I heard it. A woman's voice, exhausted and elated, speaking words I couldn't quite understand but could feel the meaning of. Joy. Relief. Love.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
I was a baby. I was literally a baby. This wasn't some young adult restart, some teenage do-over. God had sent me back to the absolute beginning, and I was going to have to live through diapers and teething and learning to walk all over again, except this time I'd be fully aware of how humiliating it all was.
This was either the greatest gift or the cruelest punishment imaginable, and I wasn't sure which.
And then, cutting through my existential crisis, letters appeared in my vision. Glowing. Impossible. Undeniable.
[System Initialization Complete]
[Welcome, User]
[New Life Protocol: Active]
[Primary Mission: Don't waste it this time]
[Secondary Mission: Maybe try being less of a jerk]
[Tertiary Mission: Seriously, you have so many advantages now. Please don't mess this up.]
[Good luck. You're going to need it.]
A pause, then one more message appeared.
[P.S. - Yes, I can read your thoughts. No, I will not stop being sarcastic. We're going to be together for a long time. Might as well get used to it. - The System]
And that's how I, a twenty-eight-year-old Formula 1 fanatic who'd never driven anything faster than a Honda Civic with a questionable transmission, who'd spent more time criticizing drivers than working on my own life, who'd died while composing yet another angry tweet, became Lance Stroll.
Again.
From the very beginning.
With all my memories intact, a sarcastic AI system that apparently thought this whole situation was hilarious, and the dawning realization that I now had to somehow live up to all the confident claims I'd made from behind a keyboard.
God really did have a sense of humor.
And apparently, so did karma.
To be continued...
Author's Note: Welcome to "Racing Through Life Again"! Next chapter: Baby Lance discovers the full extent of the System's abilities, begins processing his new reality, and starts planning how to navigate his second chance at life.