His name was Jason.

  Not Fat Chicken.

  Jason.

  It felt embarrassingly simple. How had I not asked properly the first time around? How had I allowed a nickname to overwrite a person?

  In this timeline, I corrected it immediately.

  Only the two of us were destined to rise to the top class next year. I remembered that clearly. Year 6 would separate the serious contenders from the rest, and both of us would be promoted.

  Somewhere in Year 6, he would grow tired of the rivalry. He would soften. He was never malicious to begin with. It was me who kept escalating things. Comparing marks. Announcing scores loudly. Publicly highlighting when I beat him by one or two points as if I had conquered a nation.

  I was the childish one.

  Now, with a mind that had survived market crashes and adult humiliation, that version of me felt unbearably immature.

  This time, I extended something different.

  “I heard good things about you from your classmates,” I said after we introduced ourselves. “You are strong in academics. I hope I can learn from you as we progress through Year 5 and benefit from your wisdom.”

  The moment the words left my mouth, I internally cringed.

  Wisdom.

  Who says that at eleven years old?

  But I have always had a flair for theatrics.

  Jason blinked. Then he smiled, slightly bashful.

  “Ah… I just study a lot,” he replied. “We can help each other.”

  That was it.

  No spark of rivalry.

  No defensive posture.

  Just possibility.

  Soon after, I was assigned a front row seat.

  As usual, the shorter boys sat in front. Logical arrangement. Taller students at the back so they would not block the view.

  It made sense.

  It also served as a daily reminder.

  I was short.

  Boys grow slower. That was common knowledge. The girls in class were already beginning to stretch upwards, limbs lengthening with effortless speed. For slower growing boys, this period of life is unkind.

  Especially if you happen to have a crush on someone who has already outpaced you in height.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This time, I was seated between two girls.

  On my left, Penny.

  On my right, Leanne.

  Penny had a gentle look. The kind of face that radiated warmth. Soft features, calm eyes. She looked like the future embodiment of stability. The type who would remember birthdays and pack extra snacks.

  Leanne was different. Short hair, sharp features, confident gaze. There was something corporate about her even at this age. Like she was already rehearsing for boardroom negotiations in a future life.

  Both of them had not yet gone through their growth spurts.

  In my previous life, I barely noticed them.

  I was too busy fixating on two other girls at the back row. Taller. Flashier. Immediately striking.

  I missed what was right beside me.

  Not this time.

  In my old timeline, I was terrible at drawing. During breaks, I would doodle the same thing repeatedly. Megaman Zero’s helmet and face. Over and over. No improvement. No expansion.

  Eventually Penny asked, “Why do you only draw this robot?”

  I ignored her.

  Leanne leaned over once and said, “Does it have a body? Or just floating head?”

  I ignored her too.

  Hopeless.

  This time, I came prepared.

  When my mother enrolled me into art classes years ago, I took it seriously. I practiced proportions. Shading. Facial structure. I studied how light curves around cheeks, how shadows define the bridge of the nose.

  Whenever I had free time that did not interfere with financial planning and future strategizing, I practiced portraits.

  Now, seated between Penny and Leanne, I opened my notebook.

  A blank two page spread.

  Left page for Penny.

  Right page for Leanne.

  I began with light pencil strokes. Outline first. Jawline. Placement of eyes.

  Portraits take time.

  I did not want them to realize immediately that they were the subjects. So I progressed slowly. A bit of Penny’s eyes one day. A bit of Leanne’s fringe the next.

  Whenever I forgot a detail, I would glance sideways.

  Just a quick stare.

  Penny caught me once.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I am observing structural symmetry,” I replied.

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Leanne narrowed her eyes. “You’re acting strange.”

  “I am always strange,” I said calmly, and continued shading.

  As days passed, the resemblance grew undeniable.

  Penny leaned closer during recess. “Eh… why does that look like… me?”

  “It does not,” I said without looking up.

  Leanne flipped the page edge. “And this one looks suspiciously like me.”

  “Coincidence,” I replied.

  By the end of the week, it could no longer be hidden.

  The portraits were nearly complete.

  I had drawn them as the best versions of themselves. Slightly more refined jawline. Brighter eyes. Confident posture. Not unrealistic, just… elevated. The version they would grow into.

  On Friday afternoon, as the bell rang for break, both of them leaned in simultaneously.

  Penny gasped first.

  “That’s me.”

  Leanne stared at the right page. “Wait… that’s definitely me.”

  I added final touches to the shading and closed the pencil case slowly.

  “Do you approve of the artist’s interpretation?” I asked.

  Penny’s eyes widened. “You drew this? Like this? Proper face one?”

  Leanne flipped the page back and forth. “This is crazy. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “You did not ask the correct question,” I replied.

  Penny pointed at her portrait. “My eyes don’t look that big.”

  “They do,” I said. “You just never looked closely.”

  Leanne examined hers. “You even drew my hair properly. How long did you practice?”

  “Long enough,” I answered.

  They both laughed.

  “Can I keep it?” Penny asked cautiously.

  “I prepared for that,” I said.

  From my bag, I took out two transparent plastic files. Clean. New. No creases.

  I carefully slid each portrait into its own sleeve.

  Leanne blinked. “You even brought file?”

  “Art deserves preservation,” I said.

  Penny held hers like fragile treasure. “It’s so pretty…”

  Leanne smiled, softer this time. “Thank you.”

  For a brief moment, something warm settled in my chest.

  This was not manipulation.

  This was redemption.

  I wanted to leave my mark in 5T.

  Not through rivalry.

  Not through humiliation.

  But through something memorable.

  Starting with the two pretty girls seated right beside me.