In my previous life, a few weeks into 5T, I clashed with a tall boy.

  Tall is an understatement.

  He was already built like he skipped childhood and fast forwarded into late adolescence. Long limbs. Broad shoulders. Hands large enough to comfortably wrap around my entire forearm.

  Handsome, too. The type with sharp features and careless hair that always fell correctly without effort.

  Academically?

  Catastrophic.

  His grades were in ruins. Homework half done. Test papers filled with red ink. If someone had told me he would grow up experimenting with substances of questionable legality, I would have believed it immediately. That was the aura he radiated. Untamed energy with no direction.

  What puzzles me now is this:

  Where did I find the courage to fight him?

  I was shorter. Smaller. Physically outmatched in every measurable way.

  And what exactly was I fighting for?

  The origin was absurd.

  He played Megaman Zero on Game Boy.

  Specifically part 3.

  That was enough common ground for initial conversation. During recess we compared bosses. Discussed weapon upgrades.

  Then one day, out of nowhere, he started lightly bumping my arm with his arm.

  Just a casual side nudge.

  I nudged back.

  He nudged harder.

  We escalated in silence like two rams testing horn strength.

  At first it was playful.

  Then it became repetitive.

  Then it began to feel like a challenge.

  I remember the moment my patience snapped.

  “Why you keep hitting me?” I demanded.

  “I’m not hitting,” he said lazily. “Just standing.”

  “You think I small means I easy to push?”

  He smirked.

  That smirk.

  Something primitive triggered inside me.

  The next thing I knew, we were shoving. Chairs scraping. Classmates shouting. Someone yelled, “Fight!”

  It lasted maybe fifteen seconds before a teacher stormed in.

  We were dragged outside the classroom.

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  The verdict was simple.

  “Both of you stand there,” the teacher said. “Until one apologizes sincerely and I feel the remorse. Then I let you in.”

  I was certain I would win this battle of stubbornness.

  I lasted twenty minutes.

  He lasted less.

  To my shock, he went inside first.

  I never found out what he said. I never asked. Pride prevented it.

  The rivalry lingered awkwardly after that.

  This time, I refused to repeat such stupidity.

  When I saw him again in this timeline, I recognized the same posture. Same lazy brilliance in his eyes.

  He leaned back in his chair and asked, “You play Megaman Zero?”

  “I completed the series,” I replied calmly.

  He straightened slightly. “Serious?”

  “I have part 4.”

  His eyes widened. “The last one?”

  “Yes.”

  He owned part 3 only.

  Instead of imaginary arm battles, I did something radical.

  “I can lend you the cartridge,” I said.

  He blinked as if I had offered him state secrets. “Why?”

  “Because stories deserve proper endings.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds.

  Then he grinned. “You’re weird.”

  “Frequently,” I said.

  The cartridge exchange happened discreetly after school. No ego. No physical dominance tests.

  Just mutual respect over pixels and boss fights.

  Violence avoided.

  Now.

  The diary.

  Our teacher had a habit that I always found intrusive.

  Daily diary entries.

  Every single day.

  Write about your life. Your feelings. Your family. Your thoughts.

  Homework.

  In my opinion, it was surveillance disguised as literacy development.

  Even as a child in my previous life, I saw through it.

  Back then, I wrote honestly.

  “My mother is going through depression ever since my father passed.”

  “I hate girls and want nothing to do with them.”

  The girls laughed at me often. I assumed it was mockery. I interpreted laughter as hostility. I internalized it as rejection.

  The teacher would respond with red ink comments.

  “Your mother is strong. Support her.”

  “You don’t hate girls. You are just shy.”

  She repeatedly dismissed my mother’s depression as if optimism alone could solve neurochemical imbalance.

  Looking back, it was almost comedic.

  This time, I decided to weaponize the diary.

  If she wanted emotional transparency, I would provide curated transparency.

  Entry One.

  “Our family finances are unstable. I often feel scared when money is discussed at home.”

  Entry Two.

  “I wish I could reduce my mother’s burden. I don’t want her to worry so much.”

  Entry Three.

  “Sometimes I wonder if there are ways for students like me to receive support quietly.”

  The key word.

  Quietly.

  A few days later she called me after class.

  “I’ve been reading your diary,” she said softly.

  Naturally.

  “You feel financial pressure?” she asked.

  I lowered my gaze slightly. “When bills come, the atmosphere changes.”

  Not entirely false.

  She leaned closer. “Does your mother struggle?”

  “She tries very hard,” I said carefully. “I don’t want her to know I’m worried. It will make her more stressed.”

  That line landed perfectly.

  Her expression shifted.

  Compassion activated.

  “Do you have enough allowance?”

  The question I was waiting for.

  “I manage,” I said. Then paused. “Sometimes I skip buying things.”

  That was technically true. I always skipped unnecessary spending.

  She hesitated.

  Then she opened her handbag.

  That was the moment I understood something important.

  Adults with empathy can be predictable.

  She took out a folded note.

  A real one.

  She slid it across the desk discreetly.

  “For snacks,” she said. “And please don’t tell your mother. I don’t want her to misunderstand.”

  I looked at it.

  Paper money.

  Not worksheets.

  Not moral encouragement.

  Liquidity.

  I widened my eyes slightly. “Teacher… I cannot…”

  “You can,” she insisted. “You are a good student. Focus on studying.”

  I accepted it slowly.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Inside my head, calculations were already running.

  If I accumulated small amounts like this over time, without triggering parental alarm, it could form seed capital.

  Seed capital positioned correctly during 2020 would multiply.

  She added gently, “If you ever need help, you can talk to me.”

  “I will,” I said sincerely.

  That part was not manipulation.

  In her own way, she meant well.

  Back at my seat, the tall boy leaned over.

  “What she want?”

  “Economic stimulus package,” I said calmly.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Across from me, Penny and Leanne were whispering.

  Penny glanced over. “Why you look so serious?”

  “Strategic planning,” I replied.

  Leanne rolled her eyes. “You’re eleven.”

  “Technically,” I said.

  The diary continued daily.

  But now it was no longer surveillance.

  It was fundraising.

  And unlike imaginary arm battles, this was a game I fully intended to win.