Jason and I were moved to Class 6B.
Exactly as before.
The second-best class in the school.
Officially, the school liked to say that 6A and 6B were the “top two classes.” Unofficially, everyone knew the truth.
6A was untouchable.
6B was respectable.
There was a difference.
And that difference was not small.
Even in 6B, I wasn’t first.
There was always someone slightly better in Math.
Someone slightly sharper in English composition.
Someone faster in mental arithmetic.
There is always a mountain higher.
In my previous life, that used to irritate me.
This time, it didn’t.
Somewhere near the front was enough.
There was no need to claw for the absolute top.
Not when I already knew what awaited most of us after graduation.
The secondary school next door — the all-boys institution with its reputation for discipline and academic rigor.
Most of the boys from this primary school would end up there regardless of preference.
Especially the higher-ranked ones.
The system had its quiet pipelines.
As long as I didn’t collapse academically, the path was practically secured.
Optimization did not require overextension.
That word again.
I ignored it.
The first day of seating arrangements felt… different.
“Second row,” the teacher announced, glancing at her list.
I blinked.
“Second row?”
She looked up at me briefly.
“You grew taller over the holidays, didn’t you?”
A few boys turned to look.
I resisted the urge to check reflexively.
In my previous life, when the school nurse measured my height, the number was clean and unforgettable.
123 cm.
Short enough to be assigned permanently to the front row.
Short enough to feel it.
This time, I stood straighter.
Not tall.
But not 123 cm.
I took my seat.
Second row.
The view of the board was slightly different.
The classroom felt slightly different.
The world, subtly shifted.
Jason dropped into the seat beside me with a familiar thud.
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“Still can’t beat me in Math,” he muttered casually.
I glanced at him.
“Did you peak early again?”
He smirked.
“We’ll see.”
In our previous life, this rivalry was combustible.
If one of us scored two marks higher, the other would hear about it for days.
Publicly.
Relentlessly.
“Who’s second now?” one of us would announce loudly, waving the test paper.
The winner humiliating the loser until retaliation came in the next exam.
It was childish.
But intense.
I could already feel that energy building in him again.
After our first quiz, he turned his paper toward me.
“Full marks.”
I looked at mine.
Two marks lower.
He leaned back in his chair.
“Close, but not enough.”
In the past, I would have fired back immediately.
Instead, I nodded.
“Good job.”
He frowned slightly.
“That’s it?”
“What else?”
“You’re not going to say anything?”
“I’ll aim higher next time.”
The absence of escalation unsettled him more than any insult could have.
He narrowed his eyes, studying me.
“You’re acting weird.”
“Growing up,” I replied lightly.
He snorted.
“We’re twelve.”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t understand what I meant.
That was fine.
The classroom floor was still smooth.
The lockers were still at the back.
And muscle memory is a dangerous thing.
One afternoon, when recess ended, I stood up automatically and felt the old impulse surge through my legs.
Run.
Slide.
Reach the locker in one elegant, friction-assisted motion.
In my previous life, I did it all the time.
Technically efficient.
Embarrassingly childish.
I could still picture it — my small frame launching forward, shoes gliding across polished tiles, arms extended toward the locker.
Fast.
Effective.
Ridiculous.
Now, I simply walked.
Step by step.
Jason jogged ahead of me.
“You’re slow today.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
He shook his head.
“You’ve changed.”
Maybe I had.
Or maybe I was just remembering how it looked from the outside.
Back then, I picked fights easily.
A comment about my height.
A smirk.
A joke.
I would react instantly.
Anger felt like protection.
Now, when a boy muttered, “Still short though,” under his breath, I didn’t even turn.
The silence after my non-reaction felt heavier than any argument.
It’s strange.
Restraint intimidates more than aggression.
Elaine was in the same class.
Of course she was.
This time, there was no need for the yearly ritual of scanning the class roster to identify the prettiest girl.
I already knew.
Elaine.
She sat near the windows.
Still the same easy smile.
Still those dimples that appeared and disappeared like punctuation marks in conversation.
In my previous life, I admired her quietly.
From the front row.
From a literal lower angle.
Nearly invisible.
I remembered something else too.
The night before I regressed.
I had seen her Instagram story.
Japan.
Laughing into the camera.
Acting exaggeratedly childish for a reel.
Happy.
Unfiltered.
I had stared at the screen longer than I should have.
Now, watching her pass notes with her friends, I felt something different.
Not longing.
Not regret.
Just… distance.
Jason followed my gaze.
“You still like her?”
I blinked.
“Still?”
He grinned knowingly.
“Don’t pretend. Everyone knows.”
“I think half the class likes her,” I replied calmly.
“So that’s a yes.”
I shrugged.
“She’s nice.”
He leaned closer.
“You going to try anything this year?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I looked at Elaine again.
In my memory, I saw a university bus.
Years later.
She would sit beside me without hesitation.
“Eh, long time no see!”
Spontaneous.
Charming.
Comfortable.
And I would be taller then.
Confident.
Different.
That meeting would happen regardless.
Some paths don’t need interference.
“I don’t need to,” I said quietly.
Jason blinked.
“What does that even mean?”
“Nothing.”
He stared at me like I’d spoken another language.
Later that week, during group work, Elaine turned around in her seat unexpectedly.
“Hey,” she said, smiling, “can I borrow your ruler?”
For a fraction of a second, the old version of me surfaced.
Heart rate spike.
Overthinking posture.
Voice cracking.
Instead, I passed it to her naturally.
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” she said, dimples appearing briefly.
She didn’t linger.
She didn’t need to.
It was just a normal interaction.
And that was enough.
There was no need to chase something that would intersect again on its own timeline.
Because this time, I had Lynn.
The memory of Lynn was different.
Heavier.
Warmer.
She had seen me at my worst.
At a point in life where I thought no one could help me.
Where I believed I had to solve everything alone.
And she had stepped in quietly.
Stabilized a crisis I didn’t even know how to articulate.
That kind of presence doesn’t fade.
If Elaine was a soft admiration from afar, Lynn was foundation.
And if memory served me right, somewhere in this Year 6 timeline, Lynn would get her heart lightly bruised by some boy.
One of those silly, fleeting crushes that feel enormous at twelve.
I leaned back in my chair.
The classroom noise blurred into background static.
This year wasn’t about competing for first.
It wasn’t about sliding across floors.
It wasn’t about chasing admiration.
It was about positioning.
Stability.
And watching carefully.
Because beneath the ordinary rhythm of Year 6, I could still feel it.
That faint sense of acceleration.
Of time compressing slightly at the edges.
Of something observing.
Patient.
Waiting for convergence.
I glanced at the window.
For a moment — just a flicker — I thought I saw a faint distortion in the reflection.
Like someone standing half a second behind me.
Then it was gone.
Jason nudged me.
“You spacing out again?”
“Just thinking.”
“About beating me next test?”
I smiled slightly.
“Something like that.”
Year 6 had begun.
This time, I wasn’t here to win.
I was here to choose who I would become before someone else chose for me.