Time flies in a way that feels unfair.

  To many of my classmates, primary school has already ended. The final examination papers are done. The true final. The one teachers dramatize as the closing chapter of six years.

  As usual, I scored five As out of eight subjects. The remaining three were Bs, just a thin line away from becoming As. Good enough. More than good enough.

  I never intended to squeeze every last drop out of primary school grades. Efficiency has always been my rule. Primary results are glorified trophies that gather dust later in life. No employer asks how many As you got at twelve years old.

  Yet I said the end has not arrived.

  Because one thing remains.

  The graduation performance.

  Each class gets one chance to leave a mark on the school stage. To perform something of their choosing before teachers, juniors, and fellow graduates. Some dance. Some act. Some sing. Some simply sit out and watch.

  In my previous life, I was one of those who watched.

  Back then I believed everything outside of grades was noise. Participation was optional, unnecessary. But as I sat in the assembly hall watching others perform under the stage lights, something stirred quietly inside me.

  I wish I could do that too.

  In this life, I refuse to whisper that sentence again.

  This time, I will nominate myself to direct the performance. Only for those who wish to participate. No forcing. But I will lead.

  Before I do anything that deviates from being low profile, I have a habit.

  I dial the landline.

  The numbers are memorized. I do not hesitate.

  Payne picks up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice is brighter than I remember.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  A small pause. Then recognition.

  “Oh. Zack. You disappeared.”

  “I upgraded,” I reply calmly. “Smart class life is busy.”

  She laughs softly. “Still arrogant.”

  Not angry. Just amused.

  We talk about small things first. School. Teachers. The gap that naturally forms when paths diverge. She is no longer in my daily orbit, yet the line between us does not feel broken.

  “I’m calling for something serious,” I say eventually.

  “That sounds scary.”

  “Our graduation performance is coming.”

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  “Ours too,” she replies. “So?”

  “I want to direct it.”

  Silence.

  “You?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You used to hide behind walls.”

  “People evolve.”

  She hums thoughtfully. “So what are you planning?”

  “That’s why I’m asking you. What does it mean to leave a mark?”

  She does not answer immediately.

  In kindergarten, she was one of the prettiest girls. Effortlessly radiant. I once performed magic for her, a childish trick that made her eyes widen in wonder. Now her voice carries more composure. More awareness.

  “Leaving a mark…” she repeats slowly. “Is it about being remembered?”

  “Partly.”

  “Then do something people will talk about even after you leave.”

  “That is obvious.”

  “Not necessarily,” she counters. “Some performances are good, but forgettable. They follow templates. If you want a mark, break expectation.”

  “Shock value?”

  “Not cheap shock. Smart surprise.”

  I lean back against the wall beside the phone.

  “Example?”

  “Combine things that normally don’t mix. Start serious. Turn funny. Or start funny and become unexpectedly meaningful.”

  “You think meaning matters?”

  “It does,” she says firmly. “If it’s only flashy, juniors will clap and forget. If it touches something real, they’ll remember the feeling.”

  Her tone surprises me.

  “You’ve grown,” I say.

  “Obviously,” she replies. “We’re not six anymore.”

  There is a brief silence.

  “Why do you care so much?” she asks.

  Because in my previous life I regretted not stepping forward.

  But I do not say that.

  “I just don’t want to leave quietly,” I answer.

  “You never leave quietly,” she says lightly. “Even when you pretend to.”

  I smile to myself.

  “So break expectation,” I summarize. “Make them feel something.”

  “Yes. And don’t try to impress everyone. Focus on controlling the stage.”

  Control.

  That word resonates.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’ll do something dramatic, won’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I want to hear about it when it’s done.”

  “I’ll call.”

  We hang up.

  The next day, I walk toward 6T.

  The corridor feels different from my own class. Louder. Less tense. Less academically compressed.

  I step inside.

  Several heads turn.

  Penny looks up first.

  For a moment, I freeze.

  She is changing. Slowly, subtly, inching closer to the portrait I once drew of her. The angles of her face more defined. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear more deliberate. There is a quiet elegance forming.

  Leanne sits beside her. The same evolution. The softness of childhood fading, replaced with a gentler, steadier beauty.

  Time is sculpting them exactly as I once envisioned.

  “You look lost,” Penny says.

  “I’m visiting,” I reply.

  Leanne tilts her head. “Smart class boy came down to observe us?”

  “I came to ask something.”

  That gets their attention.

  I explain about the graduation performance.

  “I want to leave a mark,” I say. “What would that look like?”

  Penny rests her chin on her hand.

  “Something honest,” she says.

  “Honest is vague.”

  “Then let me be specific,” she continues. “Don’t act like someone else. If it’s too exaggerated, people sense it. Show who you are.”

  Leanne nods. “And let others shine too. A mark doesn’t have to be a solo spotlight.”

  “So not just about me,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Leanne replies. “If people feel included, they’ll remember it more fondly.”

  Behind them, two tall figures approach.

  Angie and Susan.

  The two ultra pretty girls I once drew portraits for.

  They have grown taller than most boys now. Their presence alone shifts the atmosphere slightly.

  “We heard performance,” Angie says casually. “What’s happening?”

  I repeat the question.

  Susan crosses her arms thoughtfully. “If you want juniors to remember it, make it cinematic.”

  “Cinematic?” I echo.

  “Yes,” she says. “Transitions. Lighting. Music changes. Not just random acts.”

  Angie smiles. “Tell a story.”

  “A story about what?” I ask.

  “About us,” Penny says suddenly.

  All eyes turn to her.

  “About six years,” she continues softly. “About growing up. About being scared. About wanting to be something.”

  The classroom noise around us fades in my awareness.

  Leanne adds, “Start with something light. End with something powerful.”

  “Full circle,” Susan says.

  Angie nods. “Give them a moment where they feel proud to be graduating.”

  Their voices overlap, not chaotic, but layered.

  Shock expectation.

  Honesty.

  Inclusion.

  Cinematic storytelling.

  Full circle.

  I stand there, absorbing everything.

  They are growing into the portraits I once imagined.

  And I am standing at the center of the convergence.

  “Why are you smiling?” Penny asks.

  “Because I think I know,” I say quietly.

  “Know what?” Leanne presses.

  I glance at the doorway.

  “I know what kind of mark I want to leave.”

  I do not elaborate.

  Not yet.