Near the end of Year 2, I was called into the staff room.

  The teacher closed the door gently behind me and adjusted her glasses while flipping through my report file.

  “You are in a borderline position,” she said. “Your grades qualify you for 3B, but only just.”

  I remained quiet.

  She looked at me carefully.

  “If you move too quickly, you may struggle. 3C would be safer. You can consolidate, then move up the following year.”

  Safer.

  I knew exactly what 3C contained.

  Josh.

  His gang.

  The atmosphere I had finally escaped in this timeline.

  “I want 3B,” I said firmly.

  She studied my face for hesitation.

  “You understand the pace will be faster.”

  “I do.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Very well. Do not regret this decision.”

  I would regret many things in life.

  This would not be one of them.

  Walking out of the office, I felt something unfamiliar.

  Control.

  In my previous life, I drifted into 3C and had to claw my way out.

  This time, I stepped directly into 3B.

  Earlier than scheduled.

  Which meant I would meet them earlier.

  Andrew.

  John.

  The ecosystem of Class B.

  New events might unfold.

  New consequences.

  But at least I would not be looking over my shoulder.

  The first day of Secondary Year 3 arrived with the usual noise of reshuffled hierarchies.

  3B was louder than 2G.

  More confident.

  Less cautious.

  I spotted Andrew almost immediately.

  He stood out without trying.

  Tall.

  Sharp features.

  Easy smile.

  The kind of person who could start a conversation with anyone and make it feel natural.

  He looked at me as if we had known each other for years.

  “You’re the transfer who skipped 3C?” he asked casually.

  “I suppose that’s me.”

  “Sit here.”

  He pulled a chair beside him.

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  No evaluation.

  No testing.

  Just acceptance.

  In my previous life, he had become my closest friend in 4B, I only met him in Year 4.

  He consistently ranked first in class.

  When offered promotion to Class A, he declined.

  At that time, I did not understand why.

  Why would someone refuse upward mobility?

  Why choose to remain beside me?

  As an adult, I finally understood.

  I was his escape.

  His mother was relentless.

  Not strict.

  Relentless.

  I first heard the word inefficient from her mouth.

  Andrew had scored second in one test.

  Second.

  She looked at him and said, “You wasted time somewhere. That is inefficient.”

  I was standing nearby when she said it.

  No acknowledgment of my presence.

  No filtering.

  Just pure expectation.

  After school, I often followed Andrew home before tuition.

  His mother would fetch us both to the tuition center and later drop me back.

  Before every session, she cooked.

  The food was extraordinary.

  One dish stood out in my memory.

  Macaroni cooked with milk in a way that did not taste overwhelmingly creamy or heavy.

  Balanced.

  Savory.

  Comforting.

  I disliked milk generally.

  But she made it taste good.

  It was strange.

  A woman capable of producing warmth through food yet withholding emotional warmth from her own son.

  One evening, Andrew looked unusually anxious.

  “It’s her birthday tomorrow,” he said quietly.

  “So?”

  “I want to get her a cake.”

  “Then get one.”

  “I can’t leave the house alone tonight. Extra revision.”

  My mother was running a small bakery business at that time.

  “I’ll handle it,” I said.

  The next day, I passed him the cake box discreetly at school.

  He smiled in a way I rarely saw.

  Hopeful.

  Later that week, during tuition break, he told me what happened.

  “She told me not to waste time on unnecessary things,” he said, staring at his notebook. “She said birthdays are irrelevant. Rank one is relevant.”

  I did not know how to respond.

  He laughed lightly.

  “It’s fine.”

  It was not fine.

  I see it clearly now.

  He did not cling to me because I was exceptional.

  He clung to me because I represented inefficiency.

  Unstructured time.

  Games.

  Laughter.

  Imperfection.

  I was a window.

  We played Defense of the Ancients at the cyber cafe whenever schedules aligned.

  The room would fill with the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and rapid mouse movements.

  At some point, I proposed an idea.

  “What if we gather everyone and play against each other? Full room.”

  Andrew grinned.

  “That would be chaos.”

  “Exactly.”

  Word spread.

  Students from 3B and even some from Class A joined.

  Class A surprised me.

  I had imagined them as robotic.

  Instead, they were loud, competitive, borderline reckless during games.

  They studied hard.

  They played harder.

  Work hard and play hard.

  That was their rhythm.

  During those sessions, they started calling me the host.

  “You’re organizing again, right?” someone would ask.

  I coordinated matchups.

  Assigned teams.

  Managed time slots.

  It felt powerful in a different way.

  Not through humiliation.

  Through connection.

  I also confided in Andrew often.

  “One day I’ll get back at Josh,” I told him once.

  “For what?”

  “For everything.”

  Andrew leaned back in his chair.

  “Imagine this,” he said thoughtfully. “You become so successful that he asks you for help.”

  “That’s not revenge.”

  “It is if you refuse.”

  We both laughed.

  He created fictional scenarios where I emerged triumphant.

  None of them required violence.

  Just elevation.

  I never acted on revenge.

  Perhaps because I did not need to anymore.

  John was different.

  If Andrew was composed charisma, John was chaotic resilience.

  He had a habit of scratching his arms and neck frequently.

  Some skin condition, perhaps.

  Students mocked him for it.

  He earned the nickname Stray Dog.

  He responded by amplifying the persona.

  “If I’m a stray dog, at least I’m free,” he once declared dramatically.

  He acted arrogant.

  Did ridiculous impressions.

  Pulled exaggerated faces.

  Made the class laugh.

  But beneath the antics, he was perceptive.

  Surprisingly smooth in social settings.

  Especially around girls.

  There were moments when I watched him handle conversations with ease that I struggled to replicate.

  When I was quiet or withdrawn, he noticed.

  “You look like you’re thinking too much,” he would say. “Stop. It’s not productive.”

  He had a way of lifting moods without making it obvious.

  Years later, after graduation, he contacted me excitedly.

  “I bought a car,” he said. “Come down. Test drive.”

  He drove to my house personally.

  We circled the neighborhood.

  He talked about university life.

  About his girlfriend.

  About future plans.

  He seemed larger than life.

  Months later, I received the news.

  He fell asleep while driving.

  High speed collision with a truck.

  Instant.

  His girlfriend survived after surgery.

  At his funeral, the crowd was overwhelming.

  Students from university.

  Friends I had never met.

  People grieving sincerely.

  I stood there realizing how expansive his social world had become.

  My regret was simple.

  I was not as attentive to him as he had been to me.

  In this life, I may not control the moment he chooses to drive.

  But I can say one thing when the time comes.

  “If you’re tired, stop. It is not worth proving stamina.”

  And before that future arrives, I can treat him with the same loyalty he offered me without asking.

  Stepping into 3B earlier changes the timeline.

  More time with Andrew.

  More time with John.

  More exposure to Class A students.

  More distance from 3C.

  I once thought academic ranking defined everything.

  But 3B taught me something different.

  The people around you shape the version of you that survives.

  This time, I choose the room carefully.

  And I intend to protect the ones who protected me.