If Secondary Year 1 was experimentation,

  Secondary Year 2 was reckoning.

  In my previous life, my rivalry with Jason never really ended after primary school.

  It evolved.

  Academics became the battlefield.

  Grades were the only weapon I had.

  He had authority.

  He had presence.

  He had that blue prefect uniform.

  I had numbers.

  Every time results were released, I would check his marks before my own.

  If I beat him in a subject, even by one mark, I would walk to his desk casually and say things like,

  “Close. Very close. You almost had me.”

  Not shouting.

  Not dramatic.

  Just precise enough to sting.

  Jason would smile tightly.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  It lasted for years.

  By tiny margins.

  Mathematics, one mark ahead.

  Science, two marks ahead.

  English, half a grade ahead.

  Always consistent.

  Always deliberate.

  I pressed the advantage every single time.

  Looking back, it was not competition.

  It was humiliation disguised as rivalry.

  Then Secondary Year 2 arrived.

  And something changed.

  He stopped reacting.

  Stopped arguing.

  Stopped defending himself verbally.

  He simply said, “Good.”

  And went home.

  I thought it was surrender.

  It was preparation.

  His grades started rising.

  Slowly at first.

  Then steadily.

  Then dangerously.

  One science exam, I beat him again by a single mark.

  I walked to his desk.

  “You need to revise more,” I said lightly. “Science seems weak.”

  He did not respond immediately.

  He reached into his pencil case.

  Pulled out a pair of scissors.

  Not joking.

  Not waving them around playfully.

  He placed them on the table and looked at me.

  “Walk away.”

  His voice was calm.

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  Too calm.

  For the first time in years, I felt something unfamiliar.

  Not anger.

  Not superiority.

  Instinct.

  An injured animal is unpredictable.

  I raised my hands slightly.

  “Relax. It was a joke.”

  He did not blink.

  “Walk away.”

  I did.

  Not dramatically.

  Not cowardly.

  Just strategically.

  That was the first moment I realized I had been pushing someone who was quietly building strength.

  By the end of Secondary Year 2, he beat me.

  Not by one mark.

  By several.

  When results were announced, he did not come to my desk.

  He did not gloat.

  He simply packed his bag and left.

  And that hurt more than any insult.

  Technically, he redeemed himself before I transferred schools.

  Technically, he won.

  The sting followed me longer than I admitted.

  In this timeline, I never pressed the pedal.

  When I beat him, I just said, “Good work.”

  When he beat me, I said, “You earned it.”

  He looked suspicious the first few times.

  “You’re not going to say anything else?”

  “No.”

  He studied me like I had changed species.

  Maybe I had.

  Lawrence was a different storm.

  He kept getting re elected as class representative.

  Confidence beats competence at thirteen.

  In my previous life, our tension simmered constantly.

  It started with that nickname.

  It escalated with exaggerated stories.

  I would tell him, “Someone said you only act tough in front of girls.”

  He would ask, “Who?”

  I would add detail.

  Fabricate tone.

  Fan flames.

  Instead of hating the supposed speakers, he redirected everything toward me.

  Because I was the amplifier.

  The transfer process to my new school required documentation.

  Signatures.

  Approval forms.

  Time sensitive.

  I needed Lawrence’s help.

  In my previous life, I approached him.

  “I need this processed quickly.”

  He stared at me.

  “Why should I rush for you?”

  “Because it’s urgent.”

  He walked away slowly, deliberately.

  When he finally brought the paper, he tossed it at my face.

  Not violently.

  But intentionally.

  It hit my cheek and fell to the ground.

  I bent down.

  Picked it up.

  No one laughed.

  That made it worse.

  Humiliation in silence is heavier.

  There was another incident.

  After school.

  Crowded street.

  No warning.

  An arm locked around my neck from behind.

  Pressure.

  Tight.

  Air thinning.

  I clawed at his forearm.

  Could not break free.

  He whispered through clenched teeth, “You think you’re clever?”

  I could not answer.

  It was the bus driver who pulled him off.

  “Enough!” the driver shouted. “You want police involved?”

  Lawrence released me.

  Walked away without looking back.

  I could not entirely blame him.

  I had planted the seeds.

  In this timeline, I never planted them.

  When I needed transfer documents, I approached him differently.

  “I’m transferring next term,” I said. “I’ll need your signature on this.”

  He looked at the paper.

  Then at me.

  “You leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused.

  “Why?”

  “Opportunity.”

  He nodded once.

  “No stories this time?”

  “No stories.”

  He signed it.

  Handed it back.

  Not thrown.

  Just handed.

  “You’re less annoying this year,” he said.

  “I’ve had practice.”

  He almost smiled.

  Almost.

  Then there was the Bear.

  The academically untouchable, mentally unstable Bear.

  Top of class.

  Top of school.

  Perpetually worshipping bears as divine entities.

  In my previous life, I exploited that.

  “Your fellow bears are struggling financially,” I would say solemnly. “They communicated through me.”

  He would open his wallet.

  “How much do they need?”

  “Whatever you can offer.”

  A few dollars each time.

  Small amounts.

  But repeated.

  “The bears wish to build an altar.”

  More money.

  He believed it.

  Lawrence once watched me and said, “That’s low.”

  “You started teasing him first,” I replied defensively.

  “Not like this.”

  “It’s only a few dollars.”

  “It’s still taking advantage.”

  I rolled my eyes then.

  I understand it now.

  Eventually, the teachers called us in.

  No investigation.

  No context.

  Just accusation.

  “You bullied him.”

  Rattan.

  Sharp sting across palm.

  I protested, “I haven’t spoken to him in weeks.”

  It did not matter.

  Narrative had already been formed.

  Teachers sided with the academically brilliant, socially fragile student.

  Justice was simple when details were inconvenient.

  In this timeline, I never touched that thread.

  When Bear said, “Sharp chins are enemies of Bear,” I replied calmly,

  “My chin is average. We are neutral.”

  He stared intensely.

  Then nodded.

  “Neutral is acceptable.”

  Progress.

  One afternoon, he approached me.

  “Do you respect Bear?”

  “I respect dedication,” I answered.

  He considered that.

  “That is compatible.”

  We never exchanged money.

  Never escalated.

  When other boys teased him, I stepped back.

  Not out of morality alone.

  But out of understanding.

  Some battles generate nothing but future punishment.

  By the time Secondary Year 2 ended in this timeline, none of the scars from before existed.

  No scissors on a desk.

  No paper thrown at my face.

  No choking on a crowded street.

  No rattan across my palm.

  Jason improved because he worked.

  Lawrence tolerated me because I stopped provoking him.

  Bear remained strange, but not exploited.

  And me?

  I learned something uncomfortable.

  Most of my previous suffering was self engineered.

  Not all of it.

  But enough.

  When the acceptance letter to the new co educational school arrived, I looked around the all male classroom one last time.

  Bottle caps on the floor.

  Lawrence arguing about seating.

  Jason reviewing notes quietly.

  Bear drawing something that looked suspiciously like a shrine blueprint.

  I felt no unfinished business.

  That was new.

  The next stage would introduce something far more complicated than male ego.

  Girls.

  Mixed classrooms.

  Social dynamics multiplied by two.

  This school was simple.

  Raw.

  Direct.

  The next one would not be.

  And this time, I would enter without enemies I created myself.