After playtime, I walked back to the dorm feeling the familiar soreness in my arms. It was a good kind of tired—the kind that reminded you that you were trying. I packed my things early for prep, starting with the books I'd need: my French notebook, the grammar reference book I'd borrowed from the library, and my old tattered bilingual dictionary. I had already written five of the ten French sentences during class. If I pushed a little more, I could finish the rest before dinner. That was the plan.
I also pulled out my social science textbook and my science notes. History today. Biology diagrams tomorrow. I set them aside along with my exam prep book—not because I was going to finish a chapter, but because just flipping through it would keep me in touch with that rhythm.
I left out math. Just for today. We were almost at the end of the first chapter anyway. I'd already done the homework, and I knew tomorrow's study time would be the perfect moment to revise. Math needed energy. Focus. Tonight, I was reserving both for everything else.
If I managed to do this right—complete the French assignment, revise today's social and science lessons, and flip through a few pages of history—then I would have successfully finished this week's entire academic load. And we were only at Friday.
In my past life, I never had this kind of clarity. I was always reacting—chasing deadlines, making excuses, justifying breaks I hadn't earned. But this time, I knew better. After the rebirth, I didn't concern myself with big decisions or "life goals." Instead, I decided to begin with the micro events. The smallest changes, in the most ordinary days.
Because when you look back, it's not the big things that shape you. It's the quiet habits. The little choices.
And for the next four years, my academics would be crucial. Grades 9 through 12. That was the foundation—not just for marks, but for everything else that came with it: better teachers, better class sections, access to coaching materials, more personal attention. I remembered clearly—sometime around February, they'd reshuffle the sections based on performance. The topper section would get the best of everything.
If I wanted to be in that group, I didn't need a new plan or a new lifestyle. All I had to do was follow what was already in place—except more consciously.
So far, I'd stuck to my system.
Every class, the teacher would teach 2–3 pages. Instead of just listening passively or copying notes blindly like the others, I'd already pre-read those pages the night before. So when the class happened, I would reread the same content again, but this time with full awareness of what was coming. I'd mark doubts, underline new perspectives, and during free time, I would expand on them with my own notes.
That way, by the time the teacher finished the chapter, I would've completed both learning and revision.
Simple.
This week, I'd done it for English, History, Science, and even for French grammar, which used to be my weakness. If I stayed consistent, I wouldn't need to cram or panic. I could study in layers. That was the secret I didn't know in my past life.
I checked my watch. Still two hours left before study ended.
Perfect.
I opened my French book first. I wanted to finish that assignment while the evening calm still lasted. Then I'd do a focused revision of the diagrams Miss Kavitha had drawn in today's science class. Maybe I could even quiz myself—close the book and redraw them. That always helped.
History I'd keep for last. Reading about ancient civilizations just before bed had a strange way of making me dream about them. It wasn't unpleasant.
Tomorrow, I would tackle math—go over the solved examples, finish all exercise questions, and make a formula sheet just for myself. I already felt a quiet excitement thinking about it.
Because for once, I wasn't studying out of fear or competition.
I was studying because I wanted to.
By the time I finished revising the last topic from social science, the hostel warden walked into the study hall. Her voice was clear and commanding as ever, "Girls, it's time. First, go place your phones inside Hostel Bay G-2 for charging. You have five minutes. Hostel will be locked right after. Go have your dinner and be back by 8:30. We'll open the bay so you can collect your phones and begin your phone time."
A ripple of excitement passed through the room. I closed my book and joined the rest of the girls, all of us now buzzing with anticipation. For some, it was the calls. For others, the music. For me, it was both—and also something else.
A part of me was hoping for another message.
I reached our floor quickly, unlocked the bay cupboard, and placed my phone carefully in the charging slot. I also tucked in my earphones. For now, I left my books and files stacked neatly inside my cupboard. After that, I headed out with the others for dinner.
I wasn't very hungry, but the food line moved fast tonight. After dinner, I took a slow walk around the hostel grounds. A few other girls were doing the same. The evening breeze had cooled the air just enough. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear laughter—someone had probably cracked a joke outside the canteen. I checked my watch again.
8:29.
We all stood near the hostel bay, waiting. When the warden came to unlock the bay, we rushed in like little kids waiting to unwrap presents. I collected my phone and walked back to my bed with a grin.
The moment I switched it on, Amma and Appa's call notification popped up.
My heart softened. I answered immediately.
They were both on the call together this time—faces warm and full of questions. Appa asked if the hostel food was okay. Amma wanted to know if I had enough snacks left. Behind them, I could hear the sound of vessels and Santhosh yelling something in the background.
Then came the surprise.
"Your brother got your letter," Amma said, her voice carrying that quiet emotion only mothers have. "He's so excited. He's already written a reply. Says you'll get it soon."
Appa added with a chuckle, "We didn't expect the letter at all, ma. Was a pleasant surprise. Very old-school of you."
I smiled. "I just wanted something to reach home even when I'm not there."
After the call, I sat there with the phone in my lap. For a moment, it felt like the world was soft again.
And then—another notification.
The mystery person had texted me again.
"You can't keep hiding forever. At one point, we need to talk. There's not much time."
He wasn't being poetic tonight. He sounded urgent.
"Government takes too long to respond to just one complaint. We need to act. Let's divide the work, draft formal inquiries, and start contacting the right people before this gets worse."
The message left me still. I didn't reply immediately.
Instead, I read it twice.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
I didn't reply to the mystery person immediately. I needed to breathe, to think. His words echoed in my head—"We don't have much time." But wasn't that exactly what I thought I had when I was reborn?
Time.
I kept telling myself that I had four years to fix my mistakes. That I could redo school life better, protect my family, be more prepared for small, personal heartbreaks. But now, sitting in this narrow hostel bed with my phone glowing in my hand, I realized I needed more than just a list of corrected routines and revised chapters.
I needed a macro plan.
Not just for my grades or college admission or even my family's finances.
But for everything.
The disasters—both man-made and natural—that I knew were going to happen. Things that had changed the entire world in my previous life, and yet no one had expected them.
Until now, I had assumed I was the only one reborn. The only person walking through time with memories no one else had. But now, someone else—this mystery texter—was here. Someone who also remembered. Someone asking me to not just revise my life but respond to the future.
I pulled out my diary and wrote a single line across the page:
"The butterfly effect isn't a warning—it's a choice."
I remember what happened clearly. In just two years, a major flood will hit Chennai. People will say it was unprecedented, that such a disaster had never struck the city before. It will paralyze everything—transport, homes, lives. The loss wasn't just emotional. It was economic, too. Entire families pushed into poverty. And no one was ready for it.
Three years later, Appa will meet with a terrible accident. It's still hard for me to think about. One of his close friends was severely injured. A stranger who tried to help us faced death on the spot. And one more person died on the way to the hospital.
That accident changed everything for us. It was the beginning of our financial crisis. A silent start to the years of stress that followed.
And then came the pandemic. COVID-19 didn't just make people sick—it rewired society. Everything shifted. After that, countries began moving differently. Wars started. Economies collapsed into quiet recessions that people didn't even acknowledge at first.
I remember how it felt. How slowly it all sank in.
Before today, my plan was to avoid interfering. I feared that changing too much might break something else. The butterfly effect, right? A single flap of my wings and the storm might land somewhere else, on someone else.
But now…
Now, I know I can't stay still.
Maybe I won't change everything. Maybe I'll only try to soften the blow, prepare the ones I love, help where I can.
But I have to try.
I'm not just here to rewrite my life.
I'm here to re-understand the world.