The afternoon light filtered through the classroom windows, casting long golden rectangles across the desks. The review session had run longer than expected, and Lysander could feel a mixture of mental stimulation and physical fatigue as he set down his pencil. Around him, Erica, Jin, and a boy named Adrian whom he'd been introduced to during the session—were also finishing their work.
Ms. Gonzalez glanced at her watch. "I think that's enough for today. You've all done exceptionally well." She gathered the worksheets, tapping them against the desk to align the edges. "Why don't you take a break? The cafeteria should still be open, or you can visit the vendors outside the gate if you prefer."
Mr. Aquino, a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses that perpetually slid down his nose, nodded in agreement. "Good idea. We'll continue our discussion of strategies for the coming competition when you return."
The four students gathered their belongings, chairs scraping against the tiled floor as they stood. Jin stretched his arms above his head, stifling a yawn.
"I'm starving," he announced. "Cafeteria food today isn't too bad I checked the menu this morning. They're serving palabok."
Adrian, a slight boy with neatly combed hair and thick glasses, perked up at this. "Really? I love their palabok. And it's cheaper than buying outside."
Erica slung her backpack over one shoulder. "I'm in the mood for isaw though. I think I'll head to the vendors outside." She glanced at Lysander. "What about you, Everett? Cafeteria or street food?"
Before Lysander could respond, Jin and Adrian were already edging toward the door.
"We'll go ahead to the cafeteria," Jin said. "Need to save some money for the new calculator my mom promised if I make the final team." He waved as he and Adrian exited, their animated conversation about calculators fading as they disappeared down the hallway.
As the door closed behind them, Ms. Gonzalez and Mr. Aquino remained at the front desk, heads bent over the students' worksheets. They spoke in low voices, but in the now-quiet classroom, their words and thoughts unbeknownst to Lysander.
"Look at Everett's work," Ms. Gonzalez was saying, her finger tracing across a page. "Perfect scores across all sections. Even the bonus problems."
Mr. Aquino adjusted his glasses, leaning in for a closer look. "Impressive. He's always been a good student, but this... this shows remarkable aptitude."
"What's most striking is the approach," Ms. Gonzalez continued. "See here? The way he solved this optimization problem—it's elegant, almost... professional in its efficiency. I've never seen a fifth-grader think this way."
Mr. Aquino nodded slowly. "Perhaps we should consider moving him up to the advanced group immediately, rather than waiting."
Their voices faded as Lysander and Erica moved into the corridor. Overthinking some things, Lysander thought to himself. Maybe he needed to be more careful about revealing the full extent of his abilities. In his eagerness to participate in the Olympiad again, he may have forgotten to temper his responses to match what would be expected of a gifted but still normal ten-year-old.
"Earth to Lysander," Erica said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Where should we go? I'm thinking the fishball stand has the shortest line right now."
Lysander blinked, bringing his attention back to the present. "Sorry, just thinking about those problems. Street food sounds good to me."
They walked side by side through the emptying school hallways. Most students had already departed for home, leaving behind the peculiar stillness that settles over a school in late afternoon the quiet hum of custodial work, distant voices from administrative offices, the occasional slam of a locker.
As they passed the school's main bulletin board, festooned with announcements and colorful flyers, Lysander's eyes caught on a large poster advertising the upcoming Sports Festival. The sight of it triggered a cascade of memories, transporting him back to his first life's fifth-grade experience.
It had been late September, just like now. The same poster, the same excited buzz throughout the school. But for the original Lysander, the Sports Festival had been a source of acute anxiety rather than anticipation.
He remembered it with vivid clarity being called to the front of the class by Ms. Gonzalez, who had announced that he would be one of the class representatives for the opening ceremony. The position required him to perform a talent in front of the entire school. The other representative was a girl who played the violin beautifully; she had readily accepted. Lysander, however, had stood frozen, unable to decline but equally unable to imagine himself performing on stage.
He hadn't told his parents. His father would have dismissed his anxiety as weakness, and his mother would have worried unnecessarily. Instead, he'd spent nights lying awake, mind racing through scenarios, each ending in humiliation. What talent could he possibly showcase? He wasn't musical, and wasn't athletic back then. His strengths lay in blending in and quiet study hardly performative skills.
The day of the festival had dawned bright and clear. The school was transformed streamers hanging from every possible surface, makeshift stages erected in the quadrangle, the smell of food wafting from stalls set up by parent volunteers. Students and teachers alike buzzed with excitement, dressed in colorful house shirts rather than the usual uniforms.
Lysander had arrived early, stomach churning with dread. While classmates gathered in excited clusters, he had slipped away to hide in their homeroom the one place guaranteed to be empty during a festival. There, he'd curled into himself at his desk, breath coming in short, painful gasps, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room's air conditioning. A full-blown anxiety attack his first, though not his last.
He hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't noticed he wasn't alone until a movement caught his peripheral vision. There, at her usual seat by the window, sat Erica Santos. A book lay open before her, her finger marking her place as she looked up at him.
Their eyes had met across the empty classroom. Lysander, embarrassed to be caught in such a state, had tried to compose himself, to force regular breathing. Erica had simply watched him for a moment, her expression neither pitying nor judgmental just observant.
Then she had spoken, her voice as clear and steady as a stream flowing over stones: "You don't have to go up there, you know. You can just be here instead."
Seven simple words. Yet they had cut through his panic like nothing else could have. The permission to opt out, to choose his own comfort over others' expectations it had been revolutionary to the anxious, approval-seeking child he'd been.
His breathing had gradually slowed. The tightness in his chest had loosened. Erica had returned to her book without another word, but her presence had been oddly comforting. They had sat in companionable silence as the sounds of the festival floated through the windows music, laughter, cheering.
Later, when Ms. Gonzalez had found them and asked why they weren't at the opening ceremony, Erica had smoothly explained that Lysander wasn't feeling well and she'd stayed to make sure he was okay. The teacher had accepted this without question, and Lysander had been spared both the performance and any serious repercussions.
That day had marked the beginning of his quiet infatuation with Erica Santos. Not because she was pretty (though she was), or smart (though that was undeniable), but because in a moment when he'd felt utterly alone, she had acknowledged his struggle without making him feel weak for it. She had offered him sanctuary without demanding explanation.
In his first life, he'd never found the courage to thank her properly. Their paths had diverged after elementary school different high schools, different universities, different lives. By the time he'd built Everett Enterprises into a corporate giant, the memory had been buried under layers of ambition and achievement. But it had remained, a small kernel of grace in an otherwise ruthlessly pragmatic existence.
Now, walking beside a ten-year-old Erica who had no knowledge of that day—a day that, in this timeline, lay in their future Lysander felt a strange mixture of gratitude and anticipation. Would history repeat itself? Or would his changes to the timeline alter even this small but significant moment?
"Lysander!" Erica's sharp voice and snapping fingers directly in front of his face jolted him back to reality. They had reached the school gates, beyond which stretched a colorful array of food vendors. The air was rich with the mingled aromas of frying oil, grilled meats, and sweet treats.
"Sorry," he said, blinking rapidly. "Got lost in thought."
Erica studied him with narrowed eyes. "You've been doing that a lot lately. One minute you're completely present, the next you're somewhere else entirely." She gestured toward the vendors. "Anyway, we're here now. What do you want to eat? There's fishball, isaw, kwek-kwek..." Her voice trailed off as she surveyed the options.
Lysander looked at the line of stalls, each with its own specialty, each with its own queue of hungry customers. Beyond them lay Manila's busy streets, traffic flowing in eternal congestion, the afternoon sun glinting off car windows and metal rooftops. The scene was at once ordinary and extraordinary a fragment of daily life that he'd once been too preoccupied to properly appreciate.
"Earth to Lysander, again," Erica said, waving her hand. "Are you going to choose something, or should I pick for you?"
Lysander smiled, fully present now in this second chance he'd been given. "Let's try a bit of everything," he suggested. "I'm suddenly very hungry."