Seasons in a Small Body
If there's one thing I've learned about being five, it's that time moves in strange ways. Days feel long, but months vanish before you realize it. I blinked, and spring melted into summer, and before I knew it, my calendar was full of things like "sports day," "field trip," and "parent observation day," instead of meetings, bills, and deadlines. It's a strange trade-off—stress for simplicity, but also agency for… well, nap time.
The past-life memories? Still there, but quieter now. They sit in the back of my mind like an old, dog-eared book you keep meaning to finish but never do. I don't dwell on them much these days. The more time I spend in this world, the more it just becomes… my world.
Spring meant more outdoor time, which was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, running around outside gave me an excuse to not talk too much—still working on that whole "social integration" thing. On the other, it meant endless group games, and group games meant that moment when you're picked for a team… last.
Quirkless kids don't exactly rank high in playground value. Sure, I'm faster than average—kindergarten-level average—but without a flashy ability, most of the other kids just saw me as "normal." In a world where "normal" is basically code for "boring," you learn to lower your expectations.
Case in point: tag. In my old life, I could at least hustle a bit. Now? I can dodge one kid shooting sparks from his hands, but the one with stretchy legs? That's an unfair advantage.
"Kenjiro, you're slow!" Haruto, one of my classmates, laughed as he tagged me. His fingers sparked lightly—he was careful not to shock me, but still, the show-off factor was there.
"I'm conserving energy," I said, deadpan. "For the next round."
He squinted. "That's not how it works."
"Sure it is. Ask any grown-up."
He didn't buy it, but he also didn't push. I've found that leaning into weird confidence throws kids off just enough to let me survive socially.
Summer in this body hits harder. You're smaller, closer to the ground, and somehow sweatier. I'm convinced kids produce twice the heat output of adults, like tiny malfunctioning radiators.
Our school organized "Water Day," which was basically an excuse to arm thirty five-year-olds with water balloons and plastic buckets. Predictably, the quirked kids turned it into a battlefield. One girl froze her bucket into a solid block and started rolling it at people like a weapon. The teachers, bless them, acted like this was totally fine.
I tried to stay on the defensive, using my admittedly decent reflexes to dodge. But then Yui, a girl with a quirk that let her shoot little bursts of compressed air, sent a balloon flying at me like it was shot from a cannon. Direct hit. Right in the face.
She grinned. "Gotcha!"
I wiped my face. "I'll remember this."
She tilted her head. "Remember what?"
"You'll see," I said ominously, even though I had no plan. It was mostly about maintaining the air of mystery.
By the time autumn rolled in, I'd gotten used to my classmates' quirks. They were just… normal, in their own way. What I hadn't gotten used to was the little undercurrent of "us and them" that started to appear. It was subtle—kids forming groups where everyone could do "something cool," and kids like me kind of floating in the background.
During art class one day, we were told to "make something that shows your dream for the future." A lot of the kids drew themselves as heroes. Explosions, capes, giant fists—the works.
I drew a simple picture of a book and a desk. My desk from the classroom, to be exact.
"Is that… homework?" asked Shota, one of the boys who could make his skin turn rock-hard.
"It's knowledge," I said. "Knowledge is power."
He made a face. "Power is power."
"Not always," I replied, and he didn't have an answer for that. The teacher overheard and chuckled, calling me "an old soul." Not wrong.
Winter break approached, and with it, the kind of lazy days where the teachers didn't even bother pretending we'd do real work. Snow fell early that year, and we got to play outside in big puffy coats that made us look like walking marshmallows.
I was halfway through rolling a snowball when Haruto ran up, grinning. "Bet you can't hit me!"
Challenge accepted. My throw wasn't great—tiny arms and all—but it sailed just far enough to land right in his hood. Victory.
"You're sneaky," he admitted.
"Efficient," I corrected.
It was somewhere in late winter when I noticed it. Not a big thing, not a dramatic revelation—just… moments. Little glances from teachers when they asked about our quirks and I had to say "I don't have one." The pause, the polite smile. The way other kids reacted when the topic came up—sometimes pity, sometimes smugness.
It wasn't enough to really hurt, not yet. But I could feel the gap widening. I didn't know where it would lead, but I knew it was there.
By the time spring rolled around again, I'd grown—physically and otherwise. My memories of my past life had faded into just… background noise. The here and now mattered more.
I'd made a few real friends, mostly the quieter kids. I'd learned the rhythm of the classroom, the unwritten rules of recess politics, and the art of avoiding unnecessary attention.
I still didn't have a quirk. And maybe that would matter later. But for now, it was just another fact, like the color of my hair or the fact that I hated peas.