The Art of Looking Like You Belong
I woke up to the distinct sound of my alarm clock, which in this world was less "pleasant digital beep" and more "tiny nuclear meltdown in a plastic box." It was still dark outside, which was my first clue that this wasn't going to be a vacation kind of morning.
For the record, I've never been a morning person. In my previous life—whatever fragments of it I still remember—anything before 9 a.m. was considered "the middle of the night" and deserving of legal protection from wakefulness. But apparently, this new life had school starting at a time that even farmers would look at and go, "Too early, bro."
I sat up in bed, hair in what I could only describe as a crime against geometry. The mirror across from me confirmed my suspicions: I looked like someone had tried to draw a human from memory after only glancing at one once.
"Alright," I told my reflection. "Let's try not to ruin today before breakfast."
Breakfast, as it turned out, was already in progress by the time I shuffled into the kitchen. Mom was at the stove, humming to herself, flipping something on the pan. Dad was in his usual spot with his newspaper, because apparently newspapers still existed here.
"Morning, Kenjiro," Mom said, smiling like she didn't notice I looked like a sleep-deprived feral raccoon. "Sit down, I'm making tamagoyaki."
Now, back in my old world, breakfast was usually coffee and whatever carbohydrate was closest to my desk. Here? Perfectly rolled sweet omelets and rice. I could get used to this.
"How's my boy feeling?" Dad asked without looking up from the paper.
I briefly considered saying, Like an imposter in a child's body in a superhero world I know nothing about, but settled for, "Pretty good. Ready for school."
That wasn't a lie, exactly. I was ready in the sense that I owned clothes and could physically walk to the building. Mentally? That was another matter.
The walk to school was short, which was great because it gave me less time to overthink. Kids were heading the same way, most in identical uniforms, chatting in groups. Some were using their Quirks openly—levitating books, stretching their arms to ridiculous lengths, casually running faster than traffic. I had to keep my face neutral, like this was all normal to me, like I'd seen a kid with six eyes and a girl whose hair floated in midair every day of my life.
Pro tip: if you don't want people to know you're out of place, don't stare. I learned that one fast.
Inside the school gates, I was swept along with the crowd until I found my classroom. Room 1-B. The desks were small, but my "new" body fit them perfectly, which was weird in itself. I took a seat near the middle, because the middle is the Switzerland of classroom seating: neutral territory, not too conspicuous, not too hidden.
"Hey, you're the new kid, right?"
I turned to see a boy with dark hair and a wide grin leaning on my desk. His eyes were bright—too bright for this hour.
"Yeah. Kenjiro," I said, keeping it simple.
"I'm Kaito," he said. "What's your Quirk?"
Ah. Right. The inevitable question.
"I don't have one."
His grin faltered for half a second before he smoothed it back into place. "Oh. Well, that's okay. You can still be cool without one."
"Good to know," I said dryly. "I'll put that on my résumé."
He laughed, like I'd told the best joke he'd heard all week, and plopped into the seat in front of me.
The teacher arrived a few minutes later, a tall man with sharp glasses and a voice that could probably cut through steel. He introduced me to the class with a brief, "This is Kenjiro Ito. Treat him well," before launching straight into the lesson.
Math. Thankfully, numbers seemed to work the same in this world as they did in my last one, so I wasn't completely lost. I copied notes, answered a question or two when called on, and otherwise tried to blend in.
It was working—until PE class.
It was "Obstacle Course Day" at kindergarten.Which, in theory, sounded like fun.In practice? It was like someone had looked at "American Ninja Warrior," handed the plans to a bunch of sugar-rushed five-year-olds with superpowers, and said "Go wild."
The course was simple: hop through hula hoops, crawl under a low net, balance on a beam, and then finish by tossing beanbags into a basket. Easy… unless you were competing against kids who could levitate, stretch like chewing gum, or turn the beanbags into heat-seeking projectiles.
"Kenjiro, you're up next!" my teacher called.
I stepped forward, trying to channel my inner athlete. In my past life—what little I remembered of it—I was not exactly an Olympian, but I could run without tripping over my own feet. This body, however, was still new. My legs felt shorter than I was used to, my balance weird.
The first part went fine. I hopped through the hoops with all the grace of a caffeinated rabbit. Crawling under the net? Also fine—until the kid behind me used his quirk to shrink into the size of a tennis ball and zipped past.
The balance beam was my nemesis. I took two steps, wobbled, regained my balance——and then a gust of wind from a girl flapping tiny wings knocked me clean off. I landed in the grass, dignity mildly injured.
By the time I got to the beanbag toss, half the class had already finished. I picked up the beanbag, took aim, and tossed it… only for a boy with telekinesis to "accidentally" redirect it into the wrong basket. The teacher clapped politely, because apparently "effort" counted for something.
I wasn't the fastest, the strongest, or the most creative. But I did finish.And as I sat in the grass, watching the quirk kids show off, I realized something.If I was going to survive in this world, I didn't have to be the best.I just had to be good enough to keep up.
Navigating the cafeteria was like entering an ecosystem with its own unspoken rules. Kids clustered by friend groups, some grouped by similar Quirks—fire kids with fire kids, plant manipulators with other nature types, and so on.
Kaito waved me over to a table in the corner. He'd saved me a seat, which I was genuinely grateful for.
Across from us sat a girl with green-tinted hair and round glasses. She was sketching something in a notebook.
"This is Midori," Kaito said. "Midori, Kenjiro. He's new."
She glanced up briefly. "Quirk?"
"None," I said.
"Interesting," she murmured, scribbling something down.
"Should I be concerned about what you're writing?" I asked.
"No," she said, still not looking up. "Probably."
I decided not to pursue that.
Lunch was actually good—rice, miso soup, grilled fish. As I ate, I listened to Kaito and Midori talk about upcoming school events, homework, and some recent villain attack in the city. I kept quiet, absorbing the way they spoke about this world, the casualness of it all.
Back home—well, my old home—superpowers were fiction, the stuff of movies and comics. Here, they were just part of the weather report.
After lunch, the teacher clapped her hands and cheerfully announced, "Alright, everyone, it's nap time!"
Nap time.
I stared at her like she'd just suggested we all enter cryogenic stasis. The other kids immediately grabbed their little blankets and pillows, plopping down on the mats like they'd been doing this their whole lives — which, to be fair, they had.
Meanwhile, I was a 19-year-old man in a 5-year-old body, trying to process the fact that I was about to lie down next to a kid who still occasionally chewed on crayons.
The lights dimmed. The room filled with the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional sigh. I lay flat on my back, hands over my chest like a corpse, staring at the ceiling and trying really hard not to think about how bizarre my life had become.
From somewhere to my left, a kid was already snoring. From my right, someone whispered, "Kenjiro, why aren't you closing your eyes?"
Because I've done my time in the nap mines, kid. Because I drink coffee for fun. Because the idea of sleeping in a room full of tiny strangers feels like a weird social experiment.
But instead, I just muttered, "Not sleepy," and rolled onto my side.
Five minutes later, I was out cold.
Back at home, Mom asked about my day. I gave her the highlight reel—math was fine, gym was humbling, lunch was good. She listened with that patient smile moms seem to have perfected.
After dinner, I sat by my window, watching the city lights. Somewhere out there were heroes and villains, epic battles, and people changing the course of history with their powers. But here in my little corner, life was smaller.
And maybe… that was okay.
For now.
Later that night, as I was brushing my teeth, I had a flicker of memory—just a fragment. My old apartment. The smell of instant noodles. The glow of a computer screen.
It was gone as quickly as it came, like someone flipping through a photo album and slamming it shut.
I didn't know why I was here, or if I'd ever remember everything. But I knew this much: tomorrow, I'd get up, go to school, and keep figuring it out.
One day at a time.