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I Died Once. Anyway-

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I Died Once. Anyway-

Died Once, Still Unbothered

I was painfully ordinary.

Not the tragic kind of ordinary.

Not the "hidden genius waiting to be discovered" kind either.

Just... there.

Engineering student. Third year. Alive mostly out of habit. I attended classes when attendance threatened my existence, submitted assignments five minutes before the deadline, and survived exams using a dangerous combination of intelligence, luck, and not caring enough to panic.

I was smart. I knew it.

I just didn't care enough to prove it.

Competition exhausted me. Rankings bored me. I had the brain to top exams and the motivation of a dead houseplant. People didn't notice me—not because I was ugly or weird, but because I blended in perfectly.

Like a default character.

That evening, it was raining like the universe was trying to wash itself clean. I left the library, tired, hungry, and thinking about whether instant noodles counted as dinner (they do).

That's when I heard a scream.

High-pitched. Small. The kind that makes your spine straighten before your brain clocks in.

I looked up.

A kid. Tiny. Standing in the middle of the road like he was auditioning for a tragedy. A bus was charging toward him, rain splashing like dramatic background effects.

People shouted.

Nobody moved.

I sighed.

Because of course this would happen on my way home.

I ran—not heroically, not dramatically—just fast enough to get the job done. Grabbed the kid, shoved him aside, and mentally congratulated myself for at least not dying without doing one decent thing.

The kid was safe.

Good.

Then the bus kissed me lovingly at full speed.

Rude.

Pain exploded, light flashed, and my body decided it was done cooperating. As I lay there, rain soaking through my clothes, my final thought was surprisingly calm.

Wow. I really died without achieving anything remarkable.

At least I looked cool. Probably.

Darkness followed.

I woke up annoyed.

Because death was supposed to be quiet.

Instead, there was light. And a ceiling. And breathing that wasn't mine but very much was.

I sat up and immediately noticed three things:

One — I was alive.

Two — My body felt... smaller.

Three — My voice sounded hot.

"...okay," I said, blinking.

Definitely not my voice.

I turned my head and caught sight of a mirror.

A boy stared back at me.

Pretty. Cute. Soft features. Clear skin. The kind of face that could get away with crimes if it smiled politely. Not striking enough to be memorable. Not plain enough to be ignored completely.

A perfectly forgettable pretty boy.

I raised a hand.

He raised his.

"Wow," I muttered. "I died and got an upgrade."

My heart should've been racing. I should've been screaming, crying, questioning the universe.

Instead, I leaned back against the pillow.

"So," I said to no one, "reincarnation. Possession. Second life."

Makes sense.

The memories trickled in slowly. This body belonged to a boy who existed quietly. No bullying. No admiration. Teachers forgot his name. Classmates barely registered his presence.

Ignored, but not hurt.

Honestly?

Relatable.

I stretched, feeling oddly comfortable in this borrowed skin.

New body. New gender. New life.

Same personality.

Highly intelligent? Check.

Unmotivated? Absolutely.

Competitive? God, no.

If this world expected me to strive, struggle, and shine—

Well.

They were about to be disappointed.