You'd think turning six wouldn't be a big deal. But in this rebooted version of my life, it felt monumental.
Like I could almost hear Morgan Freeman narrating over my breakfast cereal, "And thus, the child prodigy enters her final form…"
Because I wasn't just six.
I was six, a class topper, a rising YouTube star, a Korean-learning genius, and—drumroll please—the older sister to Kabir 2.0: Now with Good Genes!
Let's start with Kabir.
In my old timeline, I loved the kid to death, but let's just say… nature gave him a rough draft of a face. He had an oddly shaped head, eyebrows that looked like rejected commas, and a cry that could scare actual animals.
But this time?
This tiny bean popped out looking like a baby K-drama lead.
I'm talking: flawless skin, big sparkly eyes, and dimples that could start a fan club.
"Is this really Kabir?" I asked, squinting at the sleeping newborn.
"He's so cute!" Ma squealed, pressing kisses to his cheeks.
"No offense, but I don't think you or Papa contributed these genes. Is there a fairy godmother involved? A gene filter?"
"You're just jealous," Chachu teased.
"I'm not jealous," I scoffed, watching Kabir yawn like he was starring in a diaper commercial. "I'm just suspicious. What kind of cosmic update did he download in this life?"
Still, I couldn't deny it—he was adorable. And weirdly obsessed with me.
The second he learned to focus his eyes, he tracked me like I was the center of his tiny universe. When he giggled at my voice for the first time, I almost cried. But I didn't. Because emotions are for people who haven't studied judo on YouTube.
"Listen, Kabir," I whispered to him one night while he drooled on my arm. "You came out better this time, so don't waste your good looks. If you become an influencer instead of a dentist like last time, I swear I'll haunt you."
He blinked. Then farted.
Which, honestly, felt like a fair response.
Meanwhile, I was on a roll.
Topped my class again. Which, let's be real, wasn't that hard. Most of my classmates were still figuring out what five plus two was. I was solving basic algebra in the back of my notebook while Miss Ritu tried to teach vowels with sock puppets.
"Ahana, what is A for?" she asked one day.
"Apparently 'Apple,' but I'd like to propose 'Annoyed' because that's how I feel."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry. I meant 'Apologies.'" I gave her my most angelic smile.
Topper status? Secured.
And outside school? My YouTube channel was booming.
Ever since that video with Papa hit 100k views (I know, right?), I'd been uploading weekly: skits, "toddler reacts" videos, Korean learning clips, even the occasional fake product review where I roasted baby shampoo like a stand-up comic.
My subscriber count? Over 50,000.
At six.
People were convinced I was a prodigy. I mean, I was, but it's funnier when they say it in shocked comment sections.
"How is this six-year-old funnier than my 30-year-old boyfriend?"
"Did she just say the stock market is a scam???"
"SOMEONE PUT THIS CHILD IN A MOVIE."
I even had a mini fan base in Korea now, thanks to my "Learn Korean with Ahana-unnie!" videos, which was ironic, because most of them were still in my beginner stage.
Which brings me to… the incident.
The moment I realized being too awesome too early makes you a very specific kind of target.
See, every day during break, I'd sit under the banyan tree with a stack of flashcards and a book of Korean grammar. And yes, maybe I looked intense. And yes, maybe I said things like "Jal jinaess-eoyo" to ants when I was bored.
But I was minding my own business.
That's when Tanvi happened.
Tanvi was the kind of girl who wore pink frocks to school and thought Dora the Explorer was "low class." Her personality was like raw mango—sour, stubborn, and something you only tolerate because your mom says it's healthy.
She sauntered over with her crew—two backup dancers named Riya and Diya, who never spoke unless Tanvi did first.
"Why do you sit alone like a weirdo?" Tanvi sneered, arms folded.
"Because I like having an IQ higher than the room temperature," I replied sweetly.
She blinked. "You think you're smart just because you say weird words in Chinese?"
"It's Korean. Try reading a map."
Riya gasped like I'd slapped the Pope. Diya looked mildly constipated.
"You're not even fun," Tanvi said. "We play hopscotch. You sit here talking to leaves."
I looked at her dead in the eye. "Yeah, because leaves don't ask stupid questions like you do."
That did it.
Tanvi shoved my flashcards into the dirt.
And just like that—years of mental maturity, sarcasm training, time-travel knowledge—gone. I saw red.
I got up, dusted my palms, and very calmly kicked her shin.
It wasn't hard. Just enough to make her yelp like a startled goat.
"Did you just kick me?!" she shrieked.
"Yes," I said. "And now, because I believe in balance, I'm going to karate chop your ego."
Now, before anyone clutches their pearls—no, I didn't break any bones. I just… demonstrated some of the basic self-defense moves I'd been practicing thanks to Sensei YouTube and a rolled-up yoga mat at home.
Tanvi ended up with a bruised elbow, Riya ran to the teacher, and Diya cried for no reason, which honestly checks out.
Me? I just got a letter home.
Dadi was horrified. "What kind of girl fights like this?!"
Chachu was impressed. "Did you use the Muay Thai elbow I showed you?"
Papa said, "Beta, next time just call a teacher, okay?"
I nodded solemnly. "Next time, I'll write a detailed character assassination instead."
They didn't know whether to ground me or nominate me for a medal.
But the school didn't do much towards me. Probably because I also happened to be their only six-year-old who recently won a district-level storytelling competition and made the local paper.
"Prodigies get away with a lot," I muttered to Kabir later as he drooled on his plushie. "Remember that for future reference."
Now, between school violence, internet fame, and raising my tiny himbo brother, you'd think I'd be exhausted.
But no.
I had a mission.
I'd spent hours researching on dial-up internet (painfully slow, IYKYK), trying to find any hint of Eunwoo's whereabouts in 2009.
He'd be twelve by now. Probably still a regular kid with dreams of nothing more than snack time and Sunday cartoons. If I could just… find him. Meet him. Be friends before the fame.
Before the agencies. Before the spotlight swallowed him.
And before whatever sadness I always sensed behind his eyes took root.
That part still haunted me. Even through the fame, the smiles, the variety shows—he always looked like he was waiting for something.
"Don't worry, oppa," I whispered dramatically into the camera one night while filming a skit. "Your savior is coming. Armed with pigtails, sarcasm, and a very aggressive vision board."
That week, my subscriber count crossed 100k.
YouTube sent me a silver play button—well, actually, they emailed to ask for an address, and I gave them Chachu's office because "six-year-old internet sensation" raises eyebrows.
I did an unboxing video with Kabir in my lap, where he mostly just tried to chew the cardboard and wave at the camera.
"He's so CUTE I'm screaming!"
"Can this baby be in every video???"
"Ahana, watch and learn, this is how normal toddlers behave."
I grinned at the screen.
Because for the first time in both my lives, I felt it.
Momentum.
And I wasn't letting go.
I'm six. Fluent in sarcasm and beginner Korean. YouTube famous. Future ninja. Big sister to the nation's next heartthrob. And definitely not here to play hopscotch with people who call me weird.
If I want to get to Korea, I'll find a way. And if Eunwoo's out there, waiting for someone to see the real him—
He's about to meet a tornado named Ahana.
And trust me.
He'll never forget it.