My name is Remi. I'm 23. I'm a musician. If you live in Los Angeles, you might have heard of my band: the Marionettes. We're sort of a regular in the live circuit. If you like cute girls and punk rock, you should probably check us out. I'm not going to pretend to be humble. We're pretty awesome. Fuck it. I'm pretty awesome. I love my life. I'm not going to apologize for that. I'm proud of who I am. I'm hot, confident, successful. I just wish that I'd realized it sooner. It took me a long time to figure shit out. I had a rough childhood and long story short: there are better ways for a kid to deal with a divorce than acting out and picking on kids. I've always regretted the insufferable little bitch I was, but I also know that it came from a place of real suffering. If it sounds like I'm just waxing poetic, though, I'm not. You see, the year is 2030 and well, time travel is a whole thing. Discovered less than two years ago, it has completely rocked society. Technological progress is exponential when you can information-share *backwards*. Hundreds of millions of man hours have been devoted to perfecting the process and safeguarding its use. Every field of science from quantum mechanics to nuclear power have seen breakthroughs almost on the daily, and the governments of the world are struggling to keep up with all the changes that keep hitting us. People are calling it the 'Singularity'. Even regular people can get in on the action now, although this new and boutique industry has all kinds of regulations. It's not the golden ticket to infinity that people thought it would be, at least for us plebs. Can't trust the masses with anyone remotely dangerous, you know? The rules are hammered into you when you're going through the registration process. To provent anyone from damaging the timeline, a traveler may not interact with anyone except *their past self.* You must carry a device that somehow pre-emptively records your conversations and loudly censors any information that may allow people to significantly alter the timeline. You may not travel to any two points in time that are less than five years apart. You may not travel to any point earlier than you have already been. So, like I said: not that great. But I'm also kind of glad that no one is accidentally going to bring about mecha-Hitler or erase me from existence. Plus, it's still pretty awesome. I'm actually going to be able to help little me out. My dad was in the military (which might explain a couple of my piercings...), so when my parents got divorced, things were extra shit. My mom got kicked out of base housing and I got thrown into a whole new city just in time to start junior high school. They actually timed it that way, as if finalizing the paperwork over summer vacation would somehow make things easier on me. I still remember the night my mom told me that it was really happening. There wasn't going to be any magical solution to their problems. I was eleven years old. I was a month out of elementary school. We *would* be filling those boxes in the living room and I would *not* be seeing any of my friends in school next month. I remember the taste of my own snot in the pillow I cried into all night. Now, time travel is the very definition of an exact science. You can choose when and where down to the meter and millisecond. I chose that night. I chose my bedroom closet. Cracking the door, I peer into my childhood bedroom and am hit with a tidal wave of nostalgia. 'I' am already asleep. My bed is a disheveled mess, the sheets still damp with tears. I have to be careful about I introduce myself, but the company has provided a script. They've gamed out my younger self's reactions for the first three exchanges using recursive quantum branching, whatever that is. All I have to do is follow through with the script and deliver them with something approaching authenticity. I crouch down by the bed. I brush aside her messy auburn hair, sticky with snot and tears. I say while she's just beginning to stir: "Remi, wake up. I'm from the future." "Yeah, right," she mutters into her pillow, still half asleep. She shoves my hand away. "No, seriously. Wake up. I'm you. You have to see this. You're *awesome*." Another angry moan, but soon an eye cracks open. Then it's just like they said it'd be. She screams. She lurches away, scrambling to the far side of the bed and clutching the blankets to her scrawny little body in raw, instinctual fear. "Who the fuck are you?!" she squeals. I knew all of this would happen, and it's still unbearably awkward. This little girl is staring at me like I'm a fucking criminal here to... I don't know? How real is an eleven-year-old's imagination? Do they have Adult Fears yet? I fucking hope not. I try to smile honestly. No creeper energy allowed. They were very specific about that. "I'm you!" I announce, all celebratory and smiles. "Don't you recognize yourself all grown up?! I'm from the future!" And just like they predicted, she just stares. She stares long as hard as I stand up straight, hands out at my sides like some kind of ridiculous princess, and do a little spin. Denim shorts. Fishnet tights. Choker. I am a 5'1'' adorable little firecracker with bright green eyes and just all the spunk. Boys love me. Fans love me. Hopefully, kids love me, too. I don't usual deal with them. "...You're *from the future?*" she eventually says, and not in disbelief. The script worked. "Yes, Remi. The future. Like, with lasers and stuff," I state all light and fun. I'm not even lying. There are lasers now. It's sort of a problem. "What do you think are the chances that someone that looks *just* like you, but older, hotter, and totally badass, shows up in *your* room in the middle of the night and *isn't* from the future? Pretty close to zero, right?" She just nods dumbly. "Right?! Plus, I have *this*." I almost fail to pull a little black notebook out of my back pocket. I could have worn looser fucking pants, but this is supposed to be a power play. The cover is old and frayed, its thin spine twisted and the whole thing folded in half to fit into what the fashion industry has collectively decided count as pockets, but see recognizes it instantly. I can see it in those big, bulging green eyes. "Where did you get that?!" she cries, finally unsticking herself from the darkest corner of her bedroom wall. This is the journal in which little elementary-school-me had confided all of her deepest troubles and darkest fears. Granted, when I skimmed through it a few days ago, it all seemed like a bunch of trivial preteen angst, but to the girl suddenly scrambling forward to snatch it out of my hand? It's a life story. She yanks it open. The pages are all full. She skips to the end. Just like the one stashed in the back of her little study desk, this one is almost full. It has a year and a half of neat little messages, each named and dated because that's how they did it on TV. Among the final entries, she finds the one she'd written this evening: angry scribbles about how her mother (and only her mother) had announced the finalized divorce. She wanted her to have time to process before dad got back from deployment, so there would be less drama while he helped them move. It had been a speech, not a discussion, and the discoloration from her tears are still discernable on the pages. It was a little embarrassing clearing this thing with the eggheads back in the present. But there were only a couple pages after that, mostly about the move to the Los Angeles. I grew out of diaries after that. It will be fine to let her read it. Actually, it's lowkey cute. She scooches over and clicks on her little reading lamp and everything. She reads every word with all of the narrow-eyed scrutiny of a detective looking for clues. "Obviously, you're going to be moving this month," I say, trying to break the silence that has descended and threatens to devour the mood. I can't clean that fact up with a cheery smile, so I don't even try. "They don't even apologize," she gapes, and I have to avoid choking up at how her little voice cracks when she says it. Of course she found that part. "Mom and dad are going through a lot of shit right now," I explain. "There's stuff they aren't telling you. They're suffering too. And you know dad. He never apologizes for anything. He just tries to fix it." "Which is why he's taking the weekend to help us move..." "Yeah..." I chose this night because I knew for fact that I was all cried out. As she sits there, unable to look at me (basically a stranger), I know how empty and directionless she's feeling. I know that she *wants* to start crying again. But it also seems like I was right. She's too exhausted to find the tears. "Mind if I, uh, yeah, I'll just... why don't you scooch over?" I say, almost appreciating the authenticity that comes with a total lack of eloquence. I push my way onto the bed, trying and failing to do the whole friendly-big-sister thing. "Look, here's the thing. I came back here because there's something that I wanted you to know. So when I say this, I want you to listen carefully and really try to *get it*, okay?" "...Yeah?" Fuck. She even sounds like me.

"Out of all the people that are going to talk to you about this, I can promise you that I understand what you're going through better than anyone. Today sucks. Like, it's probably the worst day of our life at this point. It's not fair, and it's totally cool for you to be upset right now. And there are going to be worse days than this. School fucking sucks, just like on TV," I promise. "But things are going to get better for you. A *lot* better. You just have to be patient." "Better how?" "Not important. Keep listening," I bark, deep in my own speech. If my mother can lecture me for an hour about her selfish bullshit, I can lecture myself for two minutes about my tenuous mental health. "Today's sort of a pivotal moment in our life. We're going to kind of fall off the beaten path for a while. And well... I'm here to tell you that you can't be angry about it. You can't take out all your frustration on everyone else. You're going to regret it, it's not going to make you feel any better, and it's only going to make your life worse. You have to be nice. Even if you don't feel like it. Just pretend or something, at least at school. If you want to fight with someone, fight with mom. She's old enough to handle it." She just sits there quietly for a moment, tears bubbling up and clearly confused. She has no idea the drama she's going to cause in middle school, or the fights she's going to get into in high school. She's not a mean, spiteful little bully... yet. But she's going to remember this night, and she's not going to let herself become one. I'm going to make sure of it. "It's not my fault any of this is happening. Why do I have to just sit back and take it? It isn't freaking fair!" Ha. 'Freaking'. I forgot that I used to talk like that. "Y-Yeah. It's totally not fair. And the whole 'life isn't fair' line is crap anyway. But nothing you do is going to make it fair, either. They're splitting up. And honestly? That part is for the best. Deep down, you know it." She swallows, hard. "Yeah..." I'm a little surprised how well that line worked. Though, there is probably a special kind of authority that comes from hearing something literally *from your own mouth*. Still, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I've said what I came here to say. "Besides," I add with a smile, slapping a hand on little me's shoulder and giving her a playful shake, "you grow up into a total badass. I mean, *look at me*." I know I've averted the waterworks when she glances over and really takes in the beautiful woman sitting right there beside her. And like every little girl without an awareness of boundaries (or are there even really boundaries when it's technically yourself?), she places a curious hand on my thigh and gawks, "I am pretty hot at thirty." "I'm TWENTY-THREE, YOU LITTLE SNOT!" "...Seriously?" I close my eyes. I gracefully push myself off my old bed. I pivot. "Seriously. Now, can you promise me that you're going to take all this crap life is throwing at you in stride and at least *try* to make some friends in your new school? And can you *please* be careful about how you treat other girls in the locker room? Big girls have enough shit to deal with already. If you aren't careful, you're going to regret gym class for the rest of your life." "...that doesn't sound like me..." I clap my hands, all smiles again. "Exactly! Well then, I feel really *heard* right now. This is a big relief." "Why are you dressed like that, though?" I can't help but grin. Innocently, I pat myself down, acting confused. I made sure to wear concert clothes. I'm in this fitted red tee that hugs just all the naughty little curves of my body. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm pretty busty for a five-foot-and-change little midget. I know exactly the kind of music I was listening to at this age, and I look exactly like one of the girls in those music videos. The shorts. The leggings. The lipstick. "I'm in a band! I'm a lead singer for The Marionettes. We're kind of a big deal. Like, underground-record-deal sort of famous." Her sparkly little green eyes bulge wider than dinner plates. "I'm in a freakin' band?!" "Uh, yeah?! And you're a total badass on stage, too," I wink, throwing up a rock & roll sign and sticking out my tongue. I know it's lame, but remember: she is eleven. Plus, the shit we do in 2030 isn't going to translate very well to elementary school meme culture. She has so many questions. I let her ask all of them. That night, she doesn't get much sleep. She can't believe how awesome her life is. I love being able to tell her. She'll look back on this night for the rest of her life. It will be the rock that she clings when life threatens to sweep her away. It's exactly what I always wanted. It's why I came. It's early into the morning when we eventually say our tearful goodbyes. I promise to come back and visit again as soon as I can. I step into the closet, activate my failsafe, and flicker soundlessly out of time and space.

That night stuck with little eleven-year-old me. It was exactly the heart-to-heart that I needed to handle my fucked up life. Most girls that age feel vulnerable, self-conscious, and anxious. But getting a sneak-peak into what a beautiful and talented woman I would grow into went a long way towards tackling those difficult emotions. It wasn't a gift that normal girls got, and it was one I promised myself that I would use earnestly. It gave me a whole new perspective. I loved music, but now I knew that it was my future. I felt comfortable practicing my art, begging my parents for vocal and guitar lessons, and spending all my free time making amature covers and totally cringe youtube garbage because I knew that it wasn't just some stupid waste of time. I didn't fret about my fashion identity like other girls my age because I'd seen first-hand what was supposed to define me. I was fun, feisty, and so ever-the-fuck foxy. I was a total bad girl. The other kids had no idea what they were yet, so it gave me the confidence to forgive their petty bullshit and make friends. I fought with my mom a lot, but I never let their divorce define my childhood. My future defined me! I just had to follow my heart and wait for it to all come true. Now, I *did* put on a little weight over junior high school. Gym class in Los Angeles public schools is sort of, like, voluntary in the sense that no one gives a fuck if you just phone it in. As long as you look like you're following along in warmups, no one cares whether you actually *do* the situps. I had better shit to do than run laps, and I figured out pretty early on that I could just duck out halfway and no one would come looking for me. I spent the extra time writing song lyrics or playing nice with my friends over IM or whatever. Needless to say, I was a squishy kid. But it wasn't, like, a *problem*. Back-to-school shopping freshman year of high school was the first time I actually broke down and bought L-sized jeans. I'd been an especially lazy little couch-potato that summer and I remember fighting so hard to get my usual mediums up my thick, squishy-soft thighs. I had to go one leg at a time, neatly pinching and sharply tugging. I even managed to get them over *my* ass, and even at 15 that was a lowkey accomplishment. Unfortunately, even my mom couldn't get them buckled and believe me: We tried. Sucking it all in just didn’t cut it anymore. Letting it all slouch out was even worse, especially in front of my mom. She legit laughed, but I was fucking inconsolable. I couldn't start high school in fucking fat girl pants, you know? I was supposed to be the cool badass, not the chubby fatass. We went to three different stores before my mom gave up. I wanted to keep looking. She made me buy what fit. She said it flattered my shape more, anyway. This is going to sound stupid, but for the longest time I just sort of assumed jeans were *supposed* to give you a muffin top. Like, that's how you knew they were tight enough. They lifted that sloppy booty and shaped those healthy thighs, right? It wasn't until halfway through high school that I realized you just needed to buy looser pants. Or I mean, you *should* buy looser pants. A girl isn’t doing herself any favors fighting against her dress size. But to 15-year-old me freaking out in H&M because my mom wouldn't at least take us back to urban outfitters to get my style? Those L's were the end of the fucking world. I'm ashamed to say I legit ugly-cried. Right there between the racks of $30 one-pieces that wanna-be bourgie girls buy because they're too poor to replace the lack of a personality with branding. I did buy them, though. I wore them, too. They were comfy. No more flashing panties when I sat down, so... that was nice? Plus, they weren't like *ugly*. They were tight and black and ripped and cool, just like me. And technically, no one *knew* what size I was wearing. When the first few days weren't the apocalypse I'd been building up in my head, I just sort of let myself be okay with it. After all, I was only a few pounds heavier than last year. And I was only a few pounds heavier than the year before that. Whenever my mom pinched my love handles and joked about getting some exercise, I'd just shrug it off and assured anyone who cared that I'd grow out of it. I didn't actually eat that much, and I still had a couple inches to go before I hit the towering heights of 5'1'', so I was able to grin and bear being the curviest girl in a bikini every summer and the slowest girl to walk her way through laps every gym class because for me, chubby was just a phase. I'd slim down in a few years just like that. No more jellybelly bulging over my pants in math class. No more friends slapping my big butt because *curvy girls are so lucky* or whatever bullshit they thought made us feel better. And best of all, no more sucking in those extra inches for photos! I was going to be a rock star: a perfectly skinny, stupidly sexy, confident little rock star. I just had to keep my head down and follow the rules. I wasn't going to let petty high school bullshit and some stubborn baby fat get me down. I was going to be fucking awesome! Obviously, I was a fucking idiot. But I didn’t realize it at the time. I also didn’t know any of this when I flickered into my bedroom closet for the second leg of my tour. I wouldn’t merge with my past until it caught up with me, and that wouldn’t happen so long as I could still change it. I had no idea how much I’d changed my past with that one little night. It was a big surprise.

If you liked this and think you'd like to RP with me, I'm currently looking for players for an online TRPG: https://www.reddit.com/r/WeightGainRP/comments/1hrfchm/f4a_isekai_trpg/ I'll post more later :D