An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

After Friday’s class ended, Tyler packed his bag in a hurry and headed off campus.
Technically, all undergrads were required to live in the dorms.
But Tyler had filed a special request with the department. He had a little sister at home—still a minor, still healing—and someone had to look after her. The request had gone through. He’d been approved to leave campus every weekend.

His advisor knew. A few classmates did too.
He’d barely stepped out of the dorm building when two guys from his department waved at him, grinning. “Heading out? Gotta go take care of your sister?”
Tyler smiled back, a real one. “Yeah. Just in time to pick her up after school.”

It was the kind of exchange that didn’t mean much. Simple. Casual.
But for someone like Tyler—someone who’d gone most of his life without these harmless little moments—it meant more than he could say.
This kind of interaction, this back-and-forth that didn't cost anything but left a small warmth behind… it made life feel real somehow.

And he liked that. He liked it a lot.
He didn’t notice, as he walked with purpose toward the main gate, that just a few steps away—half-hidden by the flowerbeds—Ray Sihai was watching him, his face drawn and heavy with something ugly.
When Tyler was out of earshot, Ray turned to Justin.

“He’s living in Greenville now, right?”
Justin blinked. “I… think so?”
Ray’s tone was flat, suspicious. “Where the hell’s he getting the money to rent a place in this city? Don’t tell me that deadbeat dad of his came back and took him in.”

He’d heard the rumors. Tyler had nice clothes now. Rumors about a decent laptop. A phone. And apparently, he’d rented a whole damn apartment?
Justin looked puzzled. “Maybe it’s one of those special grants? Or a government loan or something?”
Ray snorted. “No chance.”

“My dad made sure he couldn’t even get a poverty certificate. No proof, no loan.”
Justin looked around, then whispered, “I’ll ask around. See how that little bastard got the money.”
 
Tyler hadn’t even reached the university gates when his phone buzzed. A message from Shane.

Auntie got fresh fish today. Come over for boiled fish hotpot?
Tyler typed back:
Sounds good.

The past few weekends had fallen into a kind of rhythm. Sometimes Shane came over to their place for dinner. Other times, Tyler and Emily went to his.
It wasn’t planned, exactly.
But somewhere along the line, “dinner with Shane” had become routine. Normal. Expected.

And Tyler hadn’t thought too hard about that.
One more person at the table made the place feel warmer. Emily smiled more. Laughed more. That was reason enough.
He added, after a second thought:

Uh, maybe go easy on the spice this time?
Last time, Shane’s eyes had turned bright red by the end of the meal.
Shane replied simply:

Don’t worry.
And just like that, the weight Tyler didn’t even realize he’d been carrying lifted a little.
Such a strange thing.

Why did these little messages—so ordinary, so mundane—make him feel… content?
 
When Tyler and Emily arrived, the table was already set.

Auntie Tian was just setting down the enormous pot—boiled fish, still bubbling, steam rising like a dragon’s breath. The surface shimmered red, heavy with dried chilies and Sichuan peppercorns spinning and hissing in the hot oil.
Beneath the crimson layer, pale slices of fish floated like hidden treasure.
“Whoa!” Emily inhaled sharply, hands clenched into fists of excitement. “Auntie Tian, that smells amazing! My mouth’s watering already!”

Auntie Tian beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then eat up, sweetheart, while it’s still hot. I was worried it’d be too spicy, but Mr. Xie said it was fine—he wanted the real thing, as spicy as it comes.”
Emily nodded like a soldier preparing for battle. “Good! My brother loves spicy fish! The spicier the better!”
Tyler blinked, caught off guard. Before he could correct her, Shane spoke, casual and light.

“I love it too,” he said with a soft laugh. “And this isn’t that {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} spicy—just fragrant.”
As if he hadn’t been wiping away tears the last time from just one bite.
The meal began.

As usual, Emily carried most of the conversation, chattering about school, her friends, her latest reading assignment. Tyler nudged vegetables onto her plate now and then, only half-listening. The other half of him… kept sneaking glances across the table.
Shane sat there, composed as ever—only he'd taken exactly one slice of fish.
And eaten it with half a glass of iced water on standby.

Tyler bit back a grin.
Without a word, he nudged the plate of stir-fried morning glory toward Shane. No peppers. Just garlic and oil. Safe territory.
“You promised it’d be less spicy,” he said, voice soft but pointed.

Shane didn’t answer right away.
Because Emily, sharp-eared as ever, had heard him too. She spat a fish bone into the little dish and scooped another chunk of fish into Tyler’s bowl.
“But if it’s not spicy, it’s no fun!” she said brightly. “You love it spicy, right?”

Shane, now clearly in survival mode, took another sip of water. His lips were pink from the heat. His eyes—those strangely deep ones, the color of dark glass—lifted to meet Tyler’s.
No words.
Just that steady, quiet look.

Something in Tyler’s chest skipped a beat.
He jerked his eyes away and quickly shoved a spoonful of rice into his mouth, as if the plain grains could douse whatever just sparked inside him.
Trying to chase the odd flutter out of his chest, he wiped his mouth and started talking, voice a little too loud:

“By the way, one of my roommates, Zhou Peng—he’s from Liao City? Can’t eat spicy food at all.”
“He told me that when he first moved here, he went out to a hot pot place with his parents. The staff brought over this little dipping sauce dish—just garlic, sesame oil.”
“His parents were confused, right? They’re like, where’s the sesame paste? You can’t eat hot pot without sesame paste.”

“So Zhou Peng goes up to the waiter and asks for it.”
Tyler paused, smirking at the memory.
“The waiter stares at him for a second, and asks, ‘You really want sesame paste?’ Like three times.”

“Zhou Peng’s like, ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s fine—we’ll pay extra.’”
“The guy just nods and walks away.”
Tyler paused deliberately at that point in the story, waiting just long enough for Emily’s wide, curious eyes to land on him before he continued.

“After a while,” he said, lowering his voice for effect, “the server came back… carrying an entire box.”
He held his hands out, miming the shape.
“A full box of—mahjong tiles. Clattering, shiny, the real deal.”

Emily burst out laughing. “God, that’s so bad. That’s, like… dad-joke level cold!”
It was a terrible joke.
But Tyler had told it well. Smooth, unrushed, not a single stumble—nothing like how he used to speak, stilted and unsure, as if every word had to be dragged out of him.

Across the table, Shane’s eyes shimmered, a soft glow in their depths. His smile crept up slowly, tender at the corners.
“Actually,” he said, “it was funny.”
—
After dinner, Emily flipped on the TV to watch the evening news. She had a half-hour window. Once it was up, she shut it off, packed up her books, and disappeared into the bedroom for her self-scheduled review session.

That was when Tyler and Shane took their evening walk.
When Tyler had first started staying over, these walks were quiet and awkward. Shane would sometimes ask a question or two. Tyler would answer with a sentence, maybe two. If Shane didn’t speak, neither of them did.
Silence back then had felt like something Tyler had to fix—like a broken window he needed to tape over.

But now… now they could walk in silence without the air turning heavy. Sometimes they just meandered through the garden paths, past flowerbeds and trimmed hedges, under the soft amber glow of the courtyard lamps. Tyler would look at the trees. Shane would look at the moonlight. Neither of them rushed.
Tonight, though, Tyler had come prepared.
He wanted to say something. Needed to.

He had thought about it all week. Rehearsed it quietly in his head like he used to practice his English introduction. And now, as he walked beside Shane under the rustling trees, his hands clenched tighter and tighter at his sides.
Shane said nothing.
They walked one lap, then another. Streetlights flickered on around them in neat intervals, amber meeting the gentle silver of the rising moon, casting shadows over the sycamore leaves.

Then Tyler took a breath. A long, full one.
“Shane,” he said. “Um… thanks. For helping me practice.”
He didn’t specify what kind of practice. He didn’t need to.

Shane would know.
He’d been there through all of it—helping tweak the script, running lines, adjusting pronunciation. Tyler had texted him after every milestone, like a soldier reporting progress: test scores, teacher feedback, the surprise invitation to perform live voiceover on stage.
He had been careful. Dutiful. Professional.

Now, he was crossing a line.
Shane’s voice came back, quiet. “It was nothing. Just a small thing.”
Tyler slid his hands behind his back, clenching and unclenching them.

This next part… wasn’t part of any report. Wasn’t contractual.
Another breath. In. Out.
“This semester,” he said slowly, “two of my classmates in the advanced section… they were from Milltown.”

He didn’t say anything more than that.
He didn’t talk about the years of bullying, about how the teachers had looked away. He didn’t mention names. He didn’t describe the laughter, the torn notebooks, the cornered walkways.
But saying this much—even this vague, this carefully edited—was already more than he’d said to anyone in years.

And with it came the tremors. His teeth began to chatter. His spine buzzed like live wire.
That was when Shane’s arm wrapped around his shoulders.
The same way it had in the hospital hallway.

The same way it had in the rain.
Strong, steady. Wordless.
Tyler exhaled slowly into that quiet.

Shane didn’t ask for more.
He just held him close, one arm curled around Tyler’s shoulder, the other brushing softly through his hair.
Then he said, in a voice so low it nearly disappeared into the breeze:
“You got into the advanced section. You were the one recommended. They must’ve hated that.”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah.”
He had seen Ray Sihai’s face twist. Seen the cracks run through that smug mask like spiderweb glass.
Shane asked, still soft, “And how did you feel?”

Tyler hesitated.
Then clenched his jaw.
“I felt—”

A pause.
Not because he didn’t know.
Because saying it required more than knowing. It required letting someone see.

And that still didn’t come easy.
He finally got it out. Voice trembling, but clear.
“I felt great.”

His breath hitched. “Seeing them like that… it felt really great.”
He knew how childish it sounded. Knew he sounded like a little kid, bragging about getting his toy back after someone stole it.
But it was real.

And it was his.
Shane let out a low hum, then leaned down—just slightly—and rested his forehead gently against Tyler’s.
“Yeah,” he said.

“It does feel great.”
“And I’m really, really happy for you.”