An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

That morning, Professor Leaf Shao—advisor to the Computer Science Class of ’01, Group 2—received an anonymous letter.
He read it once. Then again. Each time, his frown deepened, folding across his forehead like a plow carving lines into dry earth.

The letter was three pages long, printed neatly in Times New Roman. He carried it across his dorm-sized office, pacing, muttering, until finally he sighed and picked up his phone. He needed to speak with Dean Zhu.
Dean Zhu, head of student affairs for the department, was a man of nearly sixty with a reputation for even-keeled judgment. He listened without interruption as Leaf laid the letter on his desk.
When he finished reading, Dean Zhu didn't scowl or sigh. He simply set the letter aside with the same detached care he might use to close a file folder.

“Well,” he said mildly. “What do you plan to do?”
Leaf was still visibly frustrated, though he tried to keep his voice level. “Nothing.”
“This thing—it’s all implication. No proof. Just a hatchet job dressed up in moral concern.”

He gestured sharply at the letter. “We work so hard to get these kids here, and instead of focusing on their own studies, someone’s wasting energy writing this trash?”
Because that's what it was—three pages of veiled accusations and bitter innuendo, all boiling down to one pointed claim:
Tyler, a student in Group 2, was morally corrupt. He had, supposedly, received money and gifts from a same-sex partner in exchange for “illicit favors.” The letter went on to declare that his behavior was an embarrassment to the university, a stain on its century-old legacy, and a toxic influence on his peers.

Leaf had to stop himself from laughing. The absurdity of it—righteous fury directed at a nineteen-year-old boy who’d clawed his way here from nothing. A kid who, as the letter helpfully detailed, dared to own a smartphone, a laptop, and a decent pair of shoes.
“Apparently,” Leaf said dryly, “Tyler having clean clothes is now considered evidence of degeneracy.”
“I mean—how badly do you have to want to ruin someone to write something like this?”

Compared to Leaf’s simmering outrage, Dean Zhu remained calm. He asked a few questions: How was Tyler doing? Did he have trouble with his peers? Was there any truth to the claim that he slept off campus every week?
Leaf answered each one clearly.
Tyler wasn’t loud or attention-seeking, but he handled every responsibility with care. He had a good reputation. Worked well with classmates. Got along with his roommates. And yes, he stayed off-campus once a week—Leaf had approved it personally. Tyler didn’t have parents, and he was the guardian of his younger sister, who attended middle school in Greenville.

Dean Zhu nodded slowly, absorbing the details.
He’d already guessed most of this, to be honest. The tone of the letter told its own story. Whoever wrote it must’ve known Tyler before college—likely from the same hometown. They knew enough about his background to weaponize it.
Years ago, this person had probably outshone Tyler in every measurable way. Smarter. Richer. More promising.

But life shifted. Now here they were, side by side on the same campus. And Tyler—quiet, focused, unflinchingly kind—had begun to shine.
That kind of reversal could curdle something inside you, especially if no one ever taught you how to handle it.
Dean Zhu sighed.
“Leaf, I agree with you,” he said. “This letter is vague. It’s full of spite. And we’re not going to entertain it.”

He tapped the folded paper once, then pushed it aside.
“Even if—if—there were some truth to the claims, what are we talking about here? A student giving their partner a gift? That’s not against any school policy. If we went around interrogating students for that, we’d be violating their privacy.”
“Besides,” he added, “to drag Tyler into the office over this would be to humiliate him for no reason.”

Leaf nodded, tension finally easing from his shoulders.
But then Dean Zhu’s tone shifted. “Still… that doesn’t mean we should do nothing.”
He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.

“The person who wrote this—they need help. This is a student who’s already lost their way. Someone who needs structure, perspective, maybe even counseling. So here’s what we’ll do: we’ll add two mandatory lectures to the first-year curriculum.”
Leaf blinked. “Lectures?”
“One on ‘Healthy Perspectives on Money in Relationships,’” Zhu said. “And another on ‘Coping with Disappointment in the College Transition.’ Both will count for credit. All first-years required to attend.”

Leaf chuckled despite himself. “I like it. I’ll figure out which faculty to ask.”
And just like that, the letter disappeared into a drawer.
No ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) one else would see it. No one else would know.

Except the one who wrote it—and the two men who chose to keep it from touching Tyler at all.
 
****

August 15th approached, and with it, Greenville University’s annual Mid-Autumn Festival Welcome Gala.
The auditorium buzzed with movement even before the event began. Tyler had barely stepped through the backstage entrance when someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the makeup chairs.
Touch-ups. More touch-ups. Somehow, between the sweat and the nerves and the humidity, their foundation always found new ways to melt.

He didn’t have time to check his phone. Didn’t even know if Shane had made it.
Shane had flown out to Harborview two days ago for business. He’d promised he’d be back in time for the show—had said it in that quiet, certain way of his, like it was a vow.
But Tyler had heard the news. Autumn rains. Cancelled flights. Delays stretching for hours.

Realistically, it wasn’t possible.
And honestly, it wasn’t necessary. This was just a student variety show. A silly, half-rehearsed performance put together in between problem sets and meal swipes.
Tyler couldn’t understand why Shane had insisted he’d come.

Unless—unless he wanted to “evaluate” how Tyler was doing.
That idea had haunted him for a while.
But every time it crept into his thoughts, it ran headfirst into the memory of Shane’s eyes.

Those warm, steady, star-lit eyes.
They didn’t look like the eyes of a business partner checking for returns on an investment. They didn’t even look like the eyes of a regular friend.
Tyler had seen how friends looked at him. Admiring. Encouraging. Proud, sometimes.

But no one—no one—looked at him the way Shane did.
And just like that, his brain turned to static again.
He didn’t have time to chase the feeling. Someone called for another run-through of lines, and Tyler put his phone down.

 
****
The performance was a hit.

Tyler’s role was a young prince—bruised by loss, forced to grow up too fast, yet still clinging to his dignity. His voice, soft and clear with a natural lilt, wrapped around the lines like silk over bone.
He didn’t need theatrics. Every inflection carried weight. Every pause, intention.
The audience sat rapt. And when the final animation faded from the projection screen and the house lights flared back to life, it was Tyler they saw in the center spotlight.

White T-shirt. Faded jeans. No makeup, no pretense.
Just a slender boy with ink-black hair and skin like milkglass, standing quietly on the stage, microphone in hand.
He looked exactly like the prince he had voiced.

The first cheer came from somewhere in the back.
“Little prince! You crushed it!”
Then others followed—cheering, applause, shouts that made the auditorium vibrate with energy.

Tyler couldn’t see a single face through the stage lights.
But he could hear them.
He could feel the warmth of their voices rolling over him, a tide of recognition and praise.

His heart thundered. His hands trembled.
He bowed slightly, murmuring thanks into the mic. His smile was shy, his eyes bright.
And all he could think was:

This feels amazing.
If Shane were here to see it… it’d be perfect.
 

Huh?
What was I just thinking?
The realization jolted through Tyler like a cold splash. His pulse still hadn’t settled from the adrenaline of the stage, but now it was thrumming for a different reason entirely.

Without pausing to thank the crew or even wipe off the lingering makeup, he darted off the side stage and bee-lined for the wings. First thing—find his phone.
He unlocked it, thumb trembling just slightly.
The first message was from Zhou Peng.

[Daaaamn, Little Fish!!]
[You totally crushed it, man! Seriously—you little heartthrob, you!]
That was followed by a string of disturbing, almost unhinged laughing emojis.
Tyler snorted softly, cringing and smiling all at once.

Then he tapped the next message.
Shane Xie:
[You were incredible.]
[Your performance was beautiful.]
Tyler’s heart did a double take, then skipped the landing altogether.

He came? He really came?
[I made it just as you were going on stage,] Shane wrote. [I’m with your roommates now.]
Tyler barely registered his own breath hitching.

He didn’t even wait to change. Without wiping the powder from his cheeks or fixing the streak of eyeliner still faint beneath his eyes, he took off running—half down the auditorium hallway, half across the echoing linoleum floors, his sneakers squeaking as he passed.
On the way, he caught murmurs from the crowd.
“That’s the voice actor kid, right?”
“The little prince!”
“God, his voice was gorgeous…”
“He’s actually… kinda cute?”

He heard them, but none of it stuck.
Except for one thing. Somewhere in the buzzing air, he felt it—that sharp, cold awareness of a gaze that didn’t match the rest. Not admiration. Not joy.
But something darker.

Resentment. Contempt.
It hooked into his skin, dragged like a barb just under the surface.
But Tyler shook it off.

Right now, he had no space for shadows.
He reached the section where his roommates were seated—and there, waiting in the open seat they’d saved for him, was Shane.
Smiling. Calm. Exactly as promised.

Tyler froze, still catching his breath. Zhou Peng was already elbowing him from the side, exaggerated winks and knowing grins. Xu Rui was chuckling like he'd just seen the most obvious twist in a movie.
But Tyler only looked at Shane. Like the rest of the room had dropped away.
“You… you made it,” he managed.

Shane’s eyes softened. “Told you I would.”
“But—wasn’t Harborview flooding? The news said—flights—”
“I rerouted,” Shane said simply. “Detoured through another city. Got in late.”

“Oh…”
Tyler flushed. That was all he could say.
Just oh. Three letters, and even those were crumbling under the weight of his heart.

“Oh,” he said again, quieter this time.
He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Didn’t know what to do with himself.
Zhou Peng gave a loud, theatrical cough. “Little Fish, you wanna sit down maybe? We’ve still got half a show left, unless you plan to perform another set right here in the aisle?”

Tyler mumbled something that vaguely resembled an apology and dropped into the empty seat beside Shane.
Zhou Peng leaned in with a grin and stage-whispered, “Hey—Shane said he’s taking us out for BBQ after this. Whole group.”
Tyler blinked. “Huh?”

He turned to Shane.
But Shane only gave him a sidelong look and held up one finger to his lips in a gesture of quiet.
“Let’s enjoy the show,” he said, voice low.

 
****
Later that night, the barbecue place was noisy and golden with grease-smoke and laughter.

They stuffed themselves with grilled skewers, fried dumplings, cold soda poured from sticky pitchers, and ridiculous inside jokes.
By the time they staggered back to the dorms, bellies full and faces sore from smiling, Xu Rui collapsed backward on his bed and rubbed at his stomach with both hands. “Shane is way too generous, man. That was criminally good.”
Zhou Peng was rinsing his face in the sink, towel slung over his neck like a boxer between rounds. “Generous? That wasn’t just generosity. That was courtship, my dude.”

He grinned wickedly. “Our Little Fish is getting pursued hard.”
He had barely finished the sentence when a sudden fit of coughing erupted from behind them.
Tyler had just taken a sip of water—and now he was bent over his desk, wheezing, eyes wide with panic.

“Jesus,” Zhou Peng muttered, handing him a tissue. “What, did I say something that shocking?”
Xu Rui rolled off the bed and took Tyler’s cup. “You okay? Seriously—how does anyone choke on water?”
Tyler’s face was beet red, whether from embarrassment or oxygen loss, no one could tell.

“I—he’s—” he stammered, “You said… he’s… chasing me?”
The words barely came out. His throat had locked up.
But Zhou Peng just stared at him, blinking like Tyler had grown a second head.

“You’re kidding,” he said flatly. “Don’t tell me you actually didn’t know.”
“You really don’t see it?”
“That man looks at you like you invented sunlight.”

Tyler couldn’t speak.
He didn’t even know where to begin.