An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

Something in Tyler’s chest gave a twitch.
He mumbled, voice low and offhand, “It’s nothing, really.”

But Zhou Peng caught it instantly.
He let out a quiet curse and leaned in, his tone fierce but oddly protective. “Don’t worry, Little Fish. Those two assholes? I see them again, I’m on their ass. I can’t stand that fake alpha crap anyway.”
Tyler gave a weak smile, but before he could say anything else, Xu Rui spoke—softly, but with a weight that made the air shift.

“Actually… I got bullied too. Back in middle school. And high school.”
Tyler’s head jerked up. “Ah—”
Zhou Peng went quiet instantly.

Xu Rui didn’t stop. “They made fun of how short I was. Called me stingy. Country bumpkin. Whatever excuse they could find, they found it.”
Something snagged in Tyler’s chest, sharp and immediate. He opened his mouth in a rush. “Xu Rui, I’m okay—really. You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to—”
Because who would want to lay their worst memories bare like that?

He sure didn’t. God knew he wished his own could stay buried in the dirt forever, never clawed up, never named.
But Xu Rui just shook his head and met Tyler’s eyes—earnest, grounded.
“I used to think maybe they hated me because I didn’t hang out with them. Because I only cared about studying. That maybe it was my fault, that something was wrong with me…”

His voice dipped, steadier now. “Then, in sophomore year, we got a new homeroom teacher. Young guy. First job. And he told me something I never forgot.”
“He said, ‘You’re not the problem. They are. Anyone who needs to tear someone down just to feel tall? They’re the ones with something wrong.’”
“He said—‘Xu Rui, hold your head up. Don’t be afraid. The moment you get out of here, the moment you break free, those people won’t be able to touch you anymore.’”

“‘And the farther you rise, the harder it’ll be for them to even look you in the eye.’”
Xu Rui’s face—still sun-dark from the farm town they’d both come from—glowed with something real. “I did what he said. I studied. Worked like hell. And I got out.”
“I still remember the day I got my acceptance letter. The town gave me a scholarship, even brought a photographer. And those same guys? Standing way off in the distance, watching like they didn’t know what hit them.”

“And now I’m here, at Greenville. At one of the best universities in the country. I know it in my bones—those guys who used to swagger around our little town like they ruled it? They’re nothing here. They’ve got no say anymore.”
He turned to Tyler. “So don’t be scared. I don’t care who those guys at orientation were or where their families are from. Here? Everyone’s on the same page.”
He paused, then added gently, “And we’re here with you.”
Zhou Peng, red-eyed now, punched both of them on the shoulder, not too gently. “Damn right. I got your backs.”

Tyler felt his throat tighten. He nodded, fast and a little shaky. “Yeah. I—thanks. I’m okay. Really. I am.”
Zhou Peng sniffed and turned to Xu Rui again. “That teacher of yours… sounded like a good guy.”
Xu Rui’s eyes lit up just a bit. “He was. One of the best. If he hadn’t kept pushing me, kept seeing me—I probably wouldn’t have made it anywhere.”

“Having someone like that… someone who really gave a damn about me… That was luck.”
Someone who really gave a damn.
Tyler’s thoughts drifted, suddenly and sharply.

He thought of Shane.
Of how casually he’d said it, that time in the apartment—that line that hadn’t made sense at the time, but now…
He’d said, “It’s the indifference of the victor that cuts the deepest.”

And, “You can only look back without fear once you’ve climbed far enough that the past can’t reach you.”
And then, “There’s nothing noble about suffering. But surviving it—moving through it and standing in the sun again—that’s always worth something.”
Back then, Tyler had thought he was just talking about some movie.

But now, remembering the weight in Shane’s gaze when he’d said those words—the quiet insistence, the way he’d looked at him like he already knew something—
Was it really just a movie?
He hadn’t told Shane anything.

Right?
Unless Shane… had found something out.
But why would he?

Why would he say those things?
Unless Tyler was just imagining it. Reading too much into it. Maybe it really had been just about the movie after all.
But his heart started beating too fast again.

Then Zhou Peng clapped him on the shoulder—hard.
“Little Fish,” he said, firm and loud. “Next time anything happens, don’t keep it all in, alright? Just say it.”
“Friends talk. Friends fight back.”

Tyler’s chest gave a faint, unexpected shudder at the word: friends.
He blinked, drew his scattered thoughts back in, and nodded.
Seriously. Gratefully.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Got it.”
 
****

Friday was the first day of English class.
It was a required course across several departments, and as one of the few advanced-level sections, the class was small—maybe thirty students, tops.
Tyler and Zhou Peng walked toward the classroom together, textbooks under their arms, still half-laughing about something. But as they stepped through the door of the advanced section, Tyler’s smile froze.

Two familiar faces sat in the front row.
Ray Sihai and Justin Xu.
Ray looked up, smile smooth as a salesman’s. “Well, what a coincidence.”

Justin was already standing. “Intermediate section’s downstairs. Big lecture hall.”
Zhou Peng let out a scoff. “What’s it to you? You run the place or something? Gotta get your permission now?”
Tyler didn’t look away. He met Justin’s eyes directly, steady and calm.

“We’re in this section,” he said. “This is our class.”
Then, without breaking stride, the three of them walked in and picked seats. They laid their books on the desks with a quiet finality.
Justin’s face went pale, then red, then pale again.

Ray, ever the politician, laughed like it didn’t bother him at all. He stood and came over, face pulled into a look of exaggerated sincerity.
“Tyler,” he said warmly. “Looks like we’re classmates again.”
“About last time—I was a little rushed, forgot to say. Back in the day, you know, we were all kids. Joked around too hard, took things too far.”

“Now that we’re all college students, same school, same—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Zhou Peng burst out laughing. Loud and cutting.

“What is this, a soap opera?”
Even Ray Sihai—thick-skinned as he was—found himself cut short, the words drying up mid-performance like a bad actor yanked offstage.
Zhou Peng grinned, unbothered and louder now. “No script, no costume—who the hell are you putting on a show for?”

Justin Xu’s face darkened. He shot to his feet, voice sharp. “Who the hell are you supposed to be? You talk like that to everyone?”
Zhou Peng didn’t spare him a glance. He raised his voice, for the crowd now trickling in. “Oh yeah? ‘Just kids joking around’? Joking means what—ripping someone’s notebook in half and blocking their way out of class?”
Tyler had never told them those details.

But he didn’t need to.
Zhou Peng and Xu Rui had filled in the blanks on their own, instinctively.
By now, other students were starting to file in—some from Ray and Justin’s department. Ears perked. Eyes lingering a little too long. Everyone loved a bit of drama, and gossip was the real lingua franca of any freshman lecture hall.

Ray’s face twitched.
He was just opening his mouth to say something back—when a bright, brisk voice cut through the tension.
The foreign language instructor had arrived, a petite blonde woman with a smile like fresh air and a stride that didn’t waver. She made her way to the front with ease, greeting the students as she passed.

Ray froze.
Of all people—she was the one. The one he’d been trying to butter up before term started. The one with “recommendation authority.” The one who hadn’t taken the box of “local snacks” he’d carefully stuffed with an envelope of cash.
He swallowed hard and sank into his chair, lips pressed tight. The moment was gone.

 
****
The first class didn’t involve textbooks.

Instead, the instructor introduced herself and asked each student to stand up and give a short introduction in English—name, hobbies, that sort of thing.
She was warm, animated, the kind of person who could make small talk sound like a TED Talk. She nodded encouragingly at even the shyest students, smiled big at the funny ones, and gasped dramatically if someone mentioned an unexpected interest like beekeeping or glassblowing.
They went in order, row by row.

By the time it was Tyler’s turn, only a few students were left.
He stood.
His voice—clear and even, not rushed but confident—cut through the quiet with a smooth, practiced cadence.

No nerves. No stammer.
He’d practiced this.
Shane had warned him weeks ago: “The first English class at Greenville usually starts with self-intros. Better be ready.”

They’d worked on it together. Shane had listened to every version, corrected the phrasing, even helped him include a few of his favorite animated films to make it more personal.
So when Tyler finished, the instructor was visibly delighted. She fired off a handful of follow-up questions, smiling wider with each of his calm replies.
Finally, she said, “Can you stay after class a bit? I’d love to talk more.”

Tyler nodded.
It wasn’t loud, but it echoed—across the room and right into the eyes of every student still seated.
He’d done well. Everyone could feel it.

And Zhou Peng and Xu Rui? They looked like they’d just watched their team win a championship. Zhou Peng actually pumped his fist under the table.
Look at our guy. That’s our guy up there.
When the bell rang, most students filtered out in pairs and clusters.

But Ray Sihai stayed.
He stayed seated, stayed frozen, pretending to pack up his things with deliberate slowness. His eyes kept flicking to the front of the room. His ears strained to catch fragments of the conversation.
And he heard it.

Not all of it, but enough.
Voice work. Animation. Clear pronunciation. Excellent tone. Perfect for the Mid-Autumn Festival performance.
He froze again.

That was it.
That was the spot.
Live voiceover. One of the three big showcases for first-years: /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ the others being the Freshman Debate and the Top Ten Singers competition.

Any one of those performances was a golden ticket to campus fame.
Ray had been planning on it. He’d done the research. Had the spreadsheet. Knew exactly how to spin it into student council attention and résumé sparkle.
He’d even planned to slide that instructor a gift box before classes started—local delicacies and a discreet envelope tucked inside.

But she hadn’t taken it.
And now?
Now Tyler—fucking Tyler—was being offered the spot?

Not a kid from one of those polished, private-prepped families. Not someone with connections or a last name that meant anything.
But Tyler.
The boy who couldn’t even afford a secondhand MP3 player.

The one who probably hadn’t spoken to a foreigner in his entire life.
Ray’s jaw clenched. His wide, flat face twitched once, then again. The muscle near his temple jumped like a live wire.
Tyler, still smiling faintly, turned back toward the classroom—and in that moment, Ray braced himself, expecting eye contact.

Some flicker of gloating. Or victory.
But Tyler didn’t even look at him.
His gaze swept right past without hesitation. As if Ray Sihai didn’t exist.

As if that side of the room were empty.
And that—
That was what broke him.

Not the voiceover. Not the stage.
The indifference.
The way Tyler didn’t even bother to acknowledge him.

The way he wasn’t even worth seeing.
Ray’s face turned a deep, ugly red—purple almost. A pressure-cooker shade of rage. He looked like he might combust.
Beside him, Justin Xu leaned in and whispered carefully, “Uh… bro, you wanna head out or…?”

Ray didn’t answer.
He just snapped at Justin with a curse, grabbed his bag, and stormed out without a word.