An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

Tyler's days had gotten busy. Busier than he expected, even for a college freshman.

Every other day, he met up with a few other first-years to practice dubbing scenes from a film. It sounded simple in theory—just lending your voice to an animated movie. But in practice, it was harder than any of them had imagined. None of them were voice actors. Their timing was off, their intonation awkward, and they constantly cracked each other up with accidental line readings that turned heartfelt scenes into unintentional comedy.
Still, the movie was an animated one Tyler had loved for years, and his group wasn’t half bad. They were open, good-natured, the kind of kids who didn’t mind laughing at themselves. After practice, they lingered to trade stories about dorm gossip or take jabs at the cafeteria’s head chef (“Is he actively trying to murder us with that ‘grilled cheese’?”). Sometimes they even made impromptu plans for late-night takeout—cheap fried chicken, greasy fries, anything that smelled like freedom after dark.
But Tyler never went.

Not because he didn’t want to.
He just didn’t have time.
Evenings were for self-study—either tucked away in a quiet corner of the classroom or hunched at his desk back in the dorm. He hadn’t forgotten what Shane had said about grades.

He couldn’t afford to forget.
On top of that, being the class rep came with its own pile of responsibilities: spreadsheets, reminders, collecting assignments, printing out forms no one wanted to deal with. It was menial work, but Tyler handled it with quiet precision.
At first, some of the other students teased him. “This isn’t high school anymore,” someone had joked. “We’re not livestock, man. Just let everyone do their thing.”

But eventually they started noticing how reliable he was. How he didn’t just send out deadlines and disappear—he actually helped people when they needed it. Slowly, their tone shifted. Less teasing, more warmth.
That evening, Tyler had just pushed open the door to his dorm when someone knocked behind him.
It was one of the quieter kids from his class. From Portville, if he remembered right. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, his smile lit up his whole face—easygoing and kind, like someone who didn’t know how to hold a grudge.

They’d spoken before. The guy had come to him more than once, totally lost on how to navigate the school’s janky online course system. Tyler assumed this was more of the same, and he turned to him with a small, patient smile. “What’s up?”
Instead of asking for help, the guy held out three glossy red apples in both hands. “My mom just mailed me a box of these. Portville apples. Big, crispy, sweet as hell.”
He set them gently on Tyler’s desk.

“I keep bothering you with stuff,” he added, a little sheepish, “and you’re always helping me out. You must be tired, man. Figured some fruit might help.”
He gave a small laugh, clapped Tyler lightly on the shoulder, and left without waiting for a response.
Tyler stood still.

He stared at the apples—vibrant red, still cool with condensation.
Someone had… given him a gift?
Because he’d helped?
Because he looked tired?

It was nothing, really. A small gesture, a simple thank-you.
But to Tyler, it felt like someone had reached through his ribcage and touched something soft he didn’t know was there. His brain buzzed, the way it did when his blood sugar dropped, only this time it wasn’t his body crashing—it was something else. Something slower. Deeper.
He sat down, phone in hand before he even realized what he was doing.

He hesitated.
This wasn’t something that needed reporting. Shane didn’t ask for updates on random fruit deliveries.
But his fingers typed anyway: Someone gave me three apples today.

He hit send before he could think better of it.
And immediately regretted it.
The message was vague. Random. Stupid, probably. What was Shane supposed to say to that?

But not even a full minute later, his phone lit up with a call.
Tyler answered. “Uh—hi. It’s not—I mean, it wasn’t a big thing—”
He explained in halting detail: the classmate, the apples, how he’d helped with course registration. How the guy had just left them there, smiling like it was no big deal.

Shane didn’t interrupt. Every few seconds, he murmured a soft “Mm,” to let Tyler know he was still listening.
By the time Tyler trailed off, he felt silly. Embarrassed.
Why had he even brought this up?

“I mean,” he muttered, “it’s just apples. Not worth wasting your time.”
There was a pause. Then Shane said, quietly, “Sounds like a pretty special gift to me.”
Tyler blinked.

His throat tightened so fast it startled him.
To cover the emotion rising in his voice, he mumbled, “They’re… they’re probably really good, too.”
He hesitated, then added in a rush, “I wanted to give you one.”

Just one. The other two, he figured, he’d split with his roommates.
Shane’s voice softened. “Really? I get one?”
Tyler nodded instinctively, even though Shane couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I was thinking I’d bring it to you this weekend.”

Shane: “Wouldn’t it be fresher tonight?”
Tyler: “…I guess.”
Shane: “Are you studying later? I’ll swing by campus. Been a while since I ate anything on school grounds.”

And just like that, Tyler was swept along again.
“…Okay,” he said, dazed. “Sure.”
—

That night, Shane really did show up.
They met at a place on the edge of campus called JJ’s Diner, the kind of greasy little spot that stayed open late and didn’t ask questions. The food was tragic—flat soda, limp fries, gray cheeseburgers that looked sad to be alive. But it was cheap, and you could get free hot or cold water if you asked.
The real appeal, though, was the patio. During the day, sunlight bathed the outdoor tables; at night, the moon took its place. The air was always just a little cooler out there, and the staff didn’t mind if students hung around. As long as you bussed your own tray, they let you {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} stay as long as you wanted.

And they’d even take messages.
Most undergrads didn’t have phones yet. So if someone needed you and you were buried in the library or off at a study session, they could call the diner. The staff would yell across the patio like it was a summer camp mess hall: “Hey! Lit major! You’ve got a call!”
JJ’s was chaos, but it was organized chaos—and it had become a sort of unofficial student union.

Tyler had met his class group there a few times for meetings, always pretending not to notice the ketchup crusted on the table edges.
Tonight, he and Shane stepped through the door just as a young worker was wiping down a table.
The kid glanced up and froze for a second when he saw Shane. Something in his face flickered—recognition, maybe—but he caught himself quickly. Looked right past him like Shane was nobody.

Then he grinned at Tyler. “Hey, Fish! What’re you doing here so late, study group?”
Tyler flushed faintly. “No—uh, no, just… here for something else.”
The guy didn’t press. Just smiled and asked, “You want the patio or inside?”

“Outside, please.”
He led them to the best table on the patio—clean, dry, positioned right under the moonlight.
Then he turned and vanished, mop in hand, like nothing about this night was unusual at all.

Tyler sat down, heart beating faster than he wanted to admit.
He didn’t know if it was the apples, the attention, or the man across from him.
Maybe it was all of it.

Maybe it was just that, for the first time in a long while, someone had come looking for him. And stayed.
Of course, the diner staff didn’t treat every student like that.
The first time Tyler had come to JJ’s, that particular worker—a short guy in his twenties with a perpetually untucked uniform—had kept sneaking glances at him from behind the counter. Kept pausing with the rag mid-wipe, eyes flicking up like he was trying to place a ghost.

It wasn’t until Tyler started clearing the table himself—an old habit—when the guy finally worked up the courage to shuffle over, voice low and uncertain. “Hey. Are you… Tyler? That kid from Milltown? Little Fish?”
Tyler blinked.
And then recognition cracked across his face like sunlight through clouds.

“Zhao!” he said. “Zhao Feng—holy crap, it’s you!”
The guy beamed, rubbing his hands together like he didn’t know what to do with all the excitement. “Damn, man, you do remember.”
Zhao had been older. A few years up the road. He used to let Tyler tag along when they went bug-hunting by the creek in the summers—netting blue dragonflies, catching whisper-moths with quiet hands. And then one year, just like that, his family had vanished from Milltown. Something had happened. Tyler remembered people whispering, but the details had been muddy, like watercolors bleeding together in the rain.

Zhao explained now, his voice soft but steady. His dad had gotten hurt—something with the leg, a factory accident—and the company had shrugged and washed their hands of it. No compensation, no benefits. No one in town lifted a finger to help. So the whole family packed up and left for Greenville, scraping by on whatever odd jobs they could get. Recycling, day labor, sometimes nothing at all.
Tyler’s throat tightened. “Is there anything I can do now? I mean—do you need anything?”
Zhao shook his head fast, grinning wide. “No, no. Things are better now.”

He said that a few months ago, a kind stranger—an old guy, local, probably in his seventies—had helped his dad land a night shift at a warehouse. Easy work. Just checking security footage and locking up. Good pay, health insurance. For the first time in years, things felt... steady.
Zhao was saving up too. Said once he had enough, he’d train to be a barber. Open his own little shop. Take care of himself. Take care of his old man.
Tyler smiled, the warmth blooming slow in his chest. “That’s... that’s really good to hear.”

Even in a world where not everyone was kind—there were still people. Ordinary, decent people, offering what little they could. And sometimes, that was enough.
—
Out on the diner patio, the moon soft above them, Tyler pulled the apples from his bag.

He’d washed them earlier, just in case. Now he set one on the table, took out a plastic knife, and sliced it carefully down the middle. He pushed half toward Shane like it was something ceremonial. Because it was.
The apple crunched with that first bite, crisp and juicy, sugar flooding his tongue. It was the best thing he’d tasted all week.
Maybe that was why, somewhere between the second and third bite, his face relaxed. His shoulders dipped. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

He murmured, like it was a secret he hadn’t meant to say out loud, “I’m really glad I got to come here.”
Shane took another bite. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
—

After they finished the apple, they didn’t rush.
The air was cooler now. Shane walked him back through campus, steps unhurried, the way people move when they don’t want something to end.
Tyler had offered—awkwardly, reflexively—to walk Shane to the gate. But Shane just tilted his head and said, “Didn’t you say your dorm’s been taking care of a stray cat?”

It was something Tyler had mentioned earlier, almost in passing.
Some of the neighborhood cats—pets turned loose by families who’d moved or given up—liked to hang around the dorms. A few students had built makeshift shelters behind the old residence hall: cardboard houses under the trees, plastic food bowls filled with kibble and leftover lunch meat.
There was an unspoken system to it. Certain dorm rooms took responsibility for certain cats. Tyler’s group, led by his roommate Eric, had taken in an oversized orange tabby with battle-scarred ears and the swagger of a retired general.

Shane, apparently, wanted to meet him.
Tyler didn’t say no.
They cut behind the buildings, down the gravel path to the patch of trees, and there it was: the orange cat, curled inside a box like a loaf of bread with claws. He blinked at them, unimpressed.

“He’s got attitude,” Tyler said quietly.
“I like him,” Shane replied, crouching down just enough to peer inside the little cardboard fort. “Takes guts to claim a kingdom this small.”
When they made it back to the dorm steps, Shane didn’t turn to leave.

Instead, he said casually, “Mid-Autumn Festival’s next week, right?”
Tyler hesitated. “Yeah.”
The university was putting on a showcase in the main auditorium. Tickets were required for entry—each performer got three to give out to family or friends. The rest of the students could watch the livestream from the dining hall, which was being retrofitted with speakers and projection screens for the night.

Shane asked, “Performers get to invite guests, right?”
“…Yeah.”
Tyler was performing. Just a small piece for the voice acting group, but he’d been rehearsing like it mattered. He hadn’t planned on inviting Shane, though. It felt... presumptuous. Shane wasn’t a college student. He wasn’t even really part of Tyler’s world.

He’d figured he’d give a ticket to his roommate, another to a classmate maybe. Keep things simple.
But Shane was still looking at him, the corners of his eyes lifted in a quiet smile.
“So,” he asked, “when were you planning to give me my ticket?”

Tyler froze.
Not because of the question itself.
But because of the way Shane said it. Something about his tone. Playful, almost… coaxing.

Like the way Emily used to tug at their mom’s sleeve and say, “You forgot my juice box.” A kind of softness that wrapped around you and tugged, not with force, but with warmth.
Tyler’s breath caught.
He looked up—and met Shane’s eyes.

Dark and quiet and full of stars.
His chest felt tight. Not in a bad way. Just... full.
“…You want one?” he whispered.

“They’re not that exciting. I mean, it’s just students performing. Kind of boring.”
Shane’s voice was barely louder than the breeze. “Doesn’t sound boring to me.”
“I want to see it.”

I want to see you.
Tyler’s cheeks flushed.
“I’ll—uh, I’ll bring the ticket this weekend,” he mumbled. “If… if you’re free next week…”

“I’ll make time,” Shane said, and the words fell like a promise.
Tyler made a noise—something between a grunt and a squeak—and ducked his head.
The dorm’s security light was flickering overhead. That had to be it. That’s why his face felt like it was burning.

“I—I should go in. Lights out soon.”
He turned too fast and nearly tripped over the step.
Made it halfway down the hall before he stopped, swallowed, and—without meaning to—glanced back.

Shane was still standing under the light.
Watching him.
Not smiling anymore—just looking. Quiet. Steady. Like he’d stay there as long as Tyler needed him to.

Tyler’s ears went red.
He raised a hand and gave the smallest wave.
Then he bolted up the stairs.

—
From the shadows of the stairwell, just beyond the light’s reach, someone else watched.
They tapped their phone screen fast, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

[Bro, I saw it for myself tonight. Tyler? He got dropped off by some guy who’s obviously loaded.]
[You could tell he was nervous too. There’s no way that relationship is normal.]
A few seconds later, the reply came through.

[Knew it.]
[He’s done for. Just wait. We’ll report the little bastard.]