Lian walked through the school halls the next morning with a different kind of quiet in his chest. It wasn't heavy like before. It was more like the silence of early snow—soft, waiting, a hush that meant something was about to start.
He passed the lockers. The loud ones. The dented ones. The forgotten ones. His eyes flicked briefly to the people moving past him, the flickers of animals still dancing in their outlines. A fox tail here. A crane's long neck there. But they didn't settle the way they used to. They wavered, blurred at the edges.
He looked at Jamie across the hallway. Her usual laugh was quieter today. Her animal—once a squirrel with bounding energy—now looked more like a cat, curled, watchful.
He made a note of that. Not because he wanted to label her. But because it meant something was changing. In her. In him.
In homeroom, Ms. Devon passed out papers for the poetry showcase sign-up.
Lian stared at the form. He hadn't forgotten the poem. He hadn't forgotten what Ms. Devon said—that it mattered, that he mattered. But he hadn't believed it, either.
Now, he found himself writing his name without hesitating.
The seat next to him creaked.
"Didn't think you'd do it," Jamie whispered.
He looked at her. "Didn't think I would either."
At lunch, he sat alone outside by the gym wall. The autumn breeze tugged at his sleeves. His sketchbook lay open on his knees. This time, he wasn't drawing animals.
He was drawing eyes.
Not all the same—some were kind, some fierce, some lost. Some looked like his mother's. Some looked like his own.
He was halfway through shading one when someone blocked the sun.
"Hey," said a voice.
He looked up.
It was Cameron. The kid who'd once knocked his books out of his hand, who used to laugh too loud and throw glances over his shoulder like he was always daring someone to punch him.
"I, uh…" Cameron shifted, scratching the back of his neck. "Ms. Devon said you're good with writing. I was gonna submit something but... I don't know how to make it not sound dumb."
Lian blinked.
Cameron looked nervous. Like he was waiting for the punchline.
"Okay," Lian said, closing his sketchbook. "I'll help."
They sat for a while. The first few minutes were awkward. But then Cameron started talking about how he always heard music in his head when he walked—how his footsteps lined up with beats, how doors slamming sounded like drum kicks.
Lian listened. And he didn't see a fox. Or a hyena. Or whatever he used to think Cameron was.
He just saw a boy trying to turn noise into rhythm.
That night, Lian helped his mother wash dishes. The water was warm. The steam fogged up the window above the sink.
She glanced at him.
"你今天看起来不一样," she said. You look different today.
He smiled. "我觉得不一样了." I feel different.
She handed him a bowl, drying her hands. "你在想什么?" What are you thinking about?
He thought for a moment.
"我想人不是一个动物.他们是很多种混合在一起." I think people aren't just one animal. They're a mix of many.
She paused. "对.有些人只是忘记了." Yes. Some people just forget.
They stood there in the quiet, and Lian realized: his mother had always known. She just didn't call it the same thing. She saw people in layers too—in actions, in silences, in the way they showed up when no one was watching.
Later, in bed, Lian flipped through his journal. He turned to the page where he had once drawn his father as a spider. For a long time, he stared at it.
Then he picked up his pencil.
He didn't erase it. But he added something.
A thread connecting the spider to a hand.
A candle, sitting nearby.
And a second figure—not a boy, not yet a man—reaching toward the light.
He added a title above it in small, careful letters:
"Becoming."
Lian sat back. The wind tapped gently against the window.
The animals were still there. But they didn't shout at him anymore. They whispered. Suggested. Invited.
He closed the book and whispered to himself:
"I'm starting to see."