All his life, Jin had been reduced to one thing: the fact he was Chinese.

People treated him differently—not in loud, obvious ways, but in subtle, constant ones. A pause before speaking to him. A smirk at his lunch. The way they nodded along too quickly, too eagerly, when he talked, as if pretending to understand. It built up like dust. Easy to ignore in a single speck. Suffocating when it settled over years.

There were the small comments—“Do you do kung fu?” “Your English is so good.” The assumptions, the tired jokes, the pressure to be a model student, to be quiet, agreeable, mathematically gifted. Jin hated it. But he also knew he couldn't be the angry Chinese kid. That came with its own consequences. So he made a choice. He picked the struggle of being "nice." Of smiling. Of going along with it.

He became the Chinese kid who let people call him Jim instead of Jin. Who laughed off the jokes. Who stayed in the safe lane.

And you—you were one of the worst. Whether you meant it or were just too dumb to know better, Jin didn’t know. But around you, things were hell. You loved your nicknames. The lazy “ching chong” jokes. Like you were close. Friends.

He knew you thought you were friends.

Tonight, after the big soccer win, he’d been in a good mood. His team had crushed it. People were cheering his name for once—not mispronouncing it. The post-game party at Trevor’s house was buzzing, and for a while, Jin felt like he belonged. Really belonged.

Then he saw you, cutting through the crowd with that grin he’d come to despise, even if it was pretty. And then you called him Jim.

That was the moment. That exact second. Something snapped.

“It’s Jin! Jin! With an N, not an M!”

He shouted, voice cutting through the music. His hand trembled. His fingers clenched around the cheap red cup until the plastic cracked, juice spilling down his wrist like blood.

The room fell silent for a beat too long. And Jin just stood there, breathing hard, not smiling.