Dying to Live
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djp73
- Posts: 13240
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Temptations
The sunlight poured into Arianna’s new apartment like it had been waiting for her.
It warmed the exposed brick in the kitchen and turned the hardwood floor gold. A vase of grocery store tulips sat on the windowsill, half-leaning toward the morning. Coffee brewed behind her as she folded laundry in an oversized t-shirt and bike shorts, humming to herself, free of headphones, free of weight.
For the first time in a long time, her silence wasn’t punishment. It was peace.
The move had been chaotic. Emotional. Necessary. The kind of shift that didn’t happen because you were ready, but because you were tired of being unwell.
She folded a hoodie—Toni’s hoodie, if she was being honest. Still hadn’t returned it.
There was a time, not even that long ago, when Arianna couldn’t imagine starting a day without talking to Toni. They’d been cousins in name but sisters in rhythm—sharing food, space, secrets, and silence when words failed. But everything that had happened with Deshawn, with Romeo, with the way Toni shut down every time Arianna tried to reach her—it had built a wall. Thick. Wordless. Tiring.
And now?
Now she woke up to her own playlists, her own alarms, her own decisions. She made iced coffee the night before and shook it fresh each morning. Her fridge had sticky notes with little quotes she liked. She was journaling again. Sleeping more than five hours. Laughing, even.
She should’ve felt free.
And she did.
But guilt trailed behind the freedom like a shadow at her heels.
Arianna sat on the couch, pulled her knees to her chest, and opened her phone. A few group chats. Some story replies. A text from a guy she wasn’t ready to like yet.
And then—there it was.
Toni’s new post.
A mirror selfie. Filters turned all the way up. Lips glossed, nails fresh, cheeks sharp. But it wasn’t Toni who caught Arianna’s breath in her throat.
It was Deshawn, standing behind her in the background, shirtless, brushing his teeth, like he lived there.
Because he did now.
Arianna stared at the screen. At the soft smile on Toni’s face. At the caption:
“Finally feels like home.
#BuiltNotBorrowed”
It was so carefully crafted, so Toni.
Arianna felt a knot rise behind her ribs. The kind that wasn’t sadness. Not really. Not anger either. Just… ache.
She clicked the photo. Scanned the comments.
Heart emojis. “Y’all cute.”
Fire emojis. “Sis, you glowing.”
No one saw it.Or no one wanted to.
Because that’s what Toni was good at—looking okay. Making even the cage look curated.
Arianna set the phone down.
She hated herself for checking.
Hated herself for caring.
But even as her coffee beeped and the smell filled the room, she just sat there—knees still up, face unreadable, eyes fixed on nothing.
She thought of texting her.
Just a “You good?”
But what came next? What if Toni didn’t answer? Or worse, did—and lied?
Arianna ran her fingers through her hair, exhaled slow.
Healing meant leaving people behind sometimes.
Even people you loved.
Even if they weren’t ready yet.
The guilt was sharp, but she held it anyway.
She stood up. Walked to the counter. Poured her coffee. Took a sip. Scrolled briefly through a meditation app she’d been trying to use. Closed it. Stared at the tulips.
The tulips on the sill tilted toward the light.
And she let herself tilt with them.
~~~~~~~~~~
The photo had taken ten tries.
In the first few, her lip looked too tight. Then her lashes weren’t right. The light from the bathroom kept casting shadows on the side of her face where the bruise hadn’t fully healed yet—not purple anymore, but still tender, still real. She’d adjusted her angle, forced a smile, re-curled the front of her hair with a flat iron while Deshawn moved around the apartment like he owned not just the space but the air inside it.
By the time she posted it, Toni was exhausted. But the picture was flawless. Her skin was smooth, her smile full, and Deshawn was perfectly framed in the background—shirtless, brushing his teeth, casually included but not the focus.
“Finally feels like home. #BuiltNotBorrowed”
The caption felt like armor.
She watched the likes roll in.
“Y’all too fine.”
“Sis said luxury.”
“This the type of love I PRAY for.”
Toni double-tapped a few comments, her thumb moving automatically. The praise gave her a strange high. She wasn’t just surviving—she was selling the version of herself that was winning. That was loved. That was wanted.
Her eyes scanned the screen.
Arianna hadn’t liked it.
She closed the app.
Deshawn’s voice came from the living room, sharp and sudden. “Where my slides at?”
Toni didn’t answer right away. Her heart rate ticked up—not panic, just alertness. Her muscles tensed like they always did now when his tone changed.
She called back, “By the door.”
“You sure?”
She stood from the bathroom counter, walking into the bedroom, tucking her phone under her hoodie. “Yeah. I put them there this morning.”
Deshawn appeared in the doorway a second later, bare-chested, towel slung low on his hips. His eyes were already narrow.
“You always gotta say shit like that?” he asked.
Toni froze. “Like what?”
“Like you tryna play me. Like I don’t know how to look for something.”
She dropped her eyes. “I wasn’t—”
“You wasn’t what?”
He stepped closer. Just enough to make her lean back without realizing it. Just enough to remind her.
“I wasn’t trying to play you,” she whispered.
He stared at her for a few seconds. Then scoffed, turned around, and disappeared down the hall.
The moment passed, like they always did.
But it stayed with her anyway.
Later, she sat at the edge of the bed, her phone balanced on her thigh. She scrolled through her feed, ignoring the outside world, barely blinking as more hearts appeared beneath her post.
Her thumb hovered over the messages icon.
She tapped into it.
Searched: Arianna
The thread was dusty. The last message Arianna had sent—“I’m worried about you.”—was still sitting there, unread.
Toni had never answered. Not because she didn’t care. But because caring meant cracking the mirror. And the mirror was the only thing holding her together some days.
She typed:
“You think I’m crazy?”
Deleted it.
Typed again:
“Do you hate me?”
Deleted that too.
Instead, she just sat there, screen dimming, stomach tight. The apartment was quiet now. Deshawn had gone to the store or to see one of his boys, or wherever he went when he needed to pretend he wasn’t angry.
The silence should’ve felt like peace.
It didn’t.
It felt like a reminder of how loud everything was inside her head.
Toni walked to the mirror. Wiped away some smudged mascara. Her eyes were dry, but her face felt hot.
The bruises weren’t showing anymore. Not really. But the fear hadn’t faded with the color. It lived under her skin now. In the way she folded her arms when she spoke. In the way she always glanced at the door.
This was her life now.
Chosen. Maintained. Protected.
She’d told herself she wasn’t like the other girls. The ones people whispered about. The ones who stayed too long. She told herself Deshawn only got like that when he was tired, or stressed, or provoked. He’d never hit her without reason.
But then again… hadn’t he?
Her phone buzzed. Another like.
“Power couple vibes.”
Toni stared at the screen.
Her reflection in the black glass looked like someone else.
Someone smiling too wide in pictures and too tightly in real life.
She set the phone down on the sink. Walked back into the bathroom. Turned the faucet on and let it run for a second before splashing her face.
Then she stood in the steam, eyes closed, palms pressed to the edge of the counter.
She could still text Arianna. Could still ask for help. For a conversation. For a lifeline.
But instead, she reached for her concealer.
And put herself back together.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music pulsed through the dimly lit student union ballroom, bass-heavy and smooth, like it was trying to seduce the room into relaxing. The BSU mixer was in full swing—smiles, drinks, handshakes, nods of recognition and status. Royce moved through the space like he always did, the center of a world he never fully belonged to but always drew attention from.
He wasn’t wearing school colors. He never did. A muted grey hoodie, crisp jeans, clean sneakers. Unbothered. Intentional. His chain was tucked. Eyes scanning.
He’d been invited by someone—he couldn’t even remember who—but it felt like a good night to be seen. There was a lot of chatter lately. NIL deals. Draft boards. Captain talk. And still, despite all of it, Royce was trying to remember what it felt like to just exist in a room without calculating who was watching.
He grabbed a cup of punch—non-alcoholic, officially—and leaned against the far wall.
That’s when he saw Natalia.
She looked different than she had the last time he really noticed her around campus. Softer, maybe. The braids were longer now. Her lips were glossed, eyes lined with precision. But it was the way she carried herself—loose but not lazy, graceful but grounded. Like she didn’t need attention to feel powerful.
He waited until she glanced in his direction before nodding.
She did a double take, then made her way over, slow, deliberate, a hint of curiosity tugging at her expression.
"You clean up for me or just happen to remember my name tonight?" Natalia said, smiling like she already knew the answer.
Royce grinned. "I always remember your name. I just forget you like to act brand new every time you see me."
She chuckled. "Boy, please. Last time I saw you, you were walking around with that white girl. Really not beating the allegations, are you?"
"Ain’t no allegations to try to beat," he said, leaning slightly closer. "I’m equal opportunity when it comes to women."
"That’s why y’all have all those kids."
He laughed, and the tension between them started to feel like muscle memory—familiar and almost comforting.
"You still funny. That hasn’t changed," Royce said.
"And you still got that voice like you’re about to say something important but it’s always game."
"Not tonight," he said, and the way he said it made her pause.
Natalia arched a brow. "So what is tonight?"
"Just… good energy. Right place, right time. And you happened to walk into it."
She smiled but didn’t let her guard down all the way. "You always been good with timing. Bad with the follow-through."
He looked at her for a long moment. "Maybe I’m working on that."
"You working on a lot lately, huh?"
"Trying to. Doesn’t mean I’m good at it."
The flirtation was still there, but there was something more grounded underneath it now. History. Familiarity. Something neither of them wanted to name.
Natalia tilted her head slightly. "You know this ain’t a lane we should be in."
Royce didn’t flinch. "Maybe. But that ain’t never stopped nobody before."
"That’s the problem," she said, and her voice softened. "I like where I’m at. Peaceful."
He nodded. "No drama in my life either."
She looked at him a second longer before stepping back. "Alright then. Enjoy your punch."
"Need some Henny in it, to be honest."
She laughed over her shoulder as she walked away, hips swaying with a casual confidence that said she didn’t owe anyone her time, not even him.
Royce stayed a little longer, but the room felt different after that. The small talk felt thinner, the music louder. He left before the mixer really started to swell. The cool night air met him like a reset as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
His car was parked a couple blocks down. Campus was quiet in that way it got when everyone was inside somewhere trying to make something of the night.
Then, out of the corner of his eye—movement.
A girl crossing the street ahead, hoodie up, walking fast.
He paused. Something about her made his pulse tick.
"Shayla?" he called.
She didn’t turn.
"Shayla, wait up."
Still nothing.
The girl kept walking, vanishing into the shadows of the next block like she’d never been there at all.
Royce stood still for a moment, staring at the empty street.
Maybe it wasn’t her.
Maybe he was seeing ghosts again.
Either way, he didn’t call out again.
He just walked back to his car, silence wrapping around him like a coat he hadn’t realized he was still wearing.
The sunlight poured into Arianna’s new apartment like it had been waiting for her.
It warmed the exposed brick in the kitchen and turned the hardwood floor gold. A vase of grocery store tulips sat on the windowsill, half-leaning toward the morning. Coffee brewed behind her as she folded laundry in an oversized t-shirt and bike shorts, humming to herself, free of headphones, free of weight.
For the first time in a long time, her silence wasn’t punishment. It was peace.
The move had been chaotic. Emotional. Necessary. The kind of shift that didn’t happen because you were ready, but because you were tired of being unwell.
She folded a hoodie—Toni’s hoodie, if she was being honest. Still hadn’t returned it.
There was a time, not even that long ago, when Arianna couldn’t imagine starting a day without talking to Toni. They’d been cousins in name but sisters in rhythm—sharing food, space, secrets, and silence when words failed. But everything that had happened with Deshawn, with Romeo, with the way Toni shut down every time Arianna tried to reach her—it had built a wall. Thick. Wordless. Tiring.
And now?
Now she woke up to her own playlists, her own alarms, her own decisions. She made iced coffee the night before and shook it fresh each morning. Her fridge had sticky notes with little quotes she liked. She was journaling again. Sleeping more than five hours. Laughing, even.
She should’ve felt free.
And she did.
But guilt trailed behind the freedom like a shadow at her heels.
Arianna sat on the couch, pulled her knees to her chest, and opened her phone. A few group chats. Some story replies. A text from a guy she wasn’t ready to like yet.
And then—there it was.
Toni’s new post.
A mirror selfie. Filters turned all the way up. Lips glossed, nails fresh, cheeks sharp. But it wasn’t Toni who caught Arianna’s breath in her throat.
It was Deshawn, standing behind her in the background, shirtless, brushing his teeth, like he lived there.
Because he did now.
Arianna stared at the screen. At the soft smile on Toni’s face. At the caption:
“Finally feels like home.
#BuiltNotBorrowed”It was so carefully crafted, so Toni.
Arianna felt a knot rise behind her ribs. The kind that wasn’t sadness. Not really. Not anger either. Just… ache.
She clicked the photo. Scanned the comments.
Heart emojis. “Y’all cute.”
Fire emojis. “Sis, you glowing.”
No one saw it.Or no one wanted to.
Because that’s what Toni was good at—looking okay. Making even the cage look curated.
Arianna set the phone down.
She hated herself for checking.
Hated herself for caring.
But even as her coffee beeped and the smell filled the room, she just sat there—knees still up, face unreadable, eyes fixed on nothing.
She thought of texting her.
Just a “You good?”
But what came next? What if Toni didn’t answer? Or worse, did—and lied?
Arianna ran her fingers through her hair, exhaled slow.
Healing meant leaving people behind sometimes.
Even people you loved.
Even if they weren’t ready yet.
The guilt was sharp, but she held it anyway.
She stood up. Walked to the counter. Poured her coffee. Took a sip. Scrolled briefly through a meditation app she’d been trying to use. Closed it. Stared at the tulips.
The tulips on the sill tilted toward the light.
And she let herself tilt with them.
~~~~~~~~~~
The photo had taken ten tries.
In the first few, her lip looked too tight. Then her lashes weren’t right. The light from the bathroom kept casting shadows on the side of her face where the bruise hadn’t fully healed yet—not purple anymore, but still tender, still real. She’d adjusted her angle, forced a smile, re-curled the front of her hair with a flat iron while Deshawn moved around the apartment like he owned not just the space but the air inside it.
By the time she posted it, Toni was exhausted. But the picture was flawless. Her skin was smooth, her smile full, and Deshawn was perfectly framed in the background—shirtless, brushing his teeth, casually included but not the focus.
“Finally feels like home.
#BuiltNotBorrowed”The caption felt like armor.
She watched the likes roll in.
“Y’all too fine.”
“Sis said luxury.”
“This the type of love I PRAY for.”
Toni double-tapped a few comments, her thumb moving automatically. The praise gave her a strange high. She wasn’t just surviving—she was selling the version of herself that was winning. That was loved. That was wanted.
Her eyes scanned the screen.
Arianna hadn’t liked it.
She closed the app.
Deshawn’s voice came from the living room, sharp and sudden. “Where my slides at?”
Toni didn’t answer right away. Her heart rate ticked up—not panic, just alertness. Her muscles tensed like they always did now when his tone changed.
She called back, “By the door.”
“You sure?”
She stood from the bathroom counter, walking into the bedroom, tucking her phone under her hoodie. “Yeah. I put them there this morning.”
Deshawn appeared in the doorway a second later, bare-chested, towel slung low on his hips. His eyes were already narrow.
“You always gotta say shit like that?” he asked.
Toni froze. “Like what?”
“Like you tryna play me. Like I don’t know how to look for something.”
She dropped her eyes. “I wasn’t—”
“You wasn’t what?”
He stepped closer. Just enough to make her lean back without realizing it. Just enough to remind her.
“I wasn’t trying to play you,” she whispered.
He stared at her for a few seconds. Then scoffed, turned around, and disappeared down the hall.
The moment passed, like they always did.
But it stayed with her anyway.
Later, she sat at the edge of the bed, her phone balanced on her thigh. She scrolled through her feed, ignoring the outside world, barely blinking as more hearts appeared beneath her post.
Her thumb hovered over the messages icon.
She tapped into it.
Searched: Arianna
The thread was dusty. The last message Arianna had sent—“I’m worried about you.”—was still sitting there, unread.
Toni had never answered. Not because she didn’t care. But because caring meant cracking the mirror. And the mirror was the only thing holding her together some days.
She typed:
“You think I’m crazy?”
Deleted it.
Typed again:
“Do you hate me?”
Deleted that too.
Instead, she just sat there, screen dimming, stomach tight. The apartment was quiet now. Deshawn had gone to the store or to see one of his boys, or wherever he went when he needed to pretend he wasn’t angry.
The silence should’ve felt like peace.
It didn’t.
It felt like a reminder of how loud everything was inside her head.
Toni walked to the mirror. Wiped away some smudged mascara. Her eyes were dry, but her face felt hot.
The bruises weren’t showing anymore. Not really. But the fear hadn’t faded with the color. It lived under her skin now. In the way she folded her arms when she spoke. In the way she always glanced at the door.
This was her life now.
Chosen. Maintained. Protected.
She’d told herself she wasn’t like the other girls. The ones people whispered about. The ones who stayed too long. She told herself Deshawn only got like that when he was tired, or stressed, or provoked. He’d never hit her without reason.
But then again… hadn’t he?
Her phone buzzed. Another like.
“Power couple vibes.”
Toni stared at the screen.
Her reflection in the black glass looked like someone else.
Someone smiling too wide in pictures and too tightly in real life.
She set the phone down on the sink. Walked back into the bathroom. Turned the faucet on and let it run for a second before splashing her face.
Then she stood in the steam, eyes closed, palms pressed to the edge of the counter.
She could still text Arianna. Could still ask for help. For a conversation. For a lifeline.
But instead, she reached for her concealer.
And put herself back together.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music pulsed through the dimly lit student union ballroom, bass-heavy and smooth, like it was trying to seduce the room into relaxing. The BSU mixer was in full swing—smiles, drinks, handshakes, nods of recognition and status. Royce moved through the space like he always did, the center of a world he never fully belonged to but always drew attention from.
He wasn’t wearing school colors. He never did. A muted grey hoodie, crisp jeans, clean sneakers. Unbothered. Intentional. His chain was tucked. Eyes scanning.
He’d been invited by someone—he couldn’t even remember who—but it felt like a good night to be seen. There was a lot of chatter lately. NIL deals. Draft boards. Captain talk. And still, despite all of it, Royce was trying to remember what it felt like to just exist in a room without calculating who was watching.
He grabbed a cup of punch—non-alcoholic, officially—and leaned against the far wall.
That’s when he saw Natalia.
She looked different than she had the last time he really noticed her around campus. Softer, maybe. The braids were longer now. Her lips were glossed, eyes lined with precision. But it was the way she carried herself—loose but not lazy, graceful but grounded. Like she didn’t need attention to feel powerful.
He waited until she glanced in his direction before nodding.
She did a double take, then made her way over, slow, deliberate, a hint of curiosity tugging at her expression.
"You clean up for me or just happen to remember my name tonight?" Natalia said, smiling like she already knew the answer.
Royce grinned. "I always remember your name. I just forget you like to act brand new every time you see me."
She chuckled. "Boy, please. Last time I saw you, you were walking around with that white girl. Really not beating the allegations, are you?"
"Ain’t no allegations to try to beat," he said, leaning slightly closer. "I’m equal opportunity when it comes to women."
"That’s why y’all have all those kids."
He laughed, and the tension between them started to feel like muscle memory—familiar and almost comforting.
"You still funny. That hasn’t changed," Royce said.
"And you still got that voice like you’re about to say something important but it’s always game."
"Not tonight," he said, and the way he said it made her pause.
Natalia arched a brow. "So what is tonight?"
"Just… good energy. Right place, right time. And you happened to walk into it."
She smiled but didn’t let her guard down all the way. "You always been good with timing. Bad with the follow-through."
He looked at her for a long moment. "Maybe I’m working on that."
"You working on a lot lately, huh?"
"Trying to. Doesn’t mean I’m good at it."
The flirtation was still there, but there was something more grounded underneath it now. History. Familiarity. Something neither of them wanted to name.
Natalia tilted her head slightly. "You know this ain’t a lane we should be in."
Royce didn’t flinch. "Maybe. But that ain’t never stopped nobody before."
"That’s the problem," she said, and her voice softened. "I like where I’m at. Peaceful."
He nodded. "No drama in my life either."
She looked at him a second longer before stepping back. "Alright then. Enjoy your punch."
"Need some Henny in it, to be honest."
She laughed over her shoulder as she walked away, hips swaying with a casual confidence that said she didn’t owe anyone her time, not even him.
Royce stayed a little longer, but the room felt different after that. The small talk felt thinner, the music louder. He left before the mixer really started to swell. The cool night air met him like a reset as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
His car was parked a couple blocks down. Campus was quiet in that way it got when everyone was inside somewhere trying to make something of the night.
Then, out of the corner of his eye—movement.
A girl crossing the street ahead, hoodie up, walking fast.
He paused. Something about her made his pulse tick.
"Shayla?" he called.
She didn’t turn.
"Shayla, wait up."
Still nothing.
The girl kept walking, vanishing into the shadows of the next block like she’d never been there at all.
Royce stood still for a moment, staring at the empty street.
Maybe it wasn’t her.
Maybe he was seeing ghosts again.
Either way, he didn’t call out again.
He just walked back to his car, silence wrapping around him like a coat he hadn’t realized he was still wearing.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13240
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
she cut his brake lines
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Soapy
- Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
She walk right up to her ex, look him dead in the face
And say, "You ain't got the juice like that (Woo)
You ain't got the juice like that"
That's cold, ice cold, girl, you ain't have to do him like that (Like that)
Why you had to do him like that? (Like that)
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Drizzy Soapy noticing?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Out of Place
The classroom was too bright.
The kind of fluorescent light that didn’t just fill the room, but pressed down from the ceiling, casting everything in a dull whitewash. The professor stood near the front in a rumpled shirt and tie combo that looked like it hadn’t been ironed since last spring, reading from the syllabus like he was discovering it along with them.
Royce sat near the back, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other jittering under the desk. He’d come in ten minutes late and still arrived before three other people, but the professor hadn’t batted an eye. Just kept talking about class participation like it was some kind of sacred ritual.
Royce had already tuned it out.
The paper in front of him was blank, his pen still capped.
His eyes were open, but his mind was somewhere else. Maybe in the weight room. Maybe in his inbox. Maybe back at his apartment, lying in bed, wondering why this particular semester felt heavier than the others.
His phone buzzed once.
Then again.
He pulled it from the pocket of his hoodie and turned it over in his palm. There was no name on the screen.
Unknown Number
He hesitated before unlocking it.
’Save this number. Call your mama. Now. I’m not asking.’
Just like that.
No “how you been.” No “I know I don’t have a right.” Just an order. Like time hadn’t passed. Like Royce hadn’t spent years learning how not to care. Like it was that simple to fold the past back into the present.
He stared at the message. Let it sit there for a few seconds. Felt his heart knock once, hard, then settle again.
Then he swiped left.
Delete.
Didn’t open it. Didn’t answer it. Didn’t even blink long enough to let the regret show.
The professor was still talking. Something about class policies. Something about final grades.
Royce leaned back in his chair, eyes forward, and didn’t hear a word.
By the time class let out, campus was humming. Students spilled out of buildings, clusters of them heading toward the Union, earbuds in, backpacks bouncing. The sky was that soft, cloudy gray that hinted at rain without committing to it.
Royce pulled up his hood and started walking, taking long, easy strides toward nowhere in particular. He wasn’t due at practice for hours. No meetings, no film, no weights. Nothing but the usual voices in his head telling him he should be doing more anyway.
“Wow,” someone called behind him. “So you really going to ignore me?”
He turned.
Bree.
She was leaning against a low brick planter, a clear drink in one hand, her phone in the other, smirking like she had just caught him doing something he didn’t want to be seen doing.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t see you.”
“You didn’t look.”
She crossed the sidewalk toward him, hips swaying like she wasn’t rushing, just gliding. Hair pulled back into a high ponytail, her lashes soft but sharp.
“Damn,” she said, glancing over him. “You back on that brooding shit this semester?”
Royce gave a small smirk. “You missed it?”
“I never said that.”
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her—something warm and sweet, like she always wore skin butter instead of perfume.
“You busy?” she asked. “I was going to grab something to eat and chill. Figured you might want in.”
She didn’t say it like it was casual.
Not really.
Not with how long they’d known each other. Not with everything they’d already done without ever really calling it anything.
Royce looked at her. He thought about saying yes. About walking off together, killing an hour the way they always had—comfortable, physical, uncomplicated. Bree never pressed. Never needed him to show up whole. Just needed him close, and sometimes that was enough.
But not today.
“I got a team meeting,” he said.
The lie came smooth, practiced.
She paused, like she was deciding whether to call him on it. Then she smiled—tight, sharp. “You always got some team shit when I got time.”
“Season starting soon.”
“Right,” she said. “Busy busy football players.”
There was something in her voice—something not bitter, but close to bored. Like she was tired of pretending not to be disappointed.
“Rain check?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Sure.”
She turned and walked off, the drawstring of her hoodie swinging behind her.
Royce stood still for a few seconds longer than he meant to. Watched her disappear into the crowd of students like she didn’t just remind him what it felt like to be wanted for no reason.
Then he turned and walked the other way.
He didn’t have a team meeting. Didn’t even have a reason not to go with her.
But sometimes, keeping space meant keeping control. And he was still learning what he was allowed to want—and what he had to turn away from.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant had the kind of aesthetic you couldn’t fake—exposed brick, matte black silverware, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling like someone had studied a Pinterest board until it became a religion. The waitstaff all wore matching aprons and Vans. The playlist was a slow rotation of indie R&B and acoustic covers of songs everyone pretended they’d heard first.
Royce followed Alix through the main room, eyes catching details—not because he cared, but because he needed something to focus on.
He could already feel it. That otherness he carried in certain rooms. Not on the field. Not in the locker room. But here—tables full of wine glasses and conversations about “post-grad goals.” He could feel it in his chest.
They reached the table. Three other couples were already seated, and everyone lit up when Alix arrived. Hugs, inside jokes, compliments about her hair. They shifted to make room, and she sat like she’d never left—like she’d always been part of this world.
Royce nodded at everyone, gave a few handshakes. Said “what’s good” with a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. He slid into the booth next to Alix and fiddled with the watch he wore.
Across from him sat two guys who might’ve been interchangeable in another life—clean fades, button-downs, and confident posture that came from never having to explain themselves. They spoke about MCAT study groups, their upcoming finance internships in Houston, and the real estate market in Baton Rouge like it was Monopoly.
The girls laughed in the easy way girls do when they’ve known each other since the first year of dorm living. One of them showed off a ring on her finger—promised, not engaged, she clarified with a blush. Another had just gotten into a competitive grad program in D.C.
Royce sipped water and didn’t ask for a refill. The server came around with wine; he passed without looking up.
They didn’t talk football. No one even brought up LSU’s upcoming season.
And part of him was relieved.
The other part? The other part was choking on the quiet of being tolerated but not included.
At one point, Alix leaned into his shoulder, whispering, “You okay?”
He nodded, smiled. Said, “I’m straight.”
But she looked at him a second longer, as if she knew the lie was built into the question.
…
They left just before ten. The parking lot was half-full, streetlights casting a yellow haze over the pavement. Alix walked a step ahead, key fob in hand, heels clicking quietly.
In the car, the silence was immediate and total.
No music. No casual recap. No post-dinner teasing.
Just the engine humming and the streetlights painting streaks across the windshield.
Royce stared straight ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap.
Alix broke the silence first. “Thanks for coming. I know it probably wasn’t your scene.”
Royce gave a dry laugh through his nose.
She turned to look at him. “What?”
He shook his head. “I see why you like them square-ass niggas.”
The words hung in the space between them like a swung door.
Alix blinked. “What did you just say?”
Royce kept his eyes forward. “You always sticking with corny motherfuckers. Like some shit is just for play but you got an eye on some serious shit with a dude wearing suits to work”
“They’re just my friends,” Alix said slowly. “You know that.”
“You like that shit, though,” he said. “You laughed different in there. Talked different.”
She stared at him. “Royce, I’m with you.”
“For now,” he muttered.
Her breath caught. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I’m halfway out the door just because I talked to people who aren’t like you?”
Royce gave a bitter half-smile. “It ain’t rocket science. They know I ain’t belong there with their finance internships and shit.”
Alix’s voice rose. “You belonged because I brought you. Because I wanted you there.”
“Doesn’t mean they wanted me there.”
“They don’t know you, Royce.”
“And that’s the point.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything that had come before it.
Alix turned to the window, her jaw clenched, arms folded across her chest.
The rest of the ride was a still, heavy thing. Neither of them reached for the aux. Neither said goodbye when they pulled up to her apartment.
She got out, closed the door quietly.
Royce didn’t watch her walk in.
He just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, wondering why a night like this could feel lonelier than being alone.
The classroom was too bright.
The kind of fluorescent light that didn’t just fill the room, but pressed down from the ceiling, casting everything in a dull whitewash. The professor stood near the front in a rumpled shirt and tie combo that looked like it hadn’t been ironed since last spring, reading from the syllabus like he was discovering it along with them.
Royce sat near the back, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other jittering under the desk. He’d come in ten minutes late and still arrived before three other people, but the professor hadn’t batted an eye. Just kept talking about class participation like it was some kind of sacred ritual.
Royce had already tuned it out.
The paper in front of him was blank, his pen still capped.
His eyes were open, but his mind was somewhere else. Maybe in the weight room. Maybe in his inbox. Maybe back at his apartment, lying in bed, wondering why this particular semester felt heavier than the others.
His phone buzzed once.
Then again.
He pulled it from the pocket of his hoodie and turned it over in his palm. There was no name on the screen.
Unknown Number
He hesitated before unlocking it.
’Save this number. Call your mama. Now. I’m not asking.’
Just like that.
No “how you been.” No “I know I don’t have a right.” Just an order. Like time hadn’t passed. Like Royce hadn’t spent years learning how not to care. Like it was that simple to fold the past back into the present.
He stared at the message. Let it sit there for a few seconds. Felt his heart knock once, hard, then settle again.
Then he swiped left.
Delete.
Didn’t open it. Didn’t answer it. Didn’t even blink long enough to let the regret show.
The professor was still talking. Something about class policies. Something about final grades.
Royce leaned back in his chair, eyes forward, and didn’t hear a word.
By the time class let out, campus was humming. Students spilled out of buildings, clusters of them heading toward the Union, earbuds in, backpacks bouncing. The sky was that soft, cloudy gray that hinted at rain without committing to it.
Royce pulled up his hood and started walking, taking long, easy strides toward nowhere in particular. He wasn’t due at practice for hours. No meetings, no film, no weights. Nothing but the usual voices in his head telling him he should be doing more anyway.
“Wow,” someone called behind him. “So you really going to ignore me?”
He turned.
Bree.
She was leaning against a low brick planter, a clear drink in one hand, her phone in the other, smirking like she had just caught him doing something he didn’t want to be seen doing.
Royce raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t see you.”
“You didn’t look.”
She crossed the sidewalk toward him, hips swaying like she wasn’t rushing, just gliding. Hair pulled back into a high ponytail, her lashes soft but sharp.
“Damn,” she said, glancing over him. “You back on that brooding shit this semester?”
Royce gave a small smirk. “You missed it?”
“I never said that.”
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her—something warm and sweet, like she always wore skin butter instead of perfume.
“You busy?” she asked. “I was going to grab something to eat and chill. Figured you might want in.”
She didn’t say it like it was casual.
Not really.
Not with how long they’d known each other. Not with everything they’d already done without ever really calling it anything.
Royce looked at her. He thought about saying yes. About walking off together, killing an hour the way they always had—comfortable, physical, uncomplicated. Bree never pressed. Never needed him to show up whole. Just needed him close, and sometimes that was enough.
But not today.
“I got a team meeting,” he said.
The lie came smooth, practiced.
She paused, like she was deciding whether to call him on it. Then she smiled—tight, sharp. “You always got some team shit when I got time.”
“Season starting soon.”
“Right,” she said. “Busy busy football players.”
There was something in her voice—something not bitter, but close to bored. Like she was tired of pretending not to be disappointed.
“Rain check?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Sure.”
She turned and walked off, the drawstring of her hoodie swinging behind her.
Royce stood still for a few seconds longer than he meant to. Watched her disappear into the crowd of students like she didn’t just remind him what it felt like to be wanted for no reason.
Then he turned and walked the other way.
He didn’t have a team meeting. Didn’t even have a reason not to go with her.
But sometimes, keeping space meant keeping control. And he was still learning what he was allowed to want—and what he had to turn away from.
~~~~~~~~~~
The restaurant had the kind of aesthetic you couldn’t fake—exposed brick, matte black silverware, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling like someone had studied a Pinterest board until it became a religion. The waitstaff all wore matching aprons and Vans. The playlist was a slow rotation of indie R&B and acoustic covers of songs everyone pretended they’d heard first.
Royce followed Alix through the main room, eyes catching details—not because he cared, but because he needed something to focus on.
He could already feel it. That otherness he carried in certain rooms. Not on the field. Not in the locker room. But here—tables full of wine glasses and conversations about “post-grad goals.” He could feel it in his chest.
They reached the table. Three other couples were already seated, and everyone lit up when Alix arrived. Hugs, inside jokes, compliments about her hair. They shifted to make room, and she sat like she’d never left—like she’d always been part of this world.
Royce nodded at everyone, gave a few handshakes. Said “what’s good” with a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. He slid into the booth next to Alix and fiddled with the watch he wore.
Across from him sat two guys who might’ve been interchangeable in another life—clean fades, button-downs, and confident posture that came from never having to explain themselves. They spoke about MCAT study groups, their upcoming finance internships in Houston, and the real estate market in Baton Rouge like it was Monopoly.
The girls laughed in the easy way girls do when they’ve known each other since the first year of dorm living. One of them showed off a ring on her finger—promised, not engaged, she clarified with a blush. Another had just gotten into a competitive grad program in D.C.
Royce sipped water and didn’t ask for a refill. The server came around with wine; he passed without looking up.
They didn’t talk football. No one even brought up LSU’s upcoming season.
And part of him was relieved.
The other part? The other part was choking on the quiet of being tolerated but not included.
At one point, Alix leaned into his shoulder, whispering, “You okay?”
He nodded, smiled. Said, “I’m straight.”
But she looked at him a second longer, as if she knew the lie was built into the question.
…
They left just before ten. The parking lot was half-full, streetlights casting a yellow haze over the pavement. Alix walked a step ahead, key fob in hand, heels clicking quietly.
In the car, the silence was immediate and total.
No music. No casual recap. No post-dinner teasing.
Just the engine humming and the streetlights painting streaks across the windshield.
Royce stared straight ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap.
Alix broke the silence first. “Thanks for coming. I know it probably wasn’t your scene.”
Royce gave a dry laugh through his nose.
She turned to look at him. “What?”
He shook his head. “I see why you like them square-ass niggas.”
The words hung in the space between them like a swung door.
Alix blinked. “What did you just say?”
Royce kept his eyes forward. “You always sticking with corny motherfuckers. Like some shit is just for play but you got an eye on some serious shit with a dude wearing suits to work”
“They’re just my friends,” Alix said slowly. “You know that.”
“You like that shit, though,” he said. “You laughed different in there. Talked different.”
She stared at him. “Royce, I’m with you.”
“For now,” he muttered.
Her breath caught. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I’m halfway out the door just because I talked to people who aren’t like you?”
Royce gave a bitter half-smile. “It ain’t rocket science. They know I ain’t belong there with their finance internships and shit.”
Alix’s voice rose. “You belonged because I brought you. Because I wanted you there.”
“Doesn’t mean they wanted me there.”
“They don’t know you, Royce.”
“And that’s the point.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything that had come before it.
Alix turned to the window, her jaw clenched, arms folded across her chest.
The rest of the ride was a still, heavy thing. Neither of them reached for the aux. Neither said goodbye when they pulled up to her apartment.
She got out, closed the door quietly.
Royce didn’t watch her walk in.
He just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, wondering why a night like this could feel lonelier than being alone.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Cracked Up to Be
The Union was alive with noise and motion—students darting between tables, laughing, arguing, eating fast, scrolling faster. The line at Chick-fil-A looped back into the main walkway, a few people already holding sauce packets and picking fries from their bags while still waiting on sandwiches.
Royce sat at a table by the window with Eric, Jay, and Demar, all three underclassmen still high on the adrenaline from their first “voluntary” workout of the spring.
Everyone was half-dressed in gear—Nike techs, team-issued hoodies, compression leggings rolled up at the calves. Their duffel bags were dropped at their feet, forgotten for the moment, chicken sandwiches spread out like a victory meal.
Jay was already two bites into his second sandwich, grease glinting on his lip. “Man, I swear to God,” he said, “the second we walked in, heads started turning.”
Eric nodded, snorting through a mouthful of fries. “It’s real. I caught that one girl from my poli-sci class do a double take.”
“It’s not y’all,” Demar said, already grinning. “It’s him.”
He nodded toward Royce, who was busy stirring his lemonade with the end of a straw, the expression on his face unreadable but not surprised.
“Nah,” Royce said, without looking up. “Eric might got some game.”
Jay leaned across the table, his tone all mock-serious. “Don’t lie. You know girls be noticing when you breathe.”
Royce finally looked up, raising one brow. “You serious, nigga?”
“I’m just sayin’. I’m built like that too. Got that aura,” Jay said, flexing his arm. “But it don’t hit the same when I walk through the Union. You get girls following your story like it’s a brand drop.”
“Don’t let the TikTok girls gas you,” Eric added.
Demar laughed. “You ain’t see that one girl on Twitter say Royce was her Roman Empire?”
Royce shook his head, a crooked smile forming despite himself. “Y’all niggas need to find a hobby or something. Them IG hoes’ thirst traps rotting y’all brains.”
Jay leaned back in his chair, chewing his straw. “You don’t get it, bro. You don’t even be trying. You walk around this bitch with that fake ass non-chalant shit and girls act like you invented mood.”
“Exactly,” Eric said. “Hoes see that NFL money coming’”
They all laughed—except Royce.
He smiled, yeah. But it didn’t stretch far.
Demar caught it first. “What, we lying?”
Royce leaned back, one arm draped over the chair. “It ain’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
He paused. Thought about answering like usual—with something dry, something that deflected just enough to shut it down. But maybe the long day had worn him down. Maybe it was the echo of that class earlier, how the professor had introduced him without being asked. Or maybe he was just tired of pretending he liked being looked at.
He picked at the edge of his sandwich wrapper. Then finally said, “Shit was better when I ain’t have all these eyes on me.”
That shut the table up.
Jay blinked. “Be for fucking real, nigga”
Royce nodded. “Nah, I’m serious. I ain’t the spotlight type. That’s why I ain’t a fucking receiver or some shit. That was my brother. I like when it’s just… quiet.”
Eric leaned forward, expression more serious now. “But you’re that nigga now.”
“Yeah. Shit on some slave shit though. Like you always being bid on. Gotta worry about bitches jabbing holes in condoms when you fucking ‘em. Gotta wonder if niggas try to snake you for a quick payday or something. Don’t even get me started on the rich, white motherfuckers.”
Demar frowned. “You saying it’s all fake?”
Royce looked down. “I’m saying it’s all heavy.”
They sat with that for a moment. The background noise of the Union hummed louder, filled with music from someone’s speaker and the fry station beeping behind the counter.
Jay finally said, “I mean, I get it. But ain’t this what you wanted?”
Royce met his eyes. “Nigga, I just wanted to play football with my brother.”
The others nodded, quieter now. The bravado softened into understanding.
“Still,” Eric said, voice lower, “you getting a bag.”
Royce gave a small, tired smile. “You right.”
A group of girls passed by, laughing. One of them looked toward their table, eyes locking with Royce’s for a split second before she whispered something to her friend. They all giggled.
Royce didn’t look back.
He focused on his fries instead, dipping one in honey mustard like nothing happened.
But he felt it.
He always felt it.
Even in silence, the spotlight burned.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bedroom still smelled like the dryer sheet Mike had stuffed behind the fan last night to keep the room from reeking. The sun had already dropped behind the neighbor’s roof, leaving everything bathed in a dull amber glow. The overhead light was off. It always felt too harsh in here.
Mike stood by the dresser, flipping through a text thread on his phone, barely reading. He was waiting on a number to come through—some guy one of Treg’s cousins had vouched for. It wasn’t supposed to be anything big. Just a couple moves to clear the last of the stash before summer.
Behind him, Laila moved across the room like she was trying to stay calm. Her fingers brushed the top shelf of the closet again, slower this time, more deliberate.
She pulled down the shoebox.
“I told you not to go in there,” Mike said, not even turning.
“I wasn’t going in there,” she said. “I was looking for your charger.”
She popped the lid open.
The smell hit instantly.
Not strong. But unmistakable.
Laila’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “Mike…”
He turned now.
She held the shoebox out toward him like it might bite.
“You said you were done with this,” she said.
Mike sighed. “I said I was slowing down.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You said—and I remember this—you said you were leaving it all behind. That once the summer hit, you were done.”
Mike walked over, took the box gently from her hands, and set it on the bed. “That’s what you heard.”
“No,” Laila said, voice rising. “That’s what you said.”
He laughed—dry, humorless. “Nah. You imagined I said that. You wanted to hear that.”
Laila stared at him, eyes wide. “So I’m crazy now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Mike’s chest rose and fell, sharp. “You act like it’s just some flip I can switch off. Like I got the luxury to be done just ‘cause I want to be.”
“You do!” she shouted, stepping forward. “You got that scholarship. You got a way out, and you’re still choosing to stay in this.”
“It’s not that simple,” he snapped.
“Then make it simple, Mike!”
He looked away, jaw clenched. The silence burned for a moment before he said, low, “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under.”
Laila let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t do that. Don’t hit me with that you don’t understand shit like I haven’t been here every step.”
“You think being here means knowing what it feels like to walk around with everybody expecting you to save them?” Mike said, voice hard now. “You think you know what it’s like when your people look at you like the one chance to make it out?”
“I’m not asking you to save anyone,” Laila said, quieter now. “I’m just asking you not to lose yourself before you even leave.”
He rubbed at his face, fingers digging into his eyes. “It’s not about me.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
They stood in the room’s dim light, the hum of the box fan filling the silence.
Laila reached for her bag from the floor, slung it over her shoulder. “I love you,” she said. “But I’m not gonna wait around for you to become somebody I don’t recognize.”
Mike looked up. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
She walked to the door.
Paused.
“I know why you’re doing it,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
And then she was gone.
Mike stood there alone, the smell of the weed drifting up from the open box beside him. It didn’t feel like power. Didn’t feel like survival.
It just felt like smoke.
And it was already fading.
~~~~~~~~~~
The couch cushions sagged in the middle, and the TV volume was just loud enough to drown out the creak of the old apartment floorboards. Some late-afternoon rerun played in the background, but Poochie wasn’t watching. His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, tapping through missed messages like he was scrolling through another life.
Coach Denson: “You still planning to come back this spring?”
Coach Reyes: “Enrollment deadline is creeping up. Let me know.”
Registrar Office: “ACTION NEEDED: Mercer University Course Enrollment”
Final Notice: “You have been administratively withdrawn due to non-enrollment.”
He stared at that last email a little longer. It wasn’t new. It had been sitting there for weeks. But reading it again still punched a hole through his stomach.
The apartment belonged to Meech’s baby mama, though she was out for the afternoon. Her place always smelled like burnt hair from too many flat irons and the plastic scent of discount candles, but it was clean, and the fridge had food.
From the kitchen, Shayla called out without looking up. She was standing by the sink, a cup in her hand, eyes locked on the window like it might tell her something the rest of them wouldn’t.
“So when you leaving?” she asked.
Poochie blinked, sat up straighter. “What?”
She leaned against the counter now, expression flat. “You been here what—three weeks? A month? You got a plan, or you just gonna start living like Meech?”
Poochie tensed. “Why you worried about what I’m doing?”
Shayla walked into the living room, arms crossed, tone sharper. “Because you sitting up in my sister’s house acting like the world’s still waiting on you.”
Poochie narrowed his eyes. “Mind your fucking business. Don’t worry about my shit.”
“I wouldn’t,” she shot back, “except I already know how this plays out.”
He scoffed, but she didn’t stop.
“And I’m telling you right now—Natalia’s not gonna be living like this. Not like me. Not like Shaysha. If you think she’s about to come sit on a couch next to your dreams-turned-maybe’s, you don’t know her like you think you do.”
Poochie stood now, not tall but stiff, jaw working.
“You don’t know what the fuck me and Natalia got going on.”
“I know she ain’t been calling.”
That shut him up.
Shayla didn’t gloat. She just stared at him. “So again—what are you doing?”
He looked down at his phone.
The emails. The texts. The life that had slipped sideways while he tried to keep his pride intact.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t have one.
Shayla waited a second longer, then shook her head and walked back to the kitchen.
Poochie didn’t respond.
He sat back down.
Phone in hand.
Unopened emails glowing back at him like headlights from a train he didn’t move fast enough to dodge.
The Union was alive with noise and motion—students darting between tables, laughing, arguing, eating fast, scrolling faster. The line at Chick-fil-A looped back into the main walkway, a few people already holding sauce packets and picking fries from their bags while still waiting on sandwiches.
Royce sat at a table by the window with Eric, Jay, and Demar, all three underclassmen still high on the adrenaline from their first “voluntary” workout of the spring.
Everyone was half-dressed in gear—Nike techs, team-issued hoodies, compression leggings rolled up at the calves. Their duffel bags were dropped at their feet, forgotten for the moment, chicken sandwiches spread out like a victory meal.
Jay was already two bites into his second sandwich, grease glinting on his lip. “Man, I swear to God,” he said, “the second we walked in, heads started turning.”
Eric nodded, snorting through a mouthful of fries. “It’s real. I caught that one girl from my poli-sci class do a double take.”
“It’s not y’all,” Demar said, already grinning. “It’s him.”
He nodded toward Royce, who was busy stirring his lemonade with the end of a straw, the expression on his face unreadable but not surprised.
“Nah,” Royce said, without looking up. “Eric might got some game.”
Jay leaned across the table, his tone all mock-serious. “Don’t lie. You know girls be noticing when you breathe.”
Royce finally looked up, raising one brow. “You serious, nigga?”
“I’m just sayin’. I’m built like that too. Got that aura,” Jay said, flexing his arm. “But it don’t hit the same when I walk through the Union. You get girls following your story like it’s a brand drop.”
“Don’t let the TikTok girls gas you,” Eric added.
Demar laughed. “You ain’t see that one girl on Twitter say Royce was her Roman Empire?”
Royce shook his head, a crooked smile forming despite himself. “Y’all niggas need to find a hobby or something. Them IG hoes’ thirst traps rotting y’all brains.”
Jay leaned back in his chair, chewing his straw. “You don’t get it, bro. You don’t even be trying. You walk around this bitch with that fake ass non-chalant shit and girls act like you invented mood.”
“Exactly,” Eric said. “Hoes see that NFL money coming’”
They all laughed—except Royce.
He smiled, yeah. But it didn’t stretch far.
Demar caught it first. “What, we lying?”
Royce leaned back, one arm draped over the chair. “It ain’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
He paused. Thought about answering like usual—with something dry, something that deflected just enough to shut it down. But maybe the long day had worn him down. Maybe it was the echo of that class earlier, how the professor had introduced him without being asked. Or maybe he was just tired of pretending he liked being looked at.
He picked at the edge of his sandwich wrapper. Then finally said, “Shit was better when I ain’t have all these eyes on me.”
That shut the table up.
Jay blinked. “Be for fucking real, nigga”
Royce nodded. “Nah, I’m serious. I ain’t the spotlight type. That’s why I ain’t a fucking receiver or some shit. That was my brother. I like when it’s just… quiet.”
Eric leaned forward, expression more serious now. “But you’re that nigga now.”
“Yeah. Shit on some slave shit though. Like you always being bid on. Gotta worry about bitches jabbing holes in condoms when you fucking ‘em. Gotta wonder if niggas try to snake you for a quick payday or something. Don’t even get me started on the rich, white motherfuckers.”
Demar frowned. “You saying it’s all fake?”
Royce looked down. “I’m saying it’s all heavy.”
They sat with that for a moment. The background noise of the Union hummed louder, filled with music from someone’s speaker and the fry station beeping behind the counter.
Jay finally said, “I mean, I get it. But ain’t this what you wanted?”
Royce met his eyes. “Nigga, I just wanted to play football with my brother.”
The others nodded, quieter now. The bravado softened into understanding.
“Still,” Eric said, voice lower, “you getting a bag.”
Royce gave a small, tired smile. “You right.”
A group of girls passed by, laughing. One of them looked toward their table, eyes locking with Royce’s for a split second before she whispered something to her friend. They all giggled.
Royce didn’t look back.
He focused on his fries instead, dipping one in honey mustard like nothing happened.
But he felt it.
He always felt it.
Even in silence, the spotlight burned.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bedroom still smelled like the dryer sheet Mike had stuffed behind the fan last night to keep the room from reeking. The sun had already dropped behind the neighbor’s roof, leaving everything bathed in a dull amber glow. The overhead light was off. It always felt too harsh in here.
Mike stood by the dresser, flipping through a text thread on his phone, barely reading. He was waiting on a number to come through—some guy one of Treg’s cousins had vouched for. It wasn’t supposed to be anything big. Just a couple moves to clear the last of the stash before summer.
Behind him, Laila moved across the room like she was trying to stay calm. Her fingers brushed the top shelf of the closet again, slower this time, more deliberate.
She pulled down the shoebox.
“I told you not to go in there,” Mike said, not even turning.
“I wasn’t going in there,” she said. “I was looking for your charger.”
She popped the lid open.
The smell hit instantly.
Not strong. But unmistakable.
Laila’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “Mike…”
He turned now.
She held the shoebox out toward him like it might bite.
“You said you were done with this,” she said.
Mike sighed. “I said I was slowing down.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You said—and I remember this—you said you were leaving it all behind. That once the summer hit, you were done.”
Mike walked over, took the box gently from her hands, and set it on the bed. “That’s what you heard.”
“No,” Laila said, voice rising. “That’s what you said.”
He laughed—dry, humorless. “Nah. You imagined I said that. You wanted to hear that.”
Laila stared at him, eyes wide. “So I’m crazy now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Mike’s chest rose and fell, sharp. “You act like it’s just some flip I can switch off. Like I got the luxury to be done just ‘cause I want to be.”
“You do!” she shouted, stepping forward. “You got that scholarship. You got a way out, and you’re still choosing to stay in this.”
“It’s not that simple,” he snapped.
“Then make it simple, Mike!”
He looked away, jaw clenched. The silence burned for a moment before he said, low, “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under.”
Laila let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t do that. Don’t hit me with that you don’t understand shit like I haven’t been here every step.”
“You think being here means knowing what it feels like to walk around with everybody expecting you to save them?” Mike said, voice hard now. “You think you know what it’s like when your people look at you like the one chance to make it out?”
“I’m not asking you to save anyone,” Laila said, quieter now. “I’m just asking you not to lose yourself before you even leave.”
He rubbed at his face, fingers digging into his eyes. “It’s not about me.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
They stood in the room’s dim light, the hum of the box fan filling the silence.
Laila reached for her bag from the floor, slung it over her shoulder. “I love you,” she said. “But I’m not gonna wait around for you to become somebody I don’t recognize.”
Mike looked up. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
She walked to the door.
Paused.
“I know why you’re doing it,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
And then she was gone.
Mike stood there alone, the smell of the weed drifting up from the open box beside him. It didn’t feel like power. Didn’t feel like survival.
It just felt like smoke.
And it was already fading.
~~~~~~~~~~
The couch cushions sagged in the middle, and the TV volume was just loud enough to drown out the creak of the old apartment floorboards. Some late-afternoon rerun played in the background, but Poochie wasn’t watching. His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, tapping through missed messages like he was scrolling through another life.
Coach Denson: “You still planning to come back this spring?”
Coach Reyes: “Enrollment deadline is creeping up. Let me know.”
Registrar Office: “ACTION NEEDED: Mercer University Course Enrollment”
Final Notice: “You have been administratively withdrawn due to non-enrollment.”
He stared at that last email a little longer. It wasn’t new. It had been sitting there for weeks. But reading it again still punched a hole through his stomach.
The apartment belonged to Meech’s baby mama, though she was out for the afternoon. Her place always smelled like burnt hair from too many flat irons and the plastic scent of discount candles, but it was clean, and the fridge had food.
From the kitchen, Shayla called out without looking up. She was standing by the sink, a cup in her hand, eyes locked on the window like it might tell her something the rest of them wouldn’t.
“So when you leaving?” she asked.
Poochie blinked, sat up straighter. “What?”
She leaned against the counter now, expression flat. “You been here what—three weeks? A month? You got a plan, or you just gonna start living like Meech?”
Poochie tensed. “Why you worried about what I’m doing?”
Shayla walked into the living room, arms crossed, tone sharper. “Because you sitting up in my sister’s house acting like the world’s still waiting on you.”
Poochie narrowed his eyes. “Mind your fucking business. Don’t worry about my shit.”
“I wouldn’t,” she shot back, “except I already know how this plays out.”
He scoffed, but she didn’t stop.
“And I’m telling you right now—Natalia’s not gonna be living like this. Not like me. Not like Shaysha. If you think she’s about to come sit on a couch next to your dreams-turned-maybe’s, you don’t know her like you think you do.”
Poochie stood now, not tall but stiff, jaw working.
“You don’t know what the fuck me and Natalia got going on.”
“I know she ain’t been calling.”
That shut him up.
Shayla didn’t gloat. She just stared at him. “So again—what are you doing?”
He looked down at his phone.
The emails. The texts. The life that had slipped sideways while he tried to keep his pride intact.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t have one.
Shayla waited a second longer, then shook her head and walked back to the kitchen.
Poochie didn’t respond.
He sat back down.
Phone in hand.
Unopened emails glowing back at him like headlights from a train he didn’t move fast enough to dodge.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16808
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16979
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Growth
The early afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of the apartment, scattering light across Britni’s floor like a prayer she wasn’t ready to say out loud. Her roommate, Leah, was sifting through a basket of clean laundry, humming some off-key version of a Beyoncé song. On the couch, Nia stretched across a fuzzy throw blanket with one leg draped over the side, scrolling endlessly through TikTok. There was music playing in the background—summer R&B, soft and full of groove.
Britni sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-eaten bag of kettle corn between her knees, her head tossed back in laughter.
Leah had just finished reenacting the way her date nearly tripped over a candle at the edge of a rooftop dinner he planned for their two-month anniversary.
“And then this man—this grown-ass man—goes ‘that’s crazy’ and just walks away! Like I’m supposed to act like he didn’t almost burn the place down with a Whole Foods votive!”
Nia nearly fell off the couch cackling. “Nah, he really did that?”
“Swear to God,” Leah gasped. “Like it was me who summoned the fire with my little hot-girl magic.”
Britni laughed again, the kind of full, head-thrown-back sound that filled the space between the four walls. It had been a long time since she laughed like that. Since she felt like that. The realization came slowly, slipping in beneath the warmth of the moment like a tide creeping over bare feet.
She blinked and sat up straighter, setting her cup of ginger ale down on the coffee table.
The air shifted. Not outwardly—but inside. Something gentle, and almost imperceptible.
Leah noticed the way she moved, the way her eyes went quiet. “You good?”
Britni nodded, brushing a braid behind her ear. “Yeah. Just… this is nice.”
Nia sat up now too, resting her chin on the back of the couch. “You sure? You looked like you saw a ghost just now.”
Britni shook her head, smiling but not fully. “No, I didn’t. Just caught myself thinking.”
“About?” Leah asked.
She didn’t answer right away. She picked up the can of ginger ale, took a sip, then looked at them both.
“You ever realize you’re having a good moment, but nothing about your life has really changed?”
Leah and Nia exchanged a glance.
“Like… you didn’t go on a trip. You didn’t meet anyone new. You didn’t read some self-help book or start therapy again. But somehow, for a second, you feel… okay?”
They were both quiet.
“That’s what this feels like,” Britni said, softer now. “Like I’m okay for a second. But I didn’t earn it. I didn’t do anything to feel better. I just do. And that feels… wrong.”
Nia leaned forward. “It’s not wrong.”
“It feels like cheating,” Britni admitted.
Leah slid down next to her, placing a hand on her knee. “You don’t need to suffer to prove you loved him.”
Britni’s breath caught.
“It’s been years,” Leah continued. “You’ve carried Romeo on your back this whole time. But he wouldn’t want you to drown with him.”
The room went still.
“I’m not saying stop grieving,” Nia added. “I’m just saying… maybe let yourself breathe when the air’s good.”
Britni looked down at her hands—small palms, bitten nails, thin silver rings. She’d worn the same ring on her index finger since Romeo died. It had been his. Something cheap from a mall kiosk, back when they were fifteen and playing grown. She still twisted it when she got nervous.
“I don’t know if I remember how to breathe,” she whispered.
“You’re doing it now,” Leah said. “We all heard you laugh. Loud as hell.”
That pulled a smile from Britni. “Shut up.”
“We got you,” Nia said.
She nodded.
And then—like magic—they were laughing again. Not louder, but freer. Nia pulled up some old viral dance she swore she could still do. Leah said she was about to order a pizza and dared anyone to judge her for it.
Britni leaned her head against the couch cushion and let the laughter wrap around her like a hoodie fresh from the dryer.
It still hurt. Romeo still felt like an echo pressed against her ribs.
But for today?
She let herself laugh anyway.
Because sometimes healing didn’t look like progress.
Sometimes it just looked like presence.
And that was more than enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Trader Joe’s hummed with the kind of Sunday afternoon buzz that made you forget the rest of the world was spinning. The overhead speakers played a breezy indie playlist, and the smell of roasted coffee beans wafted through the air, mixing with the slightly-too-strong scent of bananas.
Royce pushed the shopping cart lazily, the rubber wheels squeaking every few feet. Alix walked beside him, a paper shopping list in one hand, the other plucking snacks off the shelf that she insisted were essentials but hadn’t been on the list at all. He didn’t complain. Not once.
“You realize we’re shopping for two different apartments, right?” Alix asked, dropping a bag of dried mangoes into the cart without looking at him. “You keep throwing meat in like I’m going to cook it for you.”
Royce smirked, casually swiping a pack of ground turkey from her half of the cart and setting it in his. “Ain’t say you had to cook it, but you could. Just once.”
Alix gave him a look that was half amused, half warning. “You better relax before I start charging you by the hour.”
“I ain’t got cash, but I pay well in other ways,” Royce said, dropping his voice as he leaned in just enough to brush against her arm.
She arched an eyebrow, hiding the flicker of a smile. “You’re unusually flirty today. What’s gotten into you?”
He shrugged, turning the cart down the next aisle. “Just like doing normal shit with you.”
There was something disarming in the way he said it—lighthearted on the surface, but underneath it, a rare vulnerability that made her pause. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, fingers stilling on the box of mac and cheese she’d been reaching for.
“Normal shit,” she repeated. “Like grocery shopping?”
Royce stopped the cart and leaned against it with his forearms. “Yeah. Nobody watching us. Nobody asking for shit. Just you, me, and overpriced ass frozen shit y’all white folks like.”
That earned a laugh. She stepped in front of the cart, standing between his hands like she’d done at breakfast in his apartment more than once. “So… are we enough of a couple for me to ask you to come to something for me?”
He tilted his head. “What you mean? I be at plenty shit for you.”
“No,” she said, nudging his chest with a finger. “This one is for me. Like, actually me.”
Royce gave her a curious look, straightening up slightly. “Aight. What is it?”
She hesitated. “I’ve got a showing. For class. My photography class. It’s, like, a small gallery thing.”
He frowned. “Ain’t you majoring in interior design?”
The pause between them stretched longer than it should have. Alix glanced down at the cart, then over at the other shoppers moving past them.
“Forget it,” she said quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”
Royce caught her wrist before she could walk ahead. “Wait. Nah. I ain’t know you were doing photography shit. Why you ain’t tell me?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
His voice was low. “I care.”
Their eyes locked for a moment. There were still jagged edges between them—days where they didn’t talk, nights where things felt too quiet—but here, in this moment, they were soft again. Familiar.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“You will?” she asked, skeptical.
He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, you put up with all my shit. Least I can do is show up for you.”
The vulnerability she’d tucked away earlier flickered back in her eyes, but she covered it with a smile and grabbed a tub of cookie butter from the shelf.
“Cool,” she said, casually. “It’s at the end of the month. You’re not allowed to ditch last minute.”
Royce pushed the cart forward again, close enough that their arms brushed. “You want me to go all out? I could bring some flowers in that bitch and all.”
She smiled at the shelves. “Might have to if you keep being like this.”
He leaned in again. “Like what?”
Alix didn’t answer. She just placed a bottle of wine in the cart and walked ahead with a shake of her head, that smile still tugging at her lips.
And for a moment, in a grocery store full of strangers, they almost looked like what they were trying to be.
The early afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of the apartment, scattering light across Britni’s floor like a prayer she wasn’t ready to say out loud. Her roommate, Leah, was sifting through a basket of clean laundry, humming some off-key version of a Beyoncé song. On the couch, Nia stretched across a fuzzy throw blanket with one leg draped over the side, scrolling endlessly through TikTok. There was music playing in the background—summer R&B, soft and full of groove.
Britni sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-eaten bag of kettle corn between her knees, her head tossed back in laughter.
Leah had just finished reenacting the way her date nearly tripped over a candle at the edge of a rooftop dinner he planned for their two-month anniversary.
“And then this man—this grown-ass man—goes ‘that’s crazy’ and just walks away! Like I’m supposed to act like he didn’t almost burn the place down with a Whole Foods votive!”
Nia nearly fell off the couch cackling. “Nah, he really did that?”
“Swear to God,” Leah gasped. “Like it was me who summoned the fire with my little hot-girl magic.”
Britni laughed again, the kind of full, head-thrown-back sound that filled the space between the four walls. It had been a long time since she laughed like that. Since she felt like that. The realization came slowly, slipping in beneath the warmth of the moment like a tide creeping over bare feet.
She blinked and sat up straighter, setting her cup of ginger ale down on the coffee table.
The air shifted. Not outwardly—but inside. Something gentle, and almost imperceptible.
Leah noticed the way she moved, the way her eyes went quiet. “You good?”
Britni nodded, brushing a braid behind her ear. “Yeah. Just… this is nice.”
Nia sat up now too, resting her chin on the back of the couch. “You sure? You looked like you saw a ghost just now.”
Britni shook her head, smiling but not fully. “No, I didn’t. Just caught myself thinking.”
“About?” Leah asked.
She didn’t answer right away. She picked up the can of ginger ale, took a sip, then looked at them both.
“You ever realize you’re having a good moment, but nothing about your life has really changed?”
Leah and Nia exchanged a glance.
“Like… you didn’t go on a trip. You didn’t meet anyone new. You didn’t read some self-help book or start therapy again. But somehow, for a second, you feel… okay?”
They were both quiet.
“That’s what this feels like,” Britni said, softer now. “Like I’m okay for a second. But I didn’t earn it. I didn’t do anything to feel better. I just do. And that feels… wrong.”
Nia leaned forward. “It’s not wrong.”
“It feels like cheating,” Britni admitted.
Leah slid down next to her, placing a hand on her knee. “You don’t need to suffer to prove you loved him.”
Britni’s breath caught.
“It’s been years,” Leah continued. “You’ve carried Romeo on your back this whole time. But he wouldn’t want you to drown with him.”
The room went still.
“I’m not saying stop grieving,” Nia added. “I’m just saying… maybe let yourself breathe when the air’s good.”
Britni looked down at her hands—small palms, bitten nails, thin silver rings. She’d worn the same ring on her index finger since Romeo died. It had been his. Something cheap from a mall kiosk, back when they were fifteen and playing grown. She still twisted it when she got nervous.
“I don’t know if I remember how to breathe,” she whispered.
“You’re doing it now,” Leah said. “We all heard you laugh. Loud as hell.”
That pulled a smile from Britni. “Shut up.”
“We got you,” Nia said.
She nodded.
And then—like magic—they were laughing again. Not louder, but freer. Nia pulled up some old viral dance she swore she could still do. Leah said she was about to order a pizza and dared anyone to judge her for it.
Britni leaned her head against the couch cushion and let the laughter wrap around her like a hoodie fresh from the dryer.
It still hurt. Romeo still felt like an echo pressed against her ribs.
But for today?
She let herself laugh anyway.
Because sometimes healing didn’t look like progress.
Sometimes it just looked like presence.
And that was more than enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Trader Joe’s hummed with the kind of Sunday afternoon buzz that made you forget the rest of the world was spinning. The overhead speakers played a breezy indie playlist, and the smell of roasted coffee beans wafted through the air, mixing with the slightly-too-strong scent of bananas.
Royce pushed the shopping cart lazily, the rubber wheels squeaking every few feet. Alix walked beside him, a paper shopping list in one hand, the other plucking snacks off the shelf that she insisted were essentials but hadn’t been on the list at all. He didn’t complain. Not once.
“You realize we’re shopping for two different apartments, right?” Alix asked, dropping a bag of dried mangoes into the cart without looking at him. “You keep throwing meat in like I’m going to cook it for you.”
Royce smirked, casually swiping a pack of ground turkey from her half of the cart and setting it in his. “Ain’t say you had to cook it, but you could. Just once.”
Alix gave him a look that was half amused, half warning. “You better relax before I start charging you by the hour.”
“I ain’t got cash, but I pay well in other ways,” Royce said, dropping his voice as he leaned in just enough to brush against her arm.
She arched an eyebrow, hiding the flicker of a smile. “You’re unusually flirty today. What’s gotten into you?”
He shrugged, turning the cart down the next aisle. “Just like doing normal shit with you.”
There was something disarming in the way he said it—lighthearted on the surface, but underneath it, a rare vulnerability that made her pause. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, fingers stilling on the box of mac and cheese she’d been reaching for.
“Normal shit,” she repeated. “Like grocery shopping?”
Royce stopped the cart and leaned against it with his forearms. “Yeah. Nobody watching us. Nobody asking for shit. Just you, me, and overpriced ass frozen shit y’all white folks like.”
That earned a laugh. She stepped in front of the cart, standing between his hands like she’d done at breakfast in his apartment more than once. “So… are we enough of a couple for me to ask you to come to something for me?”
He tilted his head. “What you mean? I be at plenty shit for you.”
“No,” she said, nudging his chest with a finger. “This one is for me. Like, actually me.”
Royce gave her a curious look, straightening up slightly. “Aight. What is it?”
She hesitated. “I’ve got a showing. For class. My photography class. It’s, like, a small gallery thing.”
He frowned. “Ain’t you majoring in interior design?”
The pause between them stretched longer than it should have. Alix glanced down at the cart, then over at the other shoppers moving past them.
“Forget it,” she said quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”
Royce caught her wrist before she could walk ahead. “Wait. Nah. I ain’t know you were doing photography shit. Why you ain’t tell me?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
His voice was low. “I care.”
Their eyes locked for a moment. There were still jagged edges between them—days where they didn’t talk, nights where things felt too quiet—but here, in this moment, they were soft again. Familiar.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“You will?” she asked, skeptical.
He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, you put up with all my shit. Least I can do is show up for you.”
The vulnerability she’d tucked away earlier flickered back in her eyes, but she covered it with a smile and grabbed a tub of cookie butter from the shelf.
“Cool,” she said, casually. “It’s at the end of the month. You’re not allowed to ditch last minute.”
Royce pushed the cart forward again, close enough that their arms brushed. “You want me to go all out? I could bring some flowers in that bitch and all.”
She smiled at the shelves. “Might have to if you keep being like this.”
He leaned in again. “Like what?”
Alix didn’t answer. She just placed a bottle of wine in the cart and walked ahead with a shake of her head, that smile still tugging at her lips.
And for a moment, in a grocery store full of strangers, they almost looked like what they were trying to be.