Vision
Royce stepped outside and blinked against the late-morning glare. The chill hadn’t burned off yet, and the sun bounced off the hoods of parked cars like it was daring winter to hold on. His breath ghosted slightly as he exhaled.
Delpit was there, leaning against the black SUV that always looked freshly washed no matter the weather. He wore a dark wool coat over a mock turtleneck, clean lines from collar to cuff. In his hand: two coffees. One was passed toward Royce without a word.
Royce took it, still groggy, still unsure if this was a surprise meeting or one he was supposed to remember.
Delpit pushed off the car. “Walk with me.”
Royce didn’t argue.
They crossed the street and followed a narrow sidewalk that led toward the levee. Morning traffic buzzed behind them, but ahead, the city quieted into the edge of the Mississippi—low and brown and moving slow like it had all the time in the world.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the crest of the levee. The wind picked up there, tugging at Royce’s hoodie and making Delpit tuck his free hand into his coat pocket.
“You’ve got power right now,” Delpit said finally, eyes on the river. “You won’t always.”
Royce took a slow sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong, probably some $6-a-cup blend from one of those places he only ever walked past. He didn’t answer.
Delpit didn’t press. “I’ve been around long enough to know when a tide’s coming in. You’re it, Royce. Your name rings out right now. People listen when you talk. People shift when you walk in a room.”
Royce exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, and?”
“And,” Delpit said, turning toward him slightly, “it don’t last. Not unless you know how to bottle it.”
Royce shrugged. “A million dollars don’t mean shit if I gotta dance for another motherfucker.”
That hung in the air longer than it probably needed to.
Delpit didn’t react right away. Just took a slow sip of his own coffee and watched a tugboat chug upriver.
Then: “Who says it’s dancing for someone else?” he asked, tone calm. “You’re the one that made them open their wallets. You. Not LSU. Not the SEC. You.”
Royce rolled the paper sleeve between his fingers. “Feels like I still owe ‘em something.”
Delpit smiled, tight-lipped. “That’s the trick they play. Make you think your worth is what you still gotta prove.”
They walked a bit farther in silence. The wind dipped. A crane overhead wheeled slow in the sky like it had nowhere better to be.
“I’m just trying to see the next step,” Royce said, voice low.
Delpit nodded like he understood. “The door been open, young brother. You just have to walk through it.”
Royce didn’t reply.
Not because he didn’t get it. But because he did—and stepping through meant letting go of the parts of himself that still clung to the edge. The parts that thought waiting made him smarter. Safer.
The wind picked up again. He pulled his hoodie tighter.
Delpit checked his watch. “I got a call in ten. But I’ll say this—whatever you decide, make sure you’re deciding. Don’t let the world do it for you.”
He held his hand out to Royce to shake.
“Call if you need clarity.”
Royce nodded, shaking his hand. Delpit started back toward the car.
Royce stayed on the levee, sipping coffee gone lukewarm, watching the water move. Slow. Heavy. Constant.
And somehow, still forward.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike sat at one of the long wooden tables tucked in the back corner of the Northwestern State library, the kind meant for quiet study but mostly used by people avoiding their roommates. His laptop was open in front of him, but his screen wasn’t a paper draft or Blackboard or anything that looked productive.
It was his student account.
Account Summary:
HOLD — Financial Aid Office
Outstanding Balance: $2,134.47
Next Registration Term: Blocked
He rubbed the side of his face slowly, thumb dragging down from temple to jaw like he could massage the number smaller. The cursor blinked next to a link labeled “Contact Billing.” He didn’t click it.
Instead, he pulled out his phone.
His contacts list glowed against his face as he scrolled. Most of the names didn’t mean anything anymore. A couple teammates. A coach he no longer talked to. A friend in Houma who kept asking if he’d "made it out yet."
Then he got to Treg.
Just the name. No emoji. No photo.
He hovered his thumb over it for a second. Long enough to feel the phantom weight in his chest. That old pull.
He didn’t tap it.
Just locked the screen, leaned back in the chair, and exhaled through his nose. The sound echoed a little too loud in the stillness.
A student two tables down looked up briefly, then returned to his laptop. No one cared. No one ever did, unless he gave them a reason to.
Mike stared at the top of his laptop, eyes unfocused. He hadn’t expected school to feel like this. Not hard—he could do the work when he sat down—but dense. Like everything took energy to reach. Every assignment, every conversation. Every day felt like it started at a deficit.
He pushed the laptop shut and gathered his stuff. The screen of his phone lit up again as he slid it into his hoodie pocket.
1 New Text Message
Treg: “Still breathing? Let me know when you got something for me.”
He didn’t open it.
…
That night, the cafeteria buzzed with low conversation, the clatter of trays, and the occasional burst of laughter from the corner near the drink machines where the track team usually sat. Mike took a seat alone at the edge of a four-top table near the windows. He set down a tray with grilled chicken, rice, and a cookie he didn’t ask for but took anyway.
He wore his earbuds, but there was no music playing.
Just silence.
He picked at the food. Took a few bites. Chewed slowly. His eyes stayed on the table, even as people passed him, even as someone called his name across the room and he gave a tired, half-hearted wave.
He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to explain.
He just wanted the numbers in his head to stop spinning. The total on his balance. The twenty-dollar bill left in his drawer. The four-digit figure Treg had circled on that paper long ago in Houma, pushing it across the table like a contract.
$1,200.
It had felt impossible then. It felt even heavier now.
He lifted the cookie, stared at it like it might tell him something, then set it back down untouched.
Someone walked past, laughing hard. He didn’t flinch.
He chewed a piece of chicken. Slowly. Alone.
The earbuds stayed in. Silent.
Because music would’ve made it harder to pretend he wasn’t listening to everything around him. And silence was easier when it didn’t come from the world—only from him.
~~~~~~~~~~
Arianna tugged her hoodie sleeves down over her palms as she sat in the wooden chair outside her advisor’s office, thumb pressed to the corner of a book she hadn’t touched since opening it twenty minutes ago. The hallway smelled like old carpet and microwave popcorn—somebody must’ve reheated something in the student lounge again.
It was quiet otherwise, except for the click of a keyboard behind the half-closed door and the soft shuffle of a student leaving down the hall. She checked her phone—11:04. She’d gotten here early on purpose, hoping to calm herself. It hadn’t worked.
The door creaked open. Dr. Bell leaned out, glasses perched low on her nose, her silver braids pulled back into a neat bun.
“Arianna? Come in, come in.”
Arianna stood and stepped inside, tucking the book into her bag. The office was small, but cozy. Books stacked in uneven towers on the floor, a single potted plant near the window holding on for dear life, and a framed quote on the wall behind the desk that read: “Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.” —Fernando Pessoa
Dr. Bell gestured toward one of the chairs across from her. “You’ve got good timing. The last meeting ran short.”
Arianna sat down. Her leg bounced for a moment before she pressed her heel flat against the carpet to stop it.
“So,” Dr. Bell said, typing something into her computer. “You wanted to check your standing?”
“Yeah. I know I switched late—my major, I mean. And the minor. I just want to make sure I’m still on track to graduate.”
Bell clicked a few times, squinting at the screen. “Creative writing major, literature minor?”
Arianna nodded.
Dr. Bell leaned back, hands folded. “You’re fine. A little tight on upper-level lit credits, but you’ve got one more semester and a summer course if you want to spread the load. You’ll be done next spring.”
Arianna exhaled, more forcefully than she meant to. “Good.”
Bell raised an eyebrow.
Arianna looked at her hands for a second, then up. “Can we talk about how to get a master’s in literature?”
There was a pause.
Dr. Bell didn’t smile—but she softened. “Of course we can. You thinking UL’s grad program? Or somewhere else?”
“I don’t know yet,” Arianna said. “I just know I’m done playing it safe. I used to think finishing school was enough. Just graduating. But now…”
She trailed off. Her throat felt tighter than expected.
Dr. Bell waited.
Arianna sat up straighter. “I’m not just trying to finish school,” she said quietly. “I’m trying to finish who I am as a person.”
That made the room still.
Dr. Bell nodded slowly, then pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “That’s a heavy thing to say.”
Arianna didn’t flinch. “I mean it.”
Bell tapped her pen against her desk, thoughtful. “You’ve always had something different in your writing. Not louder, just more sure. I think you’ve known where you were going. You just didn’t believe you had the right to say it out loud.”
Arianna blinked once. Her jaw tensed.
Bell reached over and slid a brochure from under a stack of folders. “We can start with this. Application timelines, portfolio suggestions, scholarships. You’ll need a personal statement, but… based on what you just said, I think you’ve already written the first sentence.”
Arianna took the brochure. Her fingers trembled just a little, but she didn’t try to hide it.
“I’ll help you,” Bell said. “Whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” Arianna replied.
Her voice was quiet. But not small.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Self-Planning
The place was one of those half-dingy, half-iconic campus burger joints—peeling vinyl booths, faded photos of local athletes on the walls, and a ketchup bottle on every table that somehow never stayed clean. The kind of place that smelled like burnt grease and yesterday’s fries no matter what time you walked in.
Royce slid into a booth by the window, hoodie up, the collar of his LSU travel jacket bunched around his neck. It was just past three—between lunch and dinner—so the place was mostly empty. One guy in sweats sat alone with a laptop open, earbuds in. The girl behind the counter looked like she hated her shift.
He checked his phone. Shayla: “Almost there.”
Two minutes later, she walked in.
Hair slicked into a high ponytail, gold hoops glinting in the fluorescent light. Tight jeans, cropped jacket, lip gloss that caught the sunlight just enough. She scanned the room like she owned it, then spotted him and smiled like she hadn’t ever smiled out of anything but calculation.
“Royce,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Been a minute.”
Royce kept his face flat. “You asked me to come.”
“I did,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “Could’ve just texted, but I figured you’d wanna see me.”
Royce didn’t reply.
A waitress came over and dropped off two water cups without a word. Shayla plucked hers up and sipped it like she had all the time in the world.
“I forgot how cute you are when you’re moody,” she said.
Royce shook his head. “Miss me with that shit. What you want?”
Shayla raised her eyebrows. “Damn. Straight to it?”
“I got shit to do, Shayla.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek for a second, then reached into her purse and slid a folded packet of papers across the table. “I’m trying to get out of my sister’s house.”
Royce didn’t touch the paper. Just stared at it. “What is this?”
“Lease agreement. I already talked to the agent. Just need a co-signer.”
He huffed a short, joyless laugh. “Nah.”
“Come on,” she said, still sweet. “Ain’t like it’s gonna cost you anything. It’s just paperwork. You won’t even remember you signed it.”
Royce pushed the paper back toward her with one finger. “I ain’t putting my name on shit that ain’t for me.”
Shayla leaned in. “You would if you thought you’d benefit.”
He looked at her, eyes low. “That what this is? A benefit package?”
She smiled slow, leaned her chin in her hand. “You’d be able to come over whenever you want. Nobody knocking on doors, no niece in the next room. Just me. You.”
Royce shook his head, already pushing himself up from the booth.
She reached out. “Ro—”
“I can get pussy whenever I want,” he said, standing now. “I ain’t gotta pay for it.”
Shayla’s expression hardened. “It’s not even that serious.”
Royce glanced down at her, not angry—just disappointed.
“Then get some other duck ass nigga to put his name on that.”
He stepped out of the booth, pulled his hood up again, and walked out without looking back. The door jingled behind him.
Outside, the air was cool, but it didn’t cut through the heat in his chest. He didn’t feel triumphant. He just felt tired.
Tired of people trying to use his name like a key.
Tired of having to watch his back from people who used to smile in his face.
Tired of the constant fucking angles.
He didn’t text anyone. Didn’t check his phone. Just shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking. The grease smell from the burger place stuck to his hoodie, and he hated that too.
By the time he turned the corner back toward campus, he wasn’t thinking about Shayla anymore.
He was thinking about who else might be coming for him next.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment smelled like garlic and onions, warm and sharp in the way that clung to clothes and comforted the space. Jazlyn stood barefoot at the stove, stirring pasta with one hand and sipping from a wine glass with the other. She wore one of Malik’s old Nevada football shirts, oversized and speckled with flour from when she’d tossed it across the counter earlier trying to make garlic knots. The oven clicked softly behind her.
Malik stood next to her, chopping bell peppers with a dull knife that made the task more effort than it needed to be. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, and the cutting board wobbled every time he pressed down too hard. Still, he didn’t complain.
“Don’t forget to seed those,” Jazlyn said without looking.
“I got it,” Malik muttered.
She smirked, then pointed the spoon at him. “You say that, and then I end up chewing on a half a pepper core like it’s gum.”
“That happened once.”
“It was traumatic.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled.
They moved in sync—no music, just the soft clatter of utensils and the hum of life shared. The kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. Just full of things that didn’t need to be said out loud.
Jazlyn reached over and turned down the burner. “Oh, by the way,” she said, like it had just popped into her head, “Tati got engaged.”
Malik paused mid-chop. “For real?”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “Her man proposed on a ski trip. Had the ring hidden in one of her gloves. Her mom cried on FaceTime.”
Malik made a sound of approval. “That’s clean.”
“I guess.” Jazlyn shrugged. “Now my mom’s been dropping hints like rain. Yesterday she asked if I liked her old wedding dress ‘just out of curiosity.’”
Malik let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t say anything else.
Jazlyn glanced over at him. He was focused on the peppers again, but slower now.
She leaned against the counter. “That scare you?”
He didn’t look up. “What?”
“Marriage. The whole… forever thing.”
He stopped chopping.
The kitchen light flickered once—just a soft flutter—then settled again.
Malik finally turned to face her, knife still in his hand, the peppers half-finished behind him.
“Nah,” he said. “It don’t scare me.”
Jazlyn studied him. He didn’t sound defensive, or casual. Just honest.
He set the knife down and leaned both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense in that way he got when he was trying to say something bigger than what the words could hold.
“It’s not the idea,” he said. “Not the ring or the forever. I ain’t afraid of loving you.”
He paused.
“I’m afraid of not doing it right.”
Jazlyn didn’t smile. Didn’t say “Aww” or crack a joke like she might have a year ago. She stepped closer instead, until her knees touched his and his arms fell naturally to her waist.
“You’re already doing it right,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “You don’t know what I came from.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And you think I don’t? You think I haven’t seen love twisted up and handed down like a broken thing people gotta live with?”
His fingers tightened just slightly at her sides.
“I’m not asking for perfect,” she whispered. “Just present. Just effort.”
Malik looked down, jaw flexing.
“I can do that,” he said, almost like he was still convincing himself.
“I know,” she said.
They stood there for a moment, quiet again. The pasta started to boil over behind them. Jazlyn turned around and pulled it off the burner, but left her hand on Malik’s chest for another second.
He picked up the knife again.
This time, he finished chopping the peppers slowly, carefully, each slice cleaner than the last.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce didn’t expect her to come.
He stared at the text for a minute after sending it—“You tryna pull up?”—then tossed his phone facedown on the coffee table like it had accused him of something. The living room was dark except for the low yellow light spilling in from the kitchen, casting long shadows on the carpet. The place was clean, but not because he’d tried. More because he hadn’t touched much lately.
Ten minutes passed. Then twelve.
The buzz of his phone made him flinch.
Effie: “Send a pin.”
He rubbed his hands over his face and sat back.
The knock was short—just one—before the door creaked open.
She stepped inside slowly, like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome yet. Her jacket was oversized, military green, and hung off her shoulders in a way that made her look smaller than she was. She pushed the door closed behind her with a soft click and glanced around.
“This it?” she said, not judging—just observing.
Royce shrugged from the couch. “Yeah.”
Effie stepped in carefully, taking in the space with that still, deliberate gaze of hers. Her eyes drifted across the blank TV screen, the scuffed edges of the expensive coffee table, a stack of unopened mail on the console, and a duffel bag near the door. Her attention lingered on a framed photo propped against the wall—Royce and Romeo leaning against an old Accord, both of them grinning like the world hadn’t touched them yet.
She said nothing, just nodded slightly to herself and walked farther in, the soft rubber soles of her sneakers barely making a sound.
“You want water or something?” Royce asked, halfway standing.
“I’m good,” she said, waving him off, already easing herself onto the couch. She sat with her legs crossed, not tucked up but not stretched out either. Comfortable, but careful. Like she didn’t want to crease the quiet just yet.
Royce sat next to her—close, but not touching. The kind of space that left room for breath.
They sat there for a minute in the hush of a room that didn’t know what to make of two people being gentle with each other.
Royce spoke first, voice low. “Everyone trying to tell me what to fucking do.”
Effie didn’t blink. “You don’t have to listen.”
He gave a short laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” she said, still looking around—at the blank wall where a TV should probably be mounted, at the two mismatched throw pillows that didn’t look like he picked them himself. “But it’s still your choice.”
Royce exhaled and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Agent on my ass. Some other motherfucker texting every day like I owe him answers. Coach keep saying I need to be a leader like that shit comes with instructions.”
Effie finally looked at him. “You can make your own way.”
He met her eyes, then looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t mean it’s the right one.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But at least it’s yours.”
That sat heavy between them.
Royce shook his head. “I don’t know, man. Half the time I feel like standing still’s the only thing that don’t cost me nothing.”
Effie didn’t flinch. “Doing nothing’s a choice too.”
Royce turned his head slowly. “What you mean?”
She sat straighter. “I mean, I know what it costs. To freeze. To wait too long to move. To tell yourself you’re thinking when you’re really just hiding.”
Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve, her voice still even. “I know what it’s like to do nothing, and lose something you don’t get back.”
He stared at her. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, she leaned back into the couch, eyes flicking once more to the photo of Royce and his brother, then back to him.
“That’s a conversation for another day,” she said.
Royce nodded. “Alright.”
They didn’t say much else.
But she didn’t leave.
And he didn’t ask her to.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like a bridge—unfinished, but strong enough to stand on for now.
She leaned her head back against the couch cushion and let her eyes close for just a moment.
Royce watched her, then leaned back too.
No sex. No tension.
Just presence. And breath.
And the quiet knowing that sometimes, showing up was enough.
The place was one of those half-dingy, half-iconic campus burger joints—peeling vinyl booths, faded photos of local athletes on the walls, and a ketchup bottle on every table that somehow never stayed clean. The kind of place that smelled like burnt grease and yesterday’s fries no matter what time you walked in.
Royce slid into a booth by the window, hoodie up, the collar of his LSU travel jacket bunched around his neck. It was just past three—between lunch and dinner—so the place was mostly empty. One guy in sweats sat alone with a laptop open, earbuds in. The girl behind the counter looked like she hated her shift.
He checked his phone. Shayla: “Almost there.”
Two minutes later, she walked in.
Hair slicked into a high ponytail, gold hoops glinting in the fluorescent light. Tight jeans, cropped jacket, lip gloss that caught the sunlight just enough. She scanned the room like she owned it, then spotted him and smiled like she hadn’t ever smiled out of anything but calculation.
“Royce,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Been a minute.”
Royce kept his face flat. “You asked me to come.”
“I did,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “Could’ve just texted, but I figured you’d wanna see me.”
Royce didn’t reply.
A waitress came over and dropped off two water cups without a word. Shayla plucked hers up and sipped it like she had all the time in the world.
“I forgot how cute you are when you’re moody,” she said.
Royce shook his head. “Miss me with that shit. What you want?”
Shayla raised her eyebrows. “Damn. Straight to it?”
“I got shit to do, Shayla.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek for a second, then reached into her purse and slid a folded packet of papers across the table. “I’m trying to get out of my sister’s house.”
Royce didn’t touch the paper. Just stared at it. “What is this?”
“Lease agreement. I already talked to the agent. Just need a co-signer.”
He huffed a short, joyless laugh. “Nah.”
“Come on,” she said, still sweet. “Ain’t like it’s gonna cost you anything. It’s just paperwork. You won’t even remember you signed it.”
Royce pushed the paper back toward her with one finger. “I ain’t putting my name on shit that ain’t for me.”
Shayla leaned in. “You would if you thought you’d benefit.”
He looked at her, eyes low. “That what this is? A benefit package?”
She smiled slow, leaned her chin in her hand. “You’d be able to come over whenever you want. Nobody knocking on doors, no niece in the next room. Just me. You.”
Royce shook his head, already pushing himself up from the booth.
She reached out. “Ro—”
“I can get pussy whenever I want,” he said, standing now. “I ain’t gotta pay for it.”
Shayla’s expression hardened. “It’s not even that serious.”
Royce glanced down at her, not angry—just disappointed.
“Then get some other duck ass nigga to put his name on that.”
He stepped out of the booth, pulled his hood up again, and walked out without looking back. The door jingled behind him.
Outside, the air was cool, but it didn’t cut through the heat in his chest. He didn’t feel triumphant. He just felt tired.
Tired of people trying to use his name like a key.
Tired of having to watch his back from people who used to smile in his face.
Tired of the constant fucking angles.
He didn’t text anyone. Didn’t check his phone. Just shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking. The grease smell from the burger place stuck to his hoodie, and he hated that too.
By the time he turned the corner back toward campus, he wasn’t thinking about Shayla anymore.
He was thinking about who else might be coming for him next.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment smelled like garlic and onions, warm and sharp in the way that clung to clothes and comforted the space. Jazlyn stood barefoot at the stove, stirring pasta with one hand and sipping from a wine glass with the other. She wore one of Malik’s old Nevada football shirts, oversized and speckled with flour from when she’d tossed it across the counter earlier trying to make garlic knots. The oven clicked softly behind her.
Malik stood next to her, chopping bell peppers with a dull knife that made the task more effort than it needed to be. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, and the cutting board wobbled every time he pressed down too hard. Still, he didn’t complain.
“Don’t forget to seed those,” Jazlyn said without looking.
“I got it,” Malik muttered.
She smirked, then pointed the spoon at him. “You say that, and then I end up chewing on a half a pepper core like it’s gum.”
“That happened once.”
“It was traumatic.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled.
They moved in sync—no music, just the soft clatter of utensils and the hum of life shared. The kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. Just full of things that didn’t need to be said out loud.
Jazlyn reached over and turned down the burner. “Oh, by the way,” she said, like it had just popped into her head, “Tati got engaged.”
Malik paused mid-chop. “For real?”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “Her man proposed on a ski trip. Had the ring hidden in one of her gloves. Her mom cried on FaceTime.”
Malik made a sound of approval. “That’s clean.”
“I guess.” Jazlyn shrugged. “Now my mom’s been dropping hints like rain. Yesterday she asked if I liked her old wedding dress ‘just out of curiosity.’”
Malik let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t say anything else.
Jazlyn glanced over at him. He was focused on the peppers again, but slower now.
She leaned against the counter. “That scare you?”
He didn’t look up. “What?”
“Marriage. The whole… forever thing.”
He stopped chopping.
The kitchen light flickered once—just a soft flutter—then settled again.
Malik finally turned to face her, knife still in his hand, the peppers half-finished behind him.
“Nah,” he said. “It don’t scare me.”
Jazlyn studied him. He didn’t sound defensive, or casual. Just honest.
He set the knife down and leaned both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense in that way he got when he was trying to say something bigger than what the words could hold.
“It’s not the idea,” he said. “Not the ring or the forever. I ain’t afraid of loving you.”
He paused.
“I’m afraid of not doing it right.”
Jazlyn didn’t smile. Didn’t say “Aww” or crack a joke like she might have a year ago. She stepped closer instead, until her knees touched his and his arms fell naturally to her waist.
“You’re already doing it right,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “You don’t know what I came from.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And you think I don’t? You think I haven’t seen love twisted up and handed down like a broken thing people gotta live with?”
His fingers tightened just slightly at her sides.
“I’m not asking for perfect,” she whispered. “Just present. Just effort.”
Malik looked down, jaw flexing.
“I can do that,” he said, almost like he was still convincing himself.
“I know,” she said.
They stood there for a moment, quiet again. The pasta started to boil over behind them. Jazlyn turned around and pulled it off the burner, but left her hand on Malik’s chest for another second.
He picked up the knife again.
This time, he finished chopping the peppers slowly, carefully, each slice cleaner than the last.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce didn’t expect her to come.
He stared at the text for a minute after sending it—“You tryna pull up?”—then tossed his phone facedown on the coffee table like it had accused him of something. The living room was dark except for the low yellow light spilling in from the kitchen, casting long shadows on the carpet. The place was clean, but not because he’d tried. More because he hadn’t touched much lately.
Ten minutes passed. Then twelve.
The buzz of his phone made him flinch.
Effie: “Send a pin.”
He rubbed his hands over his face and sat back.
The knock was short—just one—before the door creaked open.
She stepped inside slowly, like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome yet. Her jacket was oversized, military green, and hung off her shoulders in a way that made her look smaller than she was. She pushed the door closed behind her with a soft click and glanced around.
“This it?” she said, not judging—just observing.
Royce shrugged from the couch. “Yeah.”
Effie stepped in carefully, taking in the space with that still, deliberate gaze of hers. Her eyes drifted across the blank TV screen, the scuffed edges of the expensive coffee table, a stack of unopened mail on the console, and a duffel bag near the door. Her attention lingered on a framed photo propped against the wall—Royce and Romeo leaning against an old Accord, both of them grinning like the world hadn’t touched them yet.
She said nothing, just nodded slightly to herself and walked farther in, the soft rubber soles of her sneakers barely making a sound.
“You want water or something?” Royce asked, halfway standing.
“I’m good,” she said, waving him off, already easing herself onto the couch. She sat with her legs crossed, not tucked up but not stretched out either. Comfortable, but careful. Like she didn’t want to crease the quiet just yet.
Royce sat next to her—close, but not touching. The kind of space that left room for breath.
They sat there for a minute in the hush of a room that didn’t know what to make of two people being gentle with each other.
Royce spoke first, voice low. “Everyone trying to tell me what to fucking do.”
Effie didn’t blink. “You don’t have to listen.”
He gave a short laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” she said, still looking around—at the blank wall where a TV should probably be mounted, at the two mismatched throw pillows that didn’t look like he picked them himself. “But it’s still your choice.”
Royce exhaled and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Agent on my ass. Some other motherfucker texting every day like I owe him answers. Coach keep saying I need to be a leader like that shit comes with instructions.”
Effie finally looked at him. “You can make your own way.”
He met her eyes, then looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t mean it’s the right one.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But at least it’s yours.”
That sat heavy between them.
Royce shook his head. “I don’t know, man. Half the time I feel like standing still’s the only thing that don’t cost me nothing.”
Effie didn’t flinch. “Doing nothing’s a choice too.”
Royce turned his head slowly. “What you mean?”
She sat straighter. “I mean, I know what it costs. To freeze. To wait too long to move. To tell yourself you’re thinking when you’re really just hiding.”
Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve, her voice still even. “I know what it’s like to do nothing, and lose something you don’t get back.”
He stared at her. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, she leaned back into the couch, eyes flicking once more to the photo of Royce and his brother, then back to him.
“That’s a conversation for another day,” she said.
Royce nodded. “Alright.”
They didn’t say much else.
But she didn’t leave.
And he didn’t ask her to.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like a bridge—unfinished, but strong enough to stand on for now.
She leaned her head back against the couch cushion and let her eyes close for just a moment.
Royce watched her, then leaned back too.
No sex. No tension.
Just presence. And breath.
And the quiet knowing that sometimes, showing up was enough.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
One More Ride
The sky was still gray when Royce stepped out of the weight room. That pre-dawn quiet blanketed everything—campus still asleep, sidewalks slick with dew, the hum of the field lights behind him barely breaking the silence. His hoodie was damp with sweat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the cold air bit at the edges of his skin like it wanted him to feel alive.
He’d been in there for over an hour. Alone. Just him, the clang of plates, and the steady rhythm of a barbell hitting rubber.
It was the kind of silence he hadn’t had much lately.
He found a bench across from the old oak tree near the quad, its limbs bare this time of year but still reaching like it remembered what it used to hold. He sat down, unzipped his backpack, and pulled out the folder.
The manila paper had creases now from being bent in and out of his bag, pages slightly curled like they were tired of waiting. Royce stared at it, thumb running along the edge of the packet.
Inside was the offer—$1 million. Sign today, and everything changed. Or didn’t.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused, nicked from winter lifts, still stained faintly with chalk from deadlifts. Hands that weren’t supposed to be here. Not really.
This should’ve been Romeo.
Romeo would’ve made a scene out of it—probably had a whole press conference, a YouTube livestream, a new haircut just for the announcement. He’d have been the one sitting with the folder and the pen and the power to say yes or no like it was nothing.
But he wasn’t.
Royce was.
He swallowed hard. The air hit colder now, settling behind his eyes.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Just opened the folder, pulled out the last page—the one with the dotted line.
And signed.
No ceremony. No audience. Just ink to paper, quick and certain. The way most things in his life had needed to be.
He pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the signed page, and texted it to Billy.
Tell them to wire me my money.
The message read like a joke. Like confidence.
He hit send anyway.
Two hours later, he was back at his apartment, showered, eating a bowl of cereal he didn’t even really want. The spoon scraped against the ceramic every few bites. ESPN was on in the background—muted—but the ticker caught his eye.
BREAKING: Royce Lafitte Returning to LSU for Senior Season. On3 claims seven-figure NIL deal signed this morning.
He let the spoon fall into the bowl.
His phone buzzed.
Gio: You wild as hell. Thought you were outta here.
Dorian: Give me $200, big brudda. I got a lil’ yeah I’m trying to fuck.
Billy: Money’s already moving. We’re gonna stack next quarter too. Proud of you, kid.
Royce turned the TV off and sat back.
No fanfare. No smile.
Just that same quiet from earlier.
But something inside him had shifted.
This wasn’t him giving up.
It was him doubling down.
One more year. One more ride.
Not because he had to.
Because he chose to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sky was low and soft, streaked in the pale lavender that only showed up this time of year, when winter mornings had given way to sun but not yet to heat. Alix stepped out of Roux Interiors with her bag slung across one shoulder, the strap digging a little deeper into her collarbone with every step. Her fingers were cold. She hadn’t brought gloves. Again.
She rubbed her hands together, exhaling warm breath into her palms, and looked up just in time to see him.
Co was standing on the edge of the parking lot, dressed in hospital scrubs layered under a gray zip-up hoodie. A lanyard with his ID still hung around his neck, half-tucked into his chest pocket. He looked like he’d just gotten off shift—tired but clean, his eyes alert in that soft, steady way that made people trust him on sight.
He didn’t smile right away, and neither did she.
Just that flicker—that subtle shift in posture, the tilt of the head that said: Yeah. I see you, too.
Alix stepped off the curb slowly, walking toward the sidewalk, not changing pace, but not hurrying either.
Co took a step in her direction. “You good?”
She nodded, brushing hair from her face. “Just finished up. Meetings all morning.”
He glanced at her bag. “You walking?”
“Yeah.”
“You want a ride?”
There was no pressure in his voice. Just the offer—clean, unwrapped.
Alix looked past him at his car idling in the lot. She could already imagine what it would feel like to slide into the passenger seat, the hum of his music low, the smell of hand sanitizer clinging faintly to his hoodie.
She hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“I’m walking to clear my head.”
Co nodded, like he understood completely. “Alright.”
She looked at him for a second longer than she meant to. Then added, softly, “Thanks again… for New Year’s.”
Co looked back at her, and for a brief second, something moved behind his eyes. Not longing, exactly. Not hope either. Just… memory. Real and full and standing right there between them.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said.
His voice was quieter now. “Neither have I.”
The words hung there, gently.
She shifted the strap on her shoulder and stepped back toward the sidewalk. “Get some rest,” she said.
“You too.”
She turned and began walking down the block, each step quiet but deliberate, her pace steady.
Co didn’t move. Just watched her walk away for a few seconds before he finally turned back toward his car.
The sun hadn’t broken through the clouds yet, but it would.
Eventually.
~~~~~~~~~~
The car smelled like that leather cleaner Deshawn always used—too sharp, too artificial—and the cologne he’d sprayed on like armor before they left. The bassline from the speakers rolled low under the conversation they weren’t having, thick enough to fill the silence but not meaningful enough to cut through it.
Toni sat in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap, her body angled just slightly away from him, knees turned toward the door. She kept her gaze fixed on the windshield as they approached the intersection at Johnston and University.
The light turned yellow. Then red.
Deshawn didn’t slow.
He hit the gas.
Toni flinched, her fingers tightening around the seat’s edge. The car surged forward, slicing through the red without hesitation. A horn blared from somewhere behind them. She didn’t look.
Deshawn laughed like it was a game.
“Man, please,” he said, tapping the steering wheel with that cocky rhythm he used when he felt invincible. “These bitches ain’t got the balls to chase me. You know they only out here for show.”
Toni didn’t answer.
She turned her head and stared out the window instead.
The glass was cool against her temple, but it didn’t ground her. Her reflection flickered in the passing light—too faint, too distant. Outside, the town passed in fast, uneven frames: gas stations, daiquiri shops, payday loan stores, a billboard peeling at the edges. Students crossing the street in sweatpants and headphones. A mom with two kids waiting on the bus.
Lafayette looked smaller every day.
Deshawn kept talking—something about his boy ducking a ticket last week, how cops here were “soft,” how he knew the system. His words bounced off the interior of the car like background noise, like a language she used to speak but had long since forgotten.
She didn’t look at him.
…
They pulled into the apartment complex five minutes later, Deshawn cutting the wheel like always, fast and overconfident. He parked crooked in their usual space and killed the engine with a loud sigh.
“You coming up?” he asked, already halfway out the door.
“I will,” Toni said. “In a sec.”
Deshawn didn’t question it. Didn’t wait. He slammed the door behind him and headed upstairs.
She didn’t move right away.
The silence in the car felt thick now that his voice wasn’t filling it. Her chest was tight, not from panic, but from something smaller, sharper—like a rubber band stretched too far and never quite snapping back.
She reached for her phone and scrolled through her messages. Skipped past group chats, missed calls, check-ins she never replied to. Her thumb paused over a name she hadn’t tapped in a while.
Arianna.
She typed:
Do you ever feel like Lafayette’s too small?
She stared at it.
Then hit send.
No emoji. No follow-up.
Just truth.
The kind that made your stomach turn after a red light ran through your bones and the person sitting next to you laughed like your fear was funny.
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.
Upstairs was waiting.
But for now, she just needed a minute to remember who she was before this started to feel normal.
The sky was still gray when Royce stepped out of the weight room. That pre-dawn quiet blanketed everything—campus still asleep, sidewalks slick with dew, the hum of the field lights behind him barely breaking the silence. His hoodie was damp with sweat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the cold air bit at the edges of his skin like it wanted him to feel alive.
He’d been in there for over an hour. Alone. Just him, the clang of plates, and the steady rhythm of a barbell hitting rubber.
It was the kind of silence he hadn’t had much lately.
He found a bench across from the old oak tree near the quad, its limbs bare this time of year but still reaching like it remembered what it used to hold. He sat down, unzipped his backpack, and pulled out the folder.
The manila paper had creases now from being bent in and out of his bag, pages slightly curled like they were tired of waiting. Royce stared at it, thumb running along the edge of the packet.
Inside was the offer—$1 million. Sign today, and everything changed. Or didn’t.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused, nicked from winter lifts, still stained faintly with chalk from deadlifts. Hands that weren’t supposed to be here. Not really.
This should’ve been Romeo.
Romeo would’ve made a scene out of it—probably had a whole press conference, a YouTube livestream, a new haircut just for the announcement. He’d have been the one sitting with the folder and the pen and the power to say yes or no like it was nothing.
But he wasn’t.
Royce was.
He swallowed hard. The air hit colder now, settling behind his eyes.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Just opened the folder, pulled out the last page—the one with the dotted line.
And signed.
No ceremony. No audience. Just ink to paper, quick and certain. The way most things in his life had needed to be.
He pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the signed page, and texted it to Billy.
Tell them to wire me my money.
The message read like a joke. Like confidence.
He hit send anyway.
Two hours later, he was back at his apartment, showered, eating a bowl of cereal he didn’t even really want. The spoon scraped against the ceramic every few bites. ESPN was on in the background—muted—but the ticker caught his eye.
BREAKING: Royce Lafitte Returning to LSU for Senior Season. On3 claims seven-figure NIL deal signed this morning.
He let the spoon fall into the bowl.
His phone buzzed.
Gio: You wild as hell. Thought you were outta here.
Dorian: Give me $200, big brudda. I got a lil’ yeah I’m trying to fuck.
Billy: Money’s already moving. We’re gonna stack next quarter too. Proud of you, kid.
Royce turned the TV off and sat back.
No fanfare. No smile.
Just that same quiet from earlier.
But something inside him had shifted.
This wasn’t him giving up.
It was him doubling down.
One more year. One more ride.
Not because he had to.
Because he chose to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The sky was low and soft, streaked in the pale lavender that only showed up this time of year, when winter mornings had given way to sun but not yet to heat. Alix stepped out of Roux Interiors with her bag slung across one shoulder, the strap digging a little deeper into her collarbone with every step. Her fingers were cold. She hadn’t brought gloves. Again.
She rubbed her hands together, exhaling warm breath into her palms, and looked up just in time to see him.
Co was standing on the edge of the parking lot, dressed in hospital scrubs layered under a gray zip-up hoodie. A lanyard with his ID still hung around his neck, half-tucked into his chest pocket. He looked like he’d just gotten off shift—tired but clean, his eyes alert in that soft, steady way that made people trust him on sight.
He didn’t smile right away, and neither did she.
Just that flicker—that subtle shift in posture, the tilt of the head that said: Yeah. I see you, too.
Alix stepped off the curb slowly, walking toward the sidewalk, not changing pace, but not hurrying either.
Co took a step in her direction. “You good?”
She nodded, brushing hair from her face. “Just finished up. Meetings all morning.”
He glanced at her bag. “You walking?”
“Yeah.”
“You want a ride?”
There was no pressure in his voice. Just the offer—clean, unwrapped.
Alix looked past him at his car idling in the lot. She could already imagine what it would feel like to slide into the passenger seat, the hum of his music low, the smell of hand sanitizer clinging faintly to his hoodie.
She hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“I’m walking to clear my head.”
Co nodded, like he understood completely. “Alright.”
She looked at him for a second longer than she meant to. Then added, softly, “Thanks again… for New Year’s.”
Co looked back at her, and for a brief second, something moved behind his eyes. Not longing, exactly. Not hope either. Just… memory. Real and full and standing right there between them.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said.
His voice was quieter now. “Neither have I.”
The words hung there, gently.
She shifted the strap on her shoulder and stepped back toward the sidewalk. “Get some rest,” she said.
“You too.”
She turned and began walking down the block, each step quiet but deliberate, her pace steady.
Co didn’t move. Just watched her walk away for a few seconds before he finally turned back toward his car.
The sun hadn’t broken through the clouds yet, but it would.
Eventually.
~~~~~~~~~~
The car smelled like that leather cleaner Deshawn always used—too sharp, too artificial—and the cologne he’d sprayed on like armor before they left. The bassline from the speakers rolled low under the conversation they weren’t having, thick enough to fill the silence but not meaningful enough to cut through it.
Toni sat in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap, her body angled just slightly away from him, knees turned toward the door. She kept her gaze fixed on the windshield as they approached the intersection at Johnston and University.
The light turned yellow. Then red.
Deshawn didn’t slow.
He hit the gas.
Toni flinched, her fingers tightening around the seat’s edge. The car surged forward, slicing through the red without hesitation. A horn blared from somewhere behind them. She didn’t look.
Deshawn laughed like it was a game.
“Man, please,” he said, tapping the steering wheel with that cocky rhythm he used when he felt invincible. “These bitches ain’t got the balls to chase me. You know they only out here for show.”
Toni didn’t answer.
She turned her head and stared out the window instead.
The glass was cool against her temple, but it didn’t ground her. Her reflection flickered in the passing light—too faint, too distant. Outside, the town passed in fast, uneven frames: gas stations, daiquiri shops, payday loan stores, a billboard peeling at the edges. Students crossing the street in sweatpants and headphones. A mom with two kids waiting on the bus.
Lafayette looked smaller every day.
Deshawn kept talking—something about his boy ducking a ticket last week, how cops here were “soft,” how he knew the system. His words bounced off the interior of the car like background noise, like a language she used to speak but had long since forgotten.
She didn’t look at him.
…
They pulled into the apartment complex five minutes later, Deshawn cutting the wheel like always, fast and overconfident. He parked crooked in their usual space and killed the engine with a loud sigh.
“You coming up?” he asked, already halfway out the door.
“I will,” Toni said. “In a sec.”
Deshawn didn’t question it. Didn’t wait. He slammed the door behind him and headed upstairs.
She didn’t move right away.
The silence in the car felt thick now that his voice wasn’t filling it. Her chest was tight, not from panic, but from something smaller, sharper—like a rubber band stretched too far and never quite snapping back.
She reached for her phone and scrolled through her messages. Skipped past group chats, missed calls, check-ins she never replied to. Her thumb paused over a name she hadn’t tapped in a while.
Arianna.
She typed:
Do you ever feel like Lafayette’s too small?
She stared at it.
Then hit send.
No emoji. No follow-up.
Just truth.
The kind that made your stomach turn after a red light ran through your bones and the person sitting next to you laughed like your fear was funny.
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.
Upstairs was waiting.
But for now, she just needed a minute to remember who she was before this started to feel normal.
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Royce banking on the Cam Ward arc.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. Not going to abruptly end it with unfinished plots.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16848
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47