The café buzzed with lazy Sunday energy — the low hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates, the occasional pop of laughter from a crowded table near the window. The smell of fresh coffee and powdered sugar hung thick in the air, too sweet, too warm.
Alix sat alone at a small round table tucked into the corner, her untouched plate of avocado toast growing cold in front of her. She stirred her coffee absently, watching the foam spiral into slow, defeated circles.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it quickly — a tiny rush of hope she hated herself for — but it wasn’t Royce.
It was Madi.
Madi: You been “busy” all week huh?
Let me find out you ghosting your own roommates.Alix smiled faintly — not a real smile, just a soft twitch of her mouth — and thumbed out a reply, feeling hollow even as she typed.
Alix: Omg I know. Been running around like crazy. I swear it’s not personal lol 🫶
She set the phone down again, face-up, even though she already knew Royce’s name wasn’t going to flash across the screen.
The last message from him sat there like a thumbprint on glass:
Royce: My bad. Got roped into some team shit. Then a NIL meeting. You know how it is. Rain check?
No apology beyond the casual "my bad." No real acknowledgment that he’d just... disappeared.
She hadn’t answered. She didn’t really know how to anymore.
Alix took a slow sip of coffee, the bitterness sinking into her tongue, into her chest.
She wasn’t angry. Anger would’ve been easier — sharp, clean, something she could swing like a bat if she needed to.
This was something else.
Something quieter. Something that made her feel like an empty seat at her own table.
She cut into the toast, chewing mechanically, tasting nothing. A couple across the café laughed, leaning into each other over pancakes. A father spun his daughter’s straw into her juice while she squealed. A group of college girls clinked mimosas over brunch, sunlight catching their rings and bracelets as they posed for selfies.
Alix tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, glancing again at her phone when it buzzed — another meme from Simone this time.
She smiled politely at the screen, the way you smile at a joke you didn’t really get but didn’t want to ask about.
Everyone else seemed to be busy, but not in the way she was. They were busy living. She was busy waiting.
For what, exactly, she didn’t know anymore.
She thought, briefly, about texting Royce back. About telling him she’d waited for him. About saying she’d sat alone at a two-top table like a ghost for almost an hour, watching the door even after she knew he wasn’t coming.
She could imagine it: He’d apologize lightly. Maybe joke. Maybe say he’d make it up to her — but not today, not soon. And she’d smile and say it was fine, because what else was there to say?
She stared at the coffee until the foam disappeared into the black.
Then she tucked her phone into her purse, pulled a twenty from her wallet, and slid it under her plate.
When the waitress passed, cheerful and bright, Alix gave her a practiced smile.
"Have a great day!" the girl chirped.
"You too," Alix said, the words brushing out like dust.
Outside, the sun was too bright. The sidewalk glittered with heat. She slipped on her sunglasses, shielding her face like it might also shield everything she was trying not to feel.
As she walked toward her car, her phone buzzed again.
She didn’t look.
Not yet.
Maybe not at all.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sunlight blasted through the wide, uncovered windows of Royce’s apartment, flooding the room with brutal, white-hot glare. There were no blinds, no curtains — just naked glass and the full weight of the morning pressing against him like judgment.
Royce lay sprawled across the couch, a damp washcloth draped across his forehead, breathing shallowly through the tight grip of his hangover. His mouth tasted like cotton and regret. Every beat of his heart pulsed behind his eyes like a slow hammer.
The apartment was a wreck. Empty beer bottles on the floor, a half-eaten box of Popeyes sliding off the kitchen counter, someone's jacket — not his — hanging limply over the back of a chair.
The muted TV played a loop of Saturday’s highlights. Royce caught flashes of the McNeese game — himself crushing a running back in the backfield, high-fiving teammates, laughing under the floodlights.
He stared at the screen without feeling a thing.
The win had been automatic. A warm-up. Nothing to get excited over.
He dragged a hand over his face, grunting as the movement sent another sharp jab through his skull.
Somewhere near his feet, his phone buzzed against the hardwood. He leaned down slowly, grabbing it with two fingers like it might explode.
A group text from Earl. Another from Jay. A video of someone stage-diving at the afterparty.
Nothing from Alix.
Royce let the phone sit in his hand, heavy and familiar.
Not like he didn’t know why.
He'd blown her off that morning. Told her he had team meetings, NIL stuff he couldn’t skip. Told her he’d make it up to her, some other time.
Truth was, he hadn't even remembered the brunch until he woke up half-dressed on the couch at noon, his phone buzzing with half-missed alarms.
He hadn’t called to explain. Hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t really wanted to hear the disappointment in her voice.
Easier to pretend he was too busy. Easier to act like it wasn’t that big a deal.
Except now, sitting in the wreckage of the night before, the excuse felt thinner than he wanted to admit.
He flicked through his notifications again — almost against his own will — like maybe he missed a text from her. A missed call. Something.
Nothing.
He dropped the phone onto the coffee table face-up, pretending it didn’t bother him even as it burned a hole in the edge of his vision.
She was the one pulling away anyway. She was the one who hadn’t been showing up lately.
That’s what he told himself.
And if part of him remembered the way she used to light up when she saw him — if part of him missed it — he shoved that part down until it went quiet again.
He pushed himself upright slowly, his joints creaking like rusted hinges. His body wasn’t sore from hits — it was sore from everything else: the drinks, the noise, the weight of pretending none of it touched him.
He shuffled into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared blankly at the barren shelves before settling for another bottle of Gatorade.
The harsh light kept pouring in, spotlighting every beer stain, every crumpled napkin, every choice he didn’t want to think about.
No blinds.
No curtains.
Nowhere to hide.
He took a long drink of Gatorade, grimaced, and swiped his phone off the table again without even thinking.
Still nothing from her.
With a short, sharp breath through his nose — part frustration, part acceptance — Royce locked the phone, tossed it onto the bed as he passed, and disappeared into the bathroom.
The door shut behind him, and the apartment settled back into silence.
Empty, except for the fading echo of everything he wouldn’t say out loud.
~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon heat clung to the parking lot like a second skin, making the blacktop shimmer and the air buzz with invisible weight. The sun hadn’t let up all day, and even now — well into the evening — the air was still thick and heavy, pressing against skin, dragging every movement down.
Toni stood outside the strip mall coffee shop with Yazmeen and Keisha, her arms folded tightly across her chest despite the sticky humidity. She wore jeans and a loose, long-sleeved white shirt, sleeves pulled all the way down to her wrists, the fabric billowing slightly when the faintest breeze dared to stir.
Around her, girls wore tank tops and shorts, sundresses and sandals, sipping iced coffees and fanning themselves with their phones. The heat was something everyone talked about, laughed about — except for Toni.
"Girl, you are gonna die of heatstroke," Yazmeen said, laughing lightly as she pulled her sunglasses down onto her nose. She nudged Toni’s arm. "You really couldn’t find one t-shirt in your closet today?"
Keisha chimed in, sipping her drink. "For real. You look like you about to go paint a house or something."
Toni laughed too — or something close enough to it — but the sound didn’t have the same lift as theirs. It caught somewhere in her throat and flattened before it could bloom into something real.
"I’m clumsy," she said, smiling too quickly, too wide. "Walked into my dresser the other night. Got this ugly-ass bruise. Y’all don’t wanna see it."
She waved it off with a small chuckle, like it was no big deal. Like the story explained everything.
Yazmeen tilted her head, studying her. "You sure you good, though? I mean—"
"I’m good," Toni cut in, still smiling. Too fast. Too bright. Her eyes didn’t even flicker with it.
The other girls exchanged a look over their iced coffees, the kind of look people give when they feel something’s off but don’t know how deep they’re allowed to dig.
Toni felt it — the weight of their suspicion — but she just pulled her sleeves lower down over her hands and shifted the strap of her purse higher onto her shoulder like she was physically shouldering the conversation away.
"I’m just clumsy as hell," she said again, softer this time, like if she said it enough, maybe it would sound true. Maybe it would be true.
Yazmeen opened her mouth like she wanted to push again, but Keisha caught her elbow and gave a tiny shake of her head.
Let it go.
Toni saw it all. Felt it all.
She didn’t blame them.
If she were them, she wouldn’t want to hear the truth either.
They slipped back into easy conversation — Yazmeen teasing Keisha about some guy who’d been blowing up her DMs, Keisha swearing she was going to block him — and Toni let herself float on the surface of it, nodding and laughing in the right places, her hands wrapped tightly around the sweaty plastic of her drink.
Inside, she felt herself sinking deeper.
She could feel it happening — the way she was pulling inward, walling off little pieces of herself, brick by invisible brick.
Smile. Nod. Say you're fine.
It was easier. Cleaner.
The bruises would fade. The way Deshawn’s fingers had clamped around her wrist the other night would fade. The way his voice had snapped through the room when she said the wrong thing would fade.
All she had to do was make it until then.
Toni adjusted her sleeve again and tipped her drink up to her lips, letting the condensation smear cool trails across her knuckles.
"Y’all wanna go inside?" Keisha asked, swinging her purse over her shoulder. "It’s hotter than hell out here."
"Yeah," Yazmeen said, already heading toward the door.
Toni nodded along, falling into step behind them, her sleeves fluttering slightly as she moved, hiding everything she wasn’t ready — or allowed — to say.
Inside, the air-conditioning blasted cold against her overheated skin, but it didn't make her feel any lighter.
If anything, the chill just reminded her how far away she was drifting — how even when she was standing right next to people, she could still feel a thousand miles removed.
And no one — not even herself — could reach her anymore.
