defense did our job. Held them to 17. Offense gotta look in the mirror
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16858
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16858
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Next Exit in 5,000 Miles
Sunday morning filtered in through the wide-pane windows like it had something to say.
Royce lay on his back in the center of a king-sized bed, white comforter kicked down near his knees, the weight of his phone resting on his chest. The room around him was clean, curated. The walls were bare on purpose, just like the concrete floors and black metal fixtures—sleek, deliberate choices from a place that offered “modern industrial living” and luxury amenities. The kind of place people posted on Instagram when they got their first real money.
He could afford it now. It still didn’t feel like home.
Sunlight poured in unbothered. There were no blinds—by design. That had been the appeal once. All that glass, all that light. Floor-to-ceiling windows that let the city in. Back when he’d moved in, Alix had said it felt like living in a magazine spread.
Now, it just felt like a display case.
He hadn’t gotten up. Hadn’t even shifted much. Just stared at the ceiling for a while, the hum of silence louder than any highlight reel from the night before.
The Missouri win had felt like a loss. They’d scraped by. Royce had played fine—solid, even. But the locker room had been muted afterward, nobody smiling too hard, nobody celebrating. Another Saturday checked off the list.
Now it was Sunday. And she still hadn’t called.
Royce unlocked his phone. It was almost muscle memory, the way his thumb slid over the screen and opened the last thread with Alix.
He read her last message again, even though he had it memorized:
Alix: “Good luck today. I hope y’all come out strong.”
That had been it. Weeks ago before Georgia. No follow-up. No “Proud of you” afterward. Just silence.
He typed,
You good?
Waited.
The message didn’t send.
He stared at the screen. Hit send again.
Not Delivered.
He blinked. Paused. Then hit the call icon.
One ring.
Then voicemail.
He didn’t leave one.
Something about hearing her name in that robotic voice made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t feel like exploring. He opened her Instagram next. Nothing. Twitter. Gone. Snapchat. Blocked.
Even her Spotify shared playlists—the ones she’d never updated but once sent him late at night—were inaccessible.
His thumb hovered. He refreshed the thread again like something might change.
Nothing did.
He set the phone down beside him and sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them.
The room around him was silent. Stylish. Expensive. And cold.
Everything in it looked good, but nothing felt like him.
The windows didn’t help. With no curtains or blinds, the whole place felt see-through. Vulnerable. A life you could see from the outside but not touch. A life people made assumptions about from across the street. That he was thriving. Living large.
Nobody could see the way he was unraveling in it.
And for the first time, he felt it—really felt it—that she was gone. Not just mad. Not just distant.
Gone.
She wasn’t waiting on him to fix it. She wasn’t holding space for him to grow.
She’d moved on. She’d made peace with the version of him she could no longer love.
And she’d closed every window he thought he still had into her world.
He stared at the sunlight stretching across the wood-paneled wall and thought about how it felt to be this visible and still this alone.
Eventually, he stood up, moved toward the bathroom.
Outside, the city moved on without him.
Inside, Royce didn’t say a word.
~~~~~~~~~~
Arianna lingered at the edge of the auditorium stage long after the rehearsal ended, clutching the folded paper in her hand like it held more weight than it should. The lighting crew was packing up, murmuring about cords and gels, but their voices were muffled under the white noise inside her own head.
Her name was on the poster now.
In black serif font, centered beneath the showcase title—Lafayette Voices: Stories From the South—there it was: Arianna Williams, Featured Performer.
When the coordinator first said it, she had blinked twice before answering. “Wait, like… featured, featured?”
The woman had smiled like it was obvious. “Your piece was one of the most compelling submissions. We want you to close the second act.”
Now, here she was, trying not to feel small in the middle of her own opportunity.
She’d been handed a laminated pass earlier, clipped to a yellow lanyard. She’d stuffed it in her bag.
“You inviting your folks?” someone from her writing group asked as they passed, smiling.
Arianna hesitated, caught in the act of tucking her script back into its folder. “Haven’t decided yet.”
That wasn’t true. She had decided.
She just hadn’t figured out how to make herself do it.
She walked outside into the late-afternoon sun, the air thick with that sticky pre-evening Louisiana warmth that clung to your skin and made your clothes feel heavier. The sidewalk outside the theater led toward the parking lot, but she turned in the opposite direction, needing the motion more than the destination.
Across the street, a young family was sitting on a bench near a snowball stand. A girl, maybe eight, giggled as her mother wiped syrup from her chin. The dad had his arm stretched out across the bench, gently teasing her as she kicked her legs.
Arianna paused near a shaded tree and watched them for a beat too long. Not because she wanted that, exactly. Just… the quietness of it. The closeness. The fact that they all looked like they knew how to belong to each other without trying.
Her phone buzzed with a notification, snapping her out of it.
She pulled it out, thumb hovering over her screen. No new messages. Just a spam email about another scholarship opportunity. She slid to her texts, scrolled past a few unopened threads, and stopped when she saw Toni’s name.
It was still saved the same way—Toni
—from back when they used to joke that Toni was a firework in people’s lives. Loud, bright, and unforgettable.
Arianna hadn’t seen her in months.
She tapped the thread open.
The typing bubble appeared.
Hey… I’m performing in a showcase next week in town. It’s—
She backspaced.
Started again.
If you’re free, there’s a show I’m in—
Backspaced again.
She deleted the whole thing, locked her phone, and dropped it back into her tote bag like it had burned her fingers.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the unspoken truth that if Toni came, she’d see right through her. See that Arianna was still that girl who needed to prove she was worth showing up for.
She leaned against the tree and looked up at the hazy sky, branches barely moving in the stagnant air. Her throat felt tight—not from tears, just from holding too much inside.
She whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “Almost.”
Then pushed off the tree, adjusted her bag, and started walking again. Alone.
Sunday morning filtered in through the wide-pane windows like it had something to say.
Royce lay on his back in the center of a king-sized bed, white comforter kicked down near his knees, the weight of his phone resting on his chest. The room around him was clean, curated. The walls were bare on purpose, just like the concrete floors and black metal fixtures—sleek, deliberate choices from a place that offered “modern industrial living” and luxury amenities. The kind of place people posted on Instagram when they got their first real money.
He could afford it now. It still didn’t feel like home.
Sunlight poured in unbothered. There were no blinds—by design. That had been the appeal once. All that glass, all that light. Floor-to-ceiling windows that let the city in. Back when he’d moved in, Alix had said it felt like living in a magazine spread.
Now, it just felt like a display case.
He hadn’t gotten up. Hadn’t even shifted much. Just stared at the ceiling for a while, the hum of silence louder than any highlight reel from the night before.
The Missouri win had felt like a loss. They’d scraped by. Royce had played fine—solid, even. But the locker room had been muted afterward, nobody smiling too hard, nobody celebrating. Another Saturday checked off the list.
Now it was Sunday. And she still hadn’t called.
Royce unlocked his phone. It was almost muscle memory, the way his thumb slid over the screen and opened the last thread with Alix.
He read her last message again, even though he had it memorized:
Alix: “Good luck today. I hope y’all come out strong.”
That had been it. Weeks ago before Georgia. No follow-up. No “Proud of you” afterward. Just silence.
He typed,
You good?
Waited.
The message didn’t send.
He stared at the screen. Hit send again.
Not Delivered.
He blinked. Paused. Then hit the call icon.
One ring.
Then voicemail.
He didn’t leave one.
Something about hearing her name in that robotic voice made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t feel like exploring. He opened her Instagram next. Nothing. Twitter. Gone. Snapchat. Blocked.
Even her Spotify shared playlists—the ones she’d never updated but once sent him late at night—were inaccessible.
His thumb hovered. He refreshed the thread again like something might change.
Nothing did.
He set the phone down beside him and sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them.
The room around him was silent. Stylish. Expensive. And cold.
Everything in it looked good, but nothing felt like him.
The windows didn’t help. With no curtains or blinds, the whole place felt see-through. Vulnerable. A life you could see from the outside but not touch. A life people made assumptions about from across the street. That he was thriving. Living large.
Nobody could see the way he was unraveling in it.
And for the first time, he felt it—really felt it—that she was gone. Not just mad. Not just distant.
Gone.
She wasn’t waiting on him to fix it. She wasn’t holding space for him to grow.
She’d moved on. She’d made peace with the version of him she could no longer love.
And she’d closed every window he thought he still had into her world.
He stared at the sunlight stretching across the wood-paneled wall and thought about how it felt to be this visible and still this alone.
Eventually, he stood up, moved toward the bathroom.
Outside, the city moved on without him.
Inside, Royce didn’t say a word.
~~~~~~~~~~
Arianna lingered at the edge of the auditorium stage long after the rehearsal ended, clutching the folded paper in her hand like it held more weight than it should. The lighting crew was packing up, murmuring about cords and gels, but their voices were muffled under the white noise inside her own head.
Her name was on the poster now.
In black serif font, centered beneath the showcase title—Lafayette Voices: Stories From the South—there it was: Arianna Williams, Featured Performer.
When the coordinator first said it, she had blinked twice before answering. “Wait, like… featured, featured?”
The woman had smiled like it was obvious. “Your piece was one of the most compelling submissions. We want you to close the second act.”
Now, here she was, trying not to feel small in the middle of her own opportunity.
She’d been handed a laminated pass earlier, clipped to a yellow lanyard. She’d stuffed it in her bag.
“You inviting your folks?” someone from her writing group asked as they passed, smiling.
Arianna hesitated, caught in the act of tucking her script back into its folder. “Haven’t decided yet.”
That wasn’t true. She had decided.
She just hadn’t figured out how to make herself do it.
She walked outside into the late-afternoon sun, the air thick with that sticky pre-evening Louisiana warmth that clung to your skin and made your clothes feel heavier. The sidewalk outside the theater led toward the parking lot, but she turned in the opposite direction, needing the motion more than the destination.
Across the street, a young family was sitting on a bench near a snowball stand. A girl, maybe eight, giggled as her mother wiped syrup from her chin. The dad had his arm stretched out across the bench, gently teasing her as she kicked her legs.
Arianna paused near a shaded tree and watched them for a beat too long. Not because she wanted that, exactly. Just… the quietness of it. The closeness. The fact that they all looked like they knew how to belong to each other without trying.
Her phone buzzed with a notification, snapping her out of it.
She pulled it out, thumb hovering over her screen. No new messages. Just a spam email about another scholarship opportunity. She slid to her texts, scrolled past a few unopened threads, and stopped when she saw Toni’s name.
It was still saved the same way—Toni
—from back when they used to joke that Toni was a firework in people’s lives. Loud, bright, and unforgettable.Arianna hadn’t seen her in months.
She tapped the thread open.
The typing bubble appeared.
Hey… I’m performing in a showcase next week in town. It’s—
She backspaced.
Started again.
If you’re free, there’s a show I’m in—
Backspaced again.
She deleted the whole thing, locked her phone, and dropped it back into her tote bag like it had burned her fingers.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the unspoken truth that if Toni came, she’d see right through her. See that Arianna was still that girl who needed to prove she was worth showing up for.
She leaned against the tree and looked up at the hazy sky, branches barely moving in the stagnant air. Her throat felt tight—not from tears, just from holding too much inside.
She whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “Almost.”
Then pushed off the tree, adjusted her bag, and started walking again. Alone.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Dropped his ass like a bad habit 
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Alix done dipped. Team not looking too good on the field. I predict draft or portal.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16858
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Why is we celebrating this?
The team 6-1
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16858
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Doctor’s Orders
The tequila hit harder than expected.
Alix blinked as the club’s pink strobes flared across her face, the crowd pulsing around her in chaotic rhythm. Madi tugged her arm and shouted something about shots, but the music swallowed the words whole. Alix smiled, nodded, and stepped back—feigning dizziness so she could slip toward the door.
She needed air. And not just the kind that came from outside.
They’d planned the night to be “cleansing,” according to Ashlee—post-breakup therapy by way of crop tops, glitter, and dancing until you forgot who you used to cry over. Alix had played along, drank enough to seem loose, laughed when the others did. But somewhere between the second round and the bathroom mirror, her mask had started slipping.
Royce wasn’t in the club. But his absence clung to her skin like sweat.
She was halfway to the Uber pickup zone when she texted Co.
You up?
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared.
Then:
Always.
That was enough.
…
Co’s apartment smelled like detergent and sleep. The TV was on mute, paused on an old episode of Scrubs. A bag of gummy worms sat open on the coffee table beside a medical textbook and an empty coffee mug.
Alix stood in his doorway for a second too long, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure whether to ask for warmth or hide from it.
Co walked out of the kitchen, still in his work scrubs, shirt wrinkled at the collar. He looked at her, eyes soft but knowing.
“You good?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and kissed him.
It was slow at first—testing, seeking. Then it turned urgent. Her fingers curled into his shirt, lips pressing harder like she could force something into place that kept slipping. She reached for the hem of her top, started to lift it—
Co broke the kiss.
His hands caught her wrists, not roughly, but firm enough to stop the motion.
“Alix…”
She looked up, breath uneven. “Don’t,” she said. “Just… don’t think about it. Just for tonight.”
But he didn’t let go. He shook his head gently.
“I’m not doing this,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Not when you’re hurting like this. That’s not what you need from me.”
Her jaw tensed. “You don’t get to tell me what I need.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m telling you what I won’t do.”
She yanked her arms free and turned like she was about to leave. Her purse was already slung over one shoulder, her keys jangling angrily as she grabbed the handle.
Co spoke again, softer this time. “You wanna stay and watch something? Just hang out?”
She didn’t answer.
“I got Grey’s Anatomy queued up,” he added, flashing a grin. “I know all white girls watch that show on repeat.”
She turned halfway toward him, eyes narrowed. “That’s racist.”
“That’s Netflix history,” he said. “And besides, I like it. I’m more of a Bailey than a McDreamy, though.”
She tried not to laugh.
And failed, just a little.
He walked past her, grabbed the remote, and played the episode. Meredith was mid-monologue about saving lives while her own life fell apart in poetic voiceover.
Alix hovered by the door, unsure.
Then she sighed and dropped her keys into the bowl by the entryway.
She kicked off her shoes. Sat beside him on the couch without touching.
For a while, they just watched.
He didn’t reach for her hand.
She didn’t lean her head on his shoulder.
But when she looked over and saw him mouthing along with the lines—word for word—she let herself smile. Just a little.
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.
“Yeah,” Co said. “That’s alright, though.”
And in that moment, she was vaguely, quietly relieved.
~~~~~~~~~~
The house smelled like weed and Hennessy and some kind of air freshener that had long since lost its battle. Music thumped low from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter—old Boosie, maybe, or Webbie—while conversation floated over it in messy bursts. Royce stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. It was his first time here, and he didn’t ask whose place it was.
Meech nodded from the kitchen, holding a red cup with his free hand and motioning toward another. “Grab one if you want. Ain’t that kind of party where you gotta wait to be offered.”
Royce didn’t smile. He just moved to the counter, poured himself two fingers of brown liquor, and leaned against the wall. His LSU hoodie hung loose on his frame, the sleeves pushed halfway up. His face was unreadable.
He wasn’t here to laugh. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come.
Meech kept talking. Something about flipping a stash spot in Mid City and turning it into a clean front. Everyone nodded like they were in on it. Royce stayed quiet, sipping slow, letting the burn settle behind his ribs.
“Whole thing is chess,” Meech was saying. “Not checkers. Gotta think three moves ahead. Like, say we slide this through that one truck route out of Opelousas, wash it with them fake invoices we already got in the system. By the time they look twice, it’s papered up and quiet.”
Someone let out a low whistle. “That’s slick.”
Royce stared at his cup.
“Course,” Meech added, eyes flicking toward Royce like a dare, “it only work if everybody stay tight. Keep their mouths shut. No freelancing. No wild cards.”
The room hummed with unspoken tension, but nobody addressed it. Royce didn’t react. Just took another sip and leaned back against the wall like he belonged in every room now, even if none of them really knew him.
That’s when Shayla showed up.
She didn’t say hello. Didn’t wave. Just walked past the kitchen, past the half-circle of guys on the couch, and settled on the arm of the sofa beside Royce like she’d been there the whole time.
She didn’t touch him. Her thigh brushed his once—accidental or maybe not—but she made no move to shrink away.
He glanced at her. She met his eyes once. Didn’t speak.
Then she looked back at Meech and the others, chin propped on her palm, expression unreadable.
They sat like that for a while—two ghosts haunting the edge of a party that didn’t need them.
Royce finished his drink and didn’t ask for another.
Someone cracked a joke about the “three-headed monster” LSU had in the linebacking corps. One of the guys laughed and threw Royce a look, like he expected a fist bump or at least a smirk.
Royce didn’t give him one.
“Quiet tonight,” the guy muttered.
“Not quiet,” Shayla said, eyes still forward. “Just thinking.”
Royce looked at her again, but she didn’t look back.
Meech slapped the counter once, like punctuation. “A’ight then. If y’all really trying to get on this, don’t be ghosts later. We gonna need a couple extra sets of ears when we test the waters.”
Nobody said Royce’s name. But nobody had to.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t speak.
He just stayed.
The tequila hit harder than expected.
Alix blinked as the club’s pink strobes flared across her face, the crowd pulsing around her in chaotic rhythm. Madi tugged her arm and shouted something about shots, but the music swallowed the words whole. Alix smiled, nodded, and stepped back—feigning dizziness so she could slip toward the door.
She needed air. And not just the kind that came from outside.
They’d planned the night to be “cleansing,” according to Ashlee—post-breakup therapy by way of crop tops, glitter, and dancing until you forgot who you used to cry over. Alix had played along, drank enough to seem loose, laughed when the others did. But somewhere between the second round and the bathroom mirror, her mask had started slipping.
Royce wasn’t in the club. But his absence clung to her skin like sweat.
She was halfway to the Uber pickup zone when she texted Co.
You up?
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared.
Then:
Always.
That was enough.
…
Co’s apartment smelled like detergent and sleep. The TV was on mute, paused on an old episode of Scrubs. A bag of gummy worms sat open on the coffee table beside a medical textbook and an empty coffee mug.
Alix stood in his doorway for a second too long, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure whether to ask for warmth or hide from it.
Co walked out of the kitchen, still in his work scrubs, shirt wrinkled at the collar. He looked at her, eyes soft but knowing.
“You good?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and kissed him.
It was slow at first—testing, seeking. Then it turned urgent. Her fingers curled into his shirt, lips pressing harder like she could force something into place that kept slipping. She reached for the hem of her top, started to lift it—
Co broke the kiss.
His hands caught her wrists, not roughly, but firm enough to stop the motion.
“Alix…”
She looked up, breath uneven. “Don’t,” she said. “Just… don’t think about it. Just for tonight.”
But he didn’t let go. He shook his head gently.
“I’m not doing this,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Not when you’re hurting like this. That’s not what you need from me.”
Her jaw tensed. “You don’t get to tell me what I need.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m telling you what I won’t do.”
She yanked her arms free and turned like she was about to leave. Her purse was already slung over one shoulder, her keys jangling angrily as she grabbed the handle.
Co spoke again, softer this time. “You wanna stay and watch something? Just hang out?”
She didn’t answer.
“I got Grey’s Anatomy queued up,” he added, flashing a grin. “I know all white girls watch that show on repeat.”
She turned halfway toward him, eyes narrowed. “That’s racist.”
“That’s Netflix history,” he said. “And besides, I like it. I’m more of a Bailey than a McDreamy, though.”
She tried not to laugh.
And failed, just a little.
He walked past her, grabbed the remote, and played the episode. Meredith was mid-monologue about saving lives while her own life fell apart in poetic voiceover.
Alix hovered by the door, unsure.
Then she sighed and dropped her keys into the bowl by the entryway.
She kicked off her shoes. Sat beside him on the couch without touching.
For a while, they just watched.
He didn’t reach for her hand.
She didn’t lean her head on his shoulder.
But when she looked over and saw him mouthing along with the lines—word for word—she let herself smile. Just a little.
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.
“Yeah,” Co said. “That’s alright, though.”
And in that moment, she was vaguely, quietly relieved.
~~~~~~~~~~
The house smelled like weed and Hennessy and some kind of air freshener that had long since lost its battle. Music thumped low from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter—old Boosie, maybe, or Webbie—while conversation floated over it in messy bursts. Royce stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. It was his first time here, and he didn’t ask whose place it was.
Meech nodded from the kitchen, holding a red cup with his free hand and motioning toward another. “Grab one if you want. Ain’t that kind of party where you gotta wait to be offered.”
Royce didn’t smile. He just moved to the counter, poured himself two fingers of brown liquor, and leaned against the wall. His LSU hoodie hung loose on his frame, the sleeves pushed halfway up. His face was unreadable.
He wasn’t here to laugh. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come.
Meech kept talking. Something about flipping a stash spot in Mid City and turning it into a clean front. Everyone nodded like they were in on it. Royce stayed quiet, sipping slow, letting the burn settle behind his ribs.
“Whole thing is chess,” Meech was saying. “Not checkers. Gotta think three moves ahead. Like, say we slide this through that one truck route out of Opelousas, wash it with them fake invoices we already got in the system. By the time they look twice, it’s papered up and quiet.”
Someone let out a low whistle. “That’s slick.”
Royce stared at his cup.
“Course,” Meech added, eyes flicking toward Royce like a dare, “it only work if everybody stay tight. Keep their mouths shut. No freelancing. No wild cards.”
The room hummed with unspoken tension, but nobody addressed it. Royce didn’t react. Just took another sip and leaned back against the wall like he belonged in every room now, even if none of them really knew him.
That’s when Shayla showed up.
She didn’t say hello. Didn’t wave. Just walked past the kitchen, past the half-circle of guys on the couch, and settled on the arm of the sofa beside Royce like she’d been there the whole time.
She didn’t touch him. Her thigh brushed his once—accidental or maybe not—but she made no move to shrink away.
He glanced at her. She met his eyes once. Didn’t speak.
Then she looked back at Meech and the others, chin propped on her palm, expression unreadable.
They sat like that for a while—two ghosts haunting the edge of a party that didn’t need them.
Royce finished his drink and didn’t ask for another.
Someone cracked a joke about the “three-headed monster” LSU had in the linebacking corps. One of the guys laughed and threw Royce a look, like he expected a fist bump or at least a smirk.
Royce didn’t give him one.
“Quiet tonight,” the guy muttered.
“Not quiet,” Shayla said, eyes still forward. “Just thinking.”
Royce looked at her again, but she didn’t look back.
Meech slapped the counter once, like punctuation. “A’ight then. If y’all really trying to get on this, don’t be ghosts later. We gonna need a couple extra sets of ears when we test the waters.”
Nobody said Royce’s name. But nobody had to.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t speak.
He just stayed.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Off the deep end, he goes.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16858
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Quiet Company
Toni had known it would happen as soon as the professor said “group assignment.” She sat frozen in her seat, hoping for a miracle, but when the names were read out—“Toni and Kyle”—there it was. No miracle. Just another ordinary Tuesday.
Kyle was the kind of guy who smiled too much. Friendly, sure, but in that way that made her skin itch—overly familiar, breezy, a little too comfortable on the first day. The type to ask for your Snapchat instead of your number. His hoodie sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and he kept leaning closer than necessary as they discussed their project. She didn’t mind the small talk, not really—she’d learned to smile through it—but the way his eyes lingered when she laughed made her wary.
Class ended, and they gathered their things. She zipped her bag fast, already crafting her exit.
“You parked in the East Lot?” Kyle asked, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
Toni blinked, surprised he’d remembered. “Yeah,” she said cautiously.
“I’ll walk you out. I’m headed that way anyway.”
She hesitated—half a beat too long. “I’m good, but thanks.”
Kyle didn’t push. “Alright, see you Thursday then.”
Outside, the sun hung low, spilling gold across the parking lot. Her car shimmered faintly in the heat, a few love bugs plastered to the windshield. She climbed in quickly, shut the door, and let the breath out that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The engine barely turned over before her phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Deshawn.
Toni stared at the screen for a second, then hit accept. “Hey,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
He didn’t bother with a hello. “That how fast people mess up, huh?”
She froze. “What?”
“Don’t play stupid. You think I wouldn’t see that story? You smiling in some dude’s face like y’all best friends.”
Her heart sank. She didn’t even know who had posted it—probably one of the girls who sat near them, panning across the classroom with no thought to consequences. Just fifteen seconds of filtered nothing that suddenly mattered far too much.
“It was my project partner, Deshawn. I didn’t—”
“You think that matters to me? It’s how you looked. You laughed. Like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
The silence on the other end prickled.
“You slipping,” he said finally, voice quieter now, which somehow made it worse.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he said. And then he hung up.
Toni sat there for a while, phone still in her hand. The air in the car felt heavier than it should have, thick and unmoving. Her fingers trembled as she opened her laptop on the passenger seat and connected to the campus Wi-Fi through her hotspot.
She opened her professor’s email and typed:
Hi Professor Delacruz, I wanted to ask if it would be possible to switch group partners for the project. I’ve recently taken on some new obligations that conflict with my current schedule, and I think a different partner might work better logistically. Thank you for understanding.
She hovered over the send button.
Then clicked it.
The message wasn’t about scheduling. It was about space. And fear. And knowing that sometimes the smallest things are the first signs of something bigger. She wasn’t ready to name it yet.
But she could feel it.
Like a bruise that hadn’t surfaced.
And bruises, she knew, always came to light eventually.
~~~~~~~~~~
The night pressed down soft and slow, Baton Rouge thick with late October heat that refused to let go. Crickets chirped lazily from the brush near the stadium, their song uneven and unhurried, like the world wasn’t in any rush to be anywhere. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting honey-colored rings onto the sidewalk. Campus was nearly silent—Friday nights always were, especially before a game.
Royce sat on a bench just outside the enclosure where Mike the Tiger roamed. The air smelled faintly of mulch, damp grass, and fried food from the tailgates that had long since packed up. The bench groaned beneath him as he leaned forward, arms resting heavily on his thighs, his fingers curled loosely like he couldn’t tell whether to make fists or just let go.
Across the way, the tiger moved with bored grace, each step deliberate, muscle bunching beneath gold-and-black stripes. It paced once, twice, then stopped and lay down near the water feature, head tilted just slightly toward Royce like it was studying him back.
Royce hadn’t moved in ten minutes. His phone sat in his lap, screen dark and cold now, the blue light long faded after his last attempt—You good?—had failed to deliver. Blocked. He didn’t need a notification to confirm it. He’d tried calling too—straight to voicemail. Then social media. Every last one: gone. No posts. No traces. She’d locked the doors, boarded the windows, and walked away.
And now he was just… here.
Watching a tiger that didn’t care if he was famous or broken or lost.
A door creaked open behind him, the sound nearly swallowed by the humidity. Soft footfalls approached—unhurried, uncertain. He didn’t turn around.
Effie appeared in his peripheral vision, arms crossed over her chest like armor. She wore a hoodie that hung low on her frame, sleeves tugged over her wrists. Her curls were gathered loosely, barely tamed. A sketchpad was tucked under her arm. She hovered for a moment, reading the silence before choosing a spot—not beside him, but close enough to feel.
She sat on the opposite end of the bench, setting her sketchpad in her lap. The old wood creaked beneath her, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t ask him if it was okay.
She didn’t need to.
For a long moment, they said nothing. Mike rolled onto his side in the enclosure and yawned, flashing enormous teeth. Effie pulled a pencil from the pouch of her hoodie and began to sketch. Light strokes. A soft rhythm.
Royce glanced at her. Just once.
She didn’t look up, but she felt it. “He’s not even that still,” she murmured, eyes on the page. “But I like trying to catch the quiet part of him anyway.”
Royce blinked, barely registering the words.
Effie kept drawing. Her face was calm but focused, jaw set like she was pressing down her own thoughts just to hear the shape of his silence.
“You ever feel like people just… look at you all the time?” she asked, still not looking at him.
Royce’s lips twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “I live in a fucking fishbowl.”
“I figured,” Effie said. “You don’t strike me as the interior design type.”
He exhaled slowly, and for the first time all day, something close to a laugh scratched at the back of his throat.
Effie reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear, then continued sketching.
“You don’t talk much,” he said after a moment.
“You don’t either,” she replied, pencil pausing briefly. “That’s why this works.”
Royce didn’t reply. But something in him softened, just a little.
She shifted slightly on the bench, crossing one leg under the other. “I don’t mind quiet,” she added, her voice quieter now, gentler. “Sometimes it says more than talking does.”
He stared at Mike again, but this time his eyes weren’t as hard.
Across the bench, Effie’s pencil slowed. She wasn’t trying to capture the tiger anymore. She was sketching Royce—his hunched shoulders, the tired slope of his back, the way he stared at something with his whole body.
She wouldn’t show him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But she’d keep the sketch.
Some nights, it wasn’t about fixing anything.
Just not leaving.
And tonight, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Rana parked half a block from the house, just far enough to give herself a reason to hesitate. The late afternoon heat made the air shimmer above the cracked pavement. The house hadn’t changed—same faded paint, same sagging porch rail, same half-buried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit. But her father’s voice echoed in her head.
“You ain’t gotta forgive. Just show up.”
She stepped out of the car slowly, heels clicking against the sidewalk, and made her way to the front door. The screen door groaned on its hinges when she pushed it open. The front door was already ajar.
Inside, the house smelled like old furniture, floor cleaner, and something more sour underneath—like sickness pretending it didn’t live there.
Her mother was in the kitchen, rinsing a pot like she had nowhere better to be.
“Well look who decided to show up,” her mother said without looking.
“I’m not staying long.”
Her mother finally turned. “You come alone?”
Rana didn’t answer right away.
Her mother clicked her tongue. “Let me guess. Royce too busy to be bothered? Too famous now, I guess.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Makes sense,” she muttered, turning back to the sink. “He always did like disappearing when things got real.”
Rana’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t take the bait. “Where is he?”
“In the back. Same bed he grew up in, smaller now, but he’s in it.” She dried her hands on a dish towel, then shrugged. “He sleeps most of the day. Might be awake. Or not. You’ll see.”
Rana didn’t bother with small talk. She walked down the hall, each step like crossing into a colder part of herself.
The door to Reg’s room was half-shut. She pushed it open gently.
The air inside was warm and still. Reg lay beneath a thin blanket, propped up against pillows, his body gaunt and still. His face was paler than she remembered, but the bones were the same. The TV played on mute—some old Western—and the fan in the corner rattled with every sweep.
She didn’t move toward him. Just stood in the doorway.
“Hey.”
No answer. Just the low, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
“You look like shit,” she said softly, not unkindly.
Reg stirred faintly. His eyes didn’t open, but his lips moved, murmuring something unintelligible.
She stayed where she was.
“I’m not staying long. Just wanted to… I don’t know. Say I came.”
There was no dramatic swell of emotion, no reunion. Just the dry creak of the fan and the TV flickering color across the wall.
After a long silence, she stepped closer—close enough to touch him, though she didn’t. She let her fingers brush the edge of the bedframe.
“I’ll see you later,” she said. A whisper. A promise she wasn’t sure she meant.
He muttered again, barely audible. She didn’t lean in to hear.
She turned and left.
In the hallway, her mother was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. Her face unreadable.
“You could’ve sat with him longer,” she said.
Rana stopped. “You could’ve called before all this got this bad.”
Her mother scoffed. “What would’ve changed?”
“Maybe nothing.”
They looked at each other in the quiet—two women with the same eyes but no bridge between them.
As Rana reached for the front door, her mother said, “You should tell Royce. When Reg dies, he’ll only left and he won’t have noone to blame but himself.”
Rana paused.
“I’ll tell him,” she said. “But he already knows.”
Then she stepped outside, the screen door banging shut behind her.
Toni had known it would happen as soon as the professor said “group assignment.” She sat frozen in her seat, hoping for a miracle, but when the names were read out—“Toni and Kyle”—there it was. No miracle. Just another ordinary Tuesday.
Kyle was the kind of guy who smiled too much. Friendly, sure, but in that way that made her skin itch—overly familiar, breezy, a little too comfortable on the first day. The type to ask for your Snapchat instead of your number. His hoodie sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and he kept leaning closer than necessary as they discussed their project. She didn’t mind the small talk, not really—she’d learned to smile through it—but the way his eyes lingered when she laughed made her wary.
Class ended, and they gathered their things. She zipped her bag fast, already crafting her exit.
“You parked in the East Lot?” Kyle asked, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
Toni blinked, surprised he’d remembered. “Yeah,” she said cautiously.
“I’ll walk you out. I’m headed that way anyway.”
She hesitated—half a beat too long. “I’m good, but thanks.”
Kyle didn’t push. “Alright, see you Thursday then.”
Outside, the sun hung low, spilling gold across the parking lot. Her car shimmered faintly in the heat, a few love bugs plastered to the windshield. She climbed in quickly, shut the door, and let the breath out that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The engine barely turned over before her phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Deshawn.
Toni stared at the screen for a second, then hit accept. “Hey,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
He didn’t bother with a hello. “That how fast people mess up, huh?”
She froze. “What?”
“Don’t play stupid. You think I wouldn’t see that story? You smiling in some dude’s face like y’all best friends.”
Her heart sank. She didn’t even know who had posted it—probably one of the girls who sat near them, panning across the classroom with no thought to consequences. Just fifteen seconds of filtered nothing that suddenly mattered far too much.
“It was my project partner, Deshawn. I didn’t—”
“You think that matters to me? It’s how you looked. You laughed. Like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
The silence on the other end prickled.
“You slipping,” he said finally, voice quieter now, which somehow made it worse.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he said. And then he hung up.
Toni sat there for a while, phone still in her hand. The air in the car felt heavier than it should have, thick and unmoving. Her fingers trembled as she opened her laptop on the passenger seat and connected to the campus Wi-Fi through her hotspot.
She opened her professor’s email and typed:
Hi Professor Delacruz, I wanted to ask if it would be possible to switch group partners for the project. I’ve recently taken on some new obligations that conflict with my current schedule, and I think a different partner might work better logistically. Thank you for understanding.
She hovered over the send button.
Then clicked it.
The message wasn’t about scheduling. It was about space. And fear. And knowing that sometimes the smallest things are the first signs of something bigger. She wasn’t ready to name it yet.
But she could feel it.
Like a bruise that hadn’t surfaced.
And bruises, she knew, always came to light eventually.
~~~~~~~~~~
The night pressed down soft and slow, Baton Rouge thick with late October heat that refused to let go. Crickets chirped lazily from the brush near the stadium, their song uneven and unhurried, like the world wasn’t in any rush to be anywhere. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting honey-colored rings onto the sidewalk. Campus was nearly silent—Friday nights always were, especially before a game.
Royce sat on a bench just outside the enclosure where Mike the Tiger roamed. The air smelled faintly of mulch, damp grass, and fried food from the tailgates that had long since packed up. The bench groaned beneath him as he leaned forward, arms resting heavily on his thighs, his fingers curled loosely like he couldn’t tell whether to make fists or just let go.
Across the way, the tiger moved with bored grace, each step deliberate, muscle bunching beneath gold-and-black stripes. It paced once, twice, then stopped and lay down near the water feature, head tilted just slightly toward Royce like it was studying him back.
Royce hadn’t moved in ten minutes. His phone sat in his lap, screen dark and cold now, the blue light long faded after his last attempt—You good?—had failed to deliver. Blocked. He didn’t need a notification to confirm it. He’d tried calling too—straight to voicemail. Then social media. Every last one: gone. No posts. No traces. She’d locked the doors, boarded the windows, and walked away.
And now he was just… here.
Watching a tiger that didn’t care if he was famous or broken or lost.
A door creaked open behind him, the sound nearly swallowed by the humidity. Soft footfalls approached—unhurried, uncertain. He didn’t turn around.
Effie appeared in his peripheral vision, arms crossed over her chest like armor. She wore a hoodie that hung low on her frame, sleeves tugged over her wrists. Her curls were gathered loosely, barely tamed. A sketchpad was tucked under her arm. She hovered for a moment, reading the silence before choosing a spot—not beside him, but close enough to feel.
She sat on the opposite end of the bench, setting her sketchpad in her lap. The old wood creaked beneath her, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t ask him if it was okay.
She didn’t need to.
For a long moment, they said nothing. Mike rolled onto his side in the enclosure and yawned, flashing enormous teeth. Effie pulled a pencil from the pouch of her hoodie and began to sketch. Light strokes. A soft rhythm.
Royce glanced at her. Just once.
She didn’t look up, but she felt it. “He’s not even that still,” she murmured, eyes on the page. “But I like trying to catch the quiet part of him anyway.”
Royce blinked, barely registering the words.
Effie kept drawing. Her face was calm but focused, jaw set like she was pressing down her own thoughts just to hear the shape of his silence.
“You ever feel like people just… look at you all the time?” she asked, still not looking at him.
Royce’s lips twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “I live in a fucking fishbowl.”
“I figured,” Effie said. “You don’t strike me as the interior design type.”
He exhaled slowly, and for the first time all day, something close to a laugh scratched at the back of his throat.
Effie reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear, then continued sketching.
“You don’t talk much,” he said after a moment.
“You don’t either,” she replied, pencil pausing briefly. “That’s why this works.”
Royce didn’t reply. But something in him softened, just a little.
She shifted slightly on the bench, crossing one leg under the other. “I don’t mind quiet,” she added, her voice quieter now, gentler. “Sometimes it says more than talking does.”
He stared at Mike again, but this time his eyes weren’t as hard.
Across the bench, Effie’s pencil slowed. She wasn’t trying to capture the tiger anymore. She was sketching Royce—his hunched shoulders, the tired slope of his back, the way he stared at something with his whole body.
She wouldn’t show him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But she’d keep the sketch.
Some nights, it wasn’t about fixing anything.
Just not leaving.
And tonight, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Rana parked half a block from the house, just far enough to give herself a reason to hesitate. The late afternoon heat made the air shimmer above the cracked pavement. The house hadn’t changed—same faded paint, same sagging porch rail, same half-buried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit. But her father’s voice echoed in her head.
“You ain’t gotta forgive. Just show up.”
She stepped out of the car slowly, heels clicking against the sidewalk, and made her way to the front door. The screen door groaned on its hinges when she pushed it open. The front door was already ajar.
Inside, the house smelled like old furniture, floor cleaner, and something more sour underneath—like sickness pretending it didn’t live there.
Her mother was in the kitchen, rinsing a pot like she had nowhere better to be.
“Well look who decided to show up,” her mother said without looking.
“I’m not staying long.”
Her mother finally turned. “You come alone?”
Rana didn’t answer right away.
Her mother clicked her tongue. “Let me guess. Royce too busy to be bothered? Too famous now, I guess.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Makes sense,” she muttered, turning back to the sink. “He always did like disappearing when things got real.”
Rana’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t take the bait. “Where is he?”
“In the back. Same bed he grew up in, smaller now, but he’s in it.” She dried her hands on a dish towel, then shrugged. “He sleeps most of the day. Might be awake. Or not. You’ll see.”
Rana didn’t bother with small talk. She walked down the hall, each step like crossing into a colder part of herself.
The door to Reg’s room was half-shut. She pushed it open gently.
The air inside was warm and still. Reg lay beneath a thin blanket, propped up against pillows, his body gaunt and still. His face was paler than she remembered, but the bones were the same. The TV played on mute—some old Western—and the fan in the corner rattled with every sweep.
She didn’t move toward him. Just stood in the doorway.
“Hey.”
No answer. Just the low, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
“You look like shit,” she said softly, not unkindly.
Reg stirred faintly. His eyes didn’t open, but his lips moved, murmuring something unintelligible.
She stayed where she was.
“I’m not staying long. Just wanted to… I don’t know. Say I came.”
There was no dramatic swell of emotion, no reunion. Just the dry creak of the fan and the TV flickering color across the wall.
After a long silence, she stepped closer—close enough to touch him, though she didn’t. She let her fingers brush the edge of the bedframe.
“I’ll see you later,” she said. A whisper. A promise she wasn’t sure she meant.
He muttered again, barely audible. She didn’t lean in to hear.
She turned and left.
In the hallway, her mother was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. Her face unreadable.
“You could’ve sat with him longer,” she said.
Rana stopped. “You could’ve called before all this got this bad.”
Her mother scoffed. “What would’ve changed?”
“Maybe nothing.”
They looked at each other in the quiet—two women with the same eyes but no bridge between them.
As Rana reached for the front door, her mother said, “You should tell Royce. When Reg dies, he’ll only left and he won’t have noone to blame but himself.”
Rana paused.
“I’ll tell him,” she said. “But he already knows.”
Then she stepped outside, the screen door banging shut behind her.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16609
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
got that nigga Royce singing "I WISH I KNEW YOU WANTED ME" headass nigga lmao fuck outta here go dig ya dead brother up pussy
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7866
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
