Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Dropped his ass like a bad habit

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

Dropped his ass like a bad habit

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

Goddamn

Man celebrating Royce suffering heartbreak because Royce don’t be sashaying around.

[Caesar]

Volunteer State Shootout

[Soapy]

that boy got to drilling shit bc his little bitch broke his heart, respect

[djp73]

not very convincing wins

[Captain Canada]

Getting your stats up which is good. Just feels like we're waiting for that anvil to come down. Alabama still looming?

[Caesar]

that boy got to drilling shit bc his little bitch broke his heart, respect

About time yall put some respect on Royce’s name

not very convincing wins

A win’s a win, brudda

Getting your stats up which is good. Just feels like we're waiting for that anvil to come down. Alabama still looming?

EA gon EA. We don’t play Alabama this season

[Caesar]

New Rotation

Royce didn’t remember her name.

He knew it when he walked in—her smile too eager, the way she leaned into him like she’d been practicing—but the name had already left him by the time his hand slid under her shirt. It wasn’t personal. That was the point.

The room was dim, just enough light spilling through the slats of the blinds to soften the cheap white walls. She had a poster of Lauryn Hill taped above her dresser, the corners curling, a single ashtray resting on the windowsill even though she didn’t smoke. Or maybe she did. Royce didn’t ask. He didn’t care.

They hadn’t talked much. She asked if he wanted to watch something. He said he wasn’t staying long. She laughed like he was joking.

Now, the ceiling above her bed was water-stained and silent.

She lay next to him, bare shoulder peeking from beneath the sheet. Her breathing was steady, but her eyes weren’t closed. He could feel her watching him through the dark.

"You really just gon’ fuck and dash?" she said.

Royce blinked up at the ceiling, exhaling through his nose. He didn’t answer. He didn’t look at her.

"Guess so," she muttered, turning away. Her voice wasn’t hurt, just tired. Like she already knew what this was.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, as if the act could shake off the numbness draped across his body. Pulling his shirt on, he felt the stare she didn’t give him. Her disappointment didn’t register. His presence was a placeholder—hers too.

Out in the car, the silence was heavier than usual. The scent of her perfume lingered on his hoodie, sickly sweet, and he yanked it off, tossing it into the back seat.

He gripped the wheel, but didn’t turn the key.

There was a pressure in his chest that had nothing to do with the girl inside. It had been a couple days since the Tennessee game. He still hadn’t told anyone how empty he felt afterward, how the win didn’t feel like winning, how it didn’t matter because when the clock hit zero, he had no one to text. No Alix waiting with a smirk and a joke. No celebration dinner. Just static.

He unlocked his phone and scrolled past messages he hadn’t read and ones he hadn’t answered. Teammates, brand reps, old flings, reporters.

Nothing from her.

He opened his camera roll and hovered on a folder marked "Spring."

A video. Thirty-one seconds. The thumbnail showed a tousled Alix curled up under his comforter, one bare shoulder sticking out, hair messy from sleep. She was laughing, her voice raspier than usual.

He tapped it.

The video played.

"You better go crazy today," she said off-screen, aiming the camera at him as he walked across the room pulling on socks. "I swear, if you don’t knock somebody’s helmet off, I’m deleting your playlist."

Royce smirked in the video, turning to face her. "You wouldn’t. And it’s fucking spring camp."

"I would. I got the aux now. Play like shit and it’s Taylor Swift all week."

She laughed again—real, unguarded—and the video ended just as she turned the phone on herself, smiling into the lens like she was storing the moment for herself too.

Back in the car, Royce stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the trash icon. One tap. That’s all it would take.

Instead, he dragged the tracker back to the beginning.

"You better go crazy today…"

He watched it again. Then again. And again.

His jaw clenched. The glow of the screen caught the hollows under his eyes, the lines of fatigue mapped across his face. He hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. Just passing out and waking up feeling worse. Practice helped. So did lifting. But the nights bled together, and the girls blurred.

He leaned his head back against the seat and let the weight of it all press into the silence. The parking lot around him was quiet, just a few porch lights flickering in the distance. Somewhere behind him, a dog barked once and fell quiet.

He locked the phone and dropped it in the cupholder. For a second, he thought about going back inside. Saying sorry. Lying next to someone, even if it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t.

He pulled the hoodie back on, rolled the window down a crack, and let the air in. Cold. Sharp. Honest.

All the girls in the world couldn’t fill the space Alix had left behind.

And Royce wasn’t ready to say that out loud.

But maybe the silence already had.

~~~~~~~~~~

The library was near empty, just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft clack of a keyboard echoing across the high-ceilinged quiet. Arianna sat curled in the corner of a study pod, hoodie pulled tight around her face, knees folded beneath her on the stiff cushion. Her notebook lay open on the small table, pen resting diagonally across the page like it knew the weight of what had been written there.

She had started the piece hours ago. Or maybe days. It had been living in her chest for longer than that—threaded between unsent texts, rehearsed conversations she’d never have, and memories that made her heart ache in places she thought she’d long since numbed.

Now the words sat in front of her, scrawled in ink that had smudged in spots where her hand had trembled.

“When the hand that hurts you belongs to someone who swore they’d love you,
you forget what love should sound like.
You start confusing silence for comfort,
Fear for passion,
Obedience for safety.
You lower your voice before he even asks.
You shrink because staying big feels like a threat.
You make yourself soft and quiet and small,
Until the only thing louder than his anger
Is your own denial.”

Arianna read the words aloud, barely above a whisper. Her throat tightened halfway through. She paused, eyes stinging. One hand braced the table as she breathed through the wave—shallow, careful inhales like the paper might hear her breaking.

She didn’t name Toni. She didn’t name Deshawn.

But it was there—in every line, in every space where her voice caught before continuing. It was in the way she pictured her cousin’s eyes the last time they talked. How Toni had smiled just enough to make it seem like everything was fine, even when the bruise beneath her concealer hadn’t quite faded yet.

Arianna blinked hard and kept going.

“Love shouldn’t sound like apologies you didn’t owe.
It shouldn’t echo like a slammed door
Or follow you in the shower
Or interrupt your laughter like a siren you can’t unhear.
Love shouldn’t leave you checking your tone
Like a math test with a wrong answer waiting in his hands.
Love shouldn’t hurt like that.”

Her pen slipped from her hand when she finished. It clattered to the table, loud in the stillness.

She didn’t move to pick it up.

Instead, she sat there, letting the silence wrap around her like gauze—not soothing, not gentle, but necessary. Like pressure on a wound.

After a while, she stood and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, patting it dry with rough brown paper towels. Her reflection stared back at her—tired, puffy-eyed, but steadier somehow. Like saying it aloud had carved space for something true inside her again.

Back at her seat, she gathered the notebook carefully, cradling it like something fragile and worth protecting. Before she closed it, she flipped back a few pages and saw the beginnings of another poem—the one she’d tried to write last week. The one that started and stopped and never found its shape.

At the top of the page: What I Never Said to My Cousin.

She stared at it. Then, slowly, she drew a thick line through the title. Not erasing it. Just… putting it to rest.

There were other ways to say what needed to be said.

And maybe someday, Toni would hear them.

For now, Arianna folded the notebook shut, tucked it under her arm, and walked into the night air—chilled, but clean.

She didn’t look back.

[Captain Canada]

This boy writing writing

[djp73]

caesar about to be at def poetry jam reading "Arianna's" poetry

[Caesar]

Pick-Up Shift

Alix groaned as she leaned back against the cold tile of the bathroom floor, cheek pressed to the wall like it could somehow quiet the spinning in her head. Her stomach churned, sharp and insistent, like it had a point to make. The light above her hummed too loudly, the air too thick, and her phone buzzed on the sink where she’d left it during her last trip in.

She forced herself up on shaky elbows and grabbed it.

Alix: Is Pepto even gonna help or am I just gonna keep throwing up pink?

It took less than a minute before the typing bubbles appeared.

Co: You need fluids. Gatorade or Pedialyte. Take some Tylenol for the fever. Soup if you can hold it. BRAT diet. Don’t overdo it.

BRAT diet?

Bananas, rice, applesauce, toast. I’m shocked you’ve made it this far in life.

I’ll try. Assuming I can sit up long enough to drive and not kill anyone.

There was a pause before his next message came in.

You don’t need to go anywhere. Just sit down. Or lie down. Actually, lie down.

She snorted, even as her stomach twisted again. She dragged herself back to the couch in the living room where Simone, Madi and Ashlee were already sprawled, equally miserable. Ashlee had a half-eaten sleeve of saltines balanced on her chest and a wet rag draped over her forehead. Simone was clutching a bowl like a child clutched a teddy bear, eyes half-lidded but still glaring at the TV remote that was too far to reach. Madi sat with her chin resting on a grocery-bag lined garbage can.

"Group death," Simone muttered. "We’re gonna die in this apartment. No one will know until the smell leaks into the hallway."

Alix settled between them with a groan, blanket clutched to her chest.

"We had one bad takeout night," she said. "We’re not dying. Just decaying slowly."

“You texted Nurse Dreamboat?” Madi asked, eyes not quite opening.

“I did,” Alix mumbled. “Told me to go get Gatorade and soup and stuff. Like I’m not clinging to life.”

Simone chuckled weakly. “Tell him to Uber it.”

Alix was mid-eye roll when her phone buzzed again.

Co: Check the front door.

Her brow furrowed. She sat up straighter. “What?”

Ashlee stirred. “What’d he say?”

Alix didn’t answer. She stood slowly, bracing herself against the wall like a war veteran, and padded to the front door in her socks. She cracked it open.

A plastic grocery bag sat neatly on the welcome mat. Inside was a large orange Gatorade, a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup, a box of saltines, a small bottle of Tylenol, and a package of fruit snacks. On top was a folded napkin, written in thick black pen:

“Text me if you’re still alive in the morning.” – Co

She stared at the bag for a beat, then picked it up and brought it inside. The warmth in her chest wasn’t from fever this time.

She dropped the bag on the coffee table.

"Okay, yeah, he’s annoying."

"What’d he do?" Simone asked, not lifting her head.

"Everything," Alix muttered. "He did everything."

Madi peeked at the contents of the bag. “He put fruit snacks in there?”

Alix nodded, a small smile forming despite herself. “He gets it.”

Later that night, she sat curled under a blanket, cradling the warm mug of soup she’d finally managed to heat. Her phone buzzed again.

Still alive?

She stared at the message for a second, then typed slowly.

Barely. But thank you.

There was no reply. Just the quiet glow of the television, the rustling of blankets, and the faint sense that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t entirely alone in this.

~~~~~~~~~~

The community hall near Government Street buzzed with a familiar tension—equal parts frustration and fatigue. Fluorescent lights cast a clinical pallor across the room, highlighting the faces of residents, developers, lawyers, and a smattering of media seated in tightly packed rows of folding chairs. The North Baton Rouge redevelopment proposal had been on the docket for months, and tonight’s zoning commission meeting had the feel of a rerun—another endless volley of speeches, objections, and procedural stalls.

An older woman in a “Don’t Bulldoze My Block” T-shirt held a crumpled petition against her chest, lips pursed as she eyed a group of developers whispering near the back. A man in a faded Saints cap scribbled angrily on a yellow legal pad, muttering to himself. In the center of it all, seated at the long table beneath the seal of East Baton Rouge Parish, the commission members exchanged exhausted glances, glancing at watches and fiddling with microphones.

“This proposal disproportionately impacts generational homeowners,” a community organizer at the podium said, voice steady but clipped. “And we’ve heard nothing—nothing—to address the risk of displacement or gentrification.” She held her gaze on the commissioners, daring one of them to meet her eyes. None did.

Then came the usual counterpoint. A man in a tailored blazer with a real estate firm’s logo on his lapel stepped forward, pointing to maps, promises of mixed-income housing, job creation, commercial anchors. “It’s not about gentrification,” he said, gesturing toward a printed rendering. “It’s about revitalization. Investment. Opportunity.”

The room rippled with murmurs, some scoffs, a few claps. The commission chair, a balding man with reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, sighed audibly as he reached for his water.

That’s when it happened.

A sharply dressed Black consultant in a charcoal gray suit walked in from the side door—badge clipped discreetly to his belt, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. He moved with precision, confidence, but not arrogance. No one addressed him. He addressed no one.

Without a word, he slid a single folded document across the dais to the chair. It wasn’t thick. One page. The paper was crisp, the header typed in a narrow serif font. The chair unfolded it, scanning silently.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

Across the row, a younger commissioner looked over curiously. The chair tapped his mic.

“I—uh,” he started, voice clearing. “Before we continue, I’ve just received a letter from an advisory body representing a cross-sector coalition of stakeholders—local business leaders, nonprofits, civic institutions.”

No names.

No signatures read aloud.

The room shifted—shoulders squared, attention sharpened.

The chair continued, tone firmer now. “They’ve provided recommendations. In light of those provisions—including a set-aside for a literacy and wellness center, neighborhood hiring clauses, and a community oversight board—I’m reopening discussion on the vote.”

Confused murmurs swept through the audience. One developer’s jaw slackened. A community activist near the front narrowed her eyes. “Wait, what?”

Another commissioner leaned toward their tablet, checking messages. Their phone buzzed. A quick glance. A nod.

“I vote yes,” they said into the mic.

A beat of silence. Another followed: “Yes.”

The third looked stunned, hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Yes.”

The measure passed.

People stood slowly, stunned. No cheers. No shouts. Just the sound of chairs scraping against linoleum, papers rustling, and whispered disbelief.

Outside, the humidity hung thick in the evening air. Streetlights flickered against the sheen of pavement from an earlier rain. A black SUV idled near the curb, driver standing beside the open rear door.

From down the block, Chance Delpit appeared—no fanfare, no entourage. His suit was pressed, his watch gold but understated. A man on the phone nodded subtly as Delpit passed, offering no greeting, just deference.

Delpit reached the SUV, pausing only briefly. Inside the hall, his name hadn’t been mentioned. Not once. But it didn’t need to be.

From the sidewalk, a junior city planner still in her badge from the meeting watched as he disappeared into the vehicle, door closing behind him with a gentle finality. She exhaled slowly, the reality of what she’d just witnessed settling in.

He never spoke at these things.

He didn’t have to.

~~~~~~~~~~

The music was too loud for the size of the house, reverberating off the thin walls like it had nowhere else to go. Bodies pressed against one another in the living room, cups half-full and sloshing, smoke hanging in the air like a low fog. Laughter rang out, sharp and wild, as if everyone there was laughing just a little too hard to keep from thinking too much.

Royce stood near the hallway, a red Solo cup in his hand, sipping at something that barely tasted like juice but burned like truth. His hoodie was half-zipped, his chain catching flashes of light from a lava lamp on a folding table. He didn’t really talk. Didn’t have to. Meech’s boys were deep in conversation, scheming over something that sounded like a “move”—not that Royce asked for details. He didn’t want to know.

That was the thing lately—he never asked. He just showed up.

“Yo, you good?” someone had asked him when he walked in earlier.

Royce had only shrugged. He was tired of saying “yeah” when he didn’t mean it.

Now, he leaned against the wall in the back hallway of the house, listening to Meech argue with someone over front money in the kitchen. The air was thick with weed and cologne, the kind of night that felt slippery, like something could go wrong even if no one said it out loud.

Shayla brushed past him without looking, walking into one of the rooms. A few minutes later, the door cracked back open just enough for her to tilt her head out and glance at him.

Royce hesitated, then stepped in.

The bedroom was barely lit, one lamp throwing gold over the unmade bed. Clothes on the floor, ashtray on the nightstand, window half-cracked. The bass from the living room was dulled in here, but still there—like a heartbeat too far away to reach.

She didn’t speak. Just tugged him by the front of his hoodie and kissed him like she was mad at him. Like she was mad at herself.

It didn’t take long.

Fast. Reckless. Quiet.

When it was over, Royce sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, breathing steady but shallow. Shayla stood, pulling her shirt back down with a practiced motion, her fingers fumbling for the buttons even though she’d done this before.

“You shouldn’t be getting involved with this,” she said, not looking at him.

Royce didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“I’m not getting involved with shit,” he said finally. “I’m just here.”

That landed heavy in the space between them. Shayla paused, one hand on her hip, the other still fixing her sleeve.

She turned to face him. “That’s exactly the problem, Royce. You ‘just here’ while everybody else bleeding for it.”

He leaned back on his palms, eyes tracing the peeling paint near the ceiling. “Then maybe I need another drink.”

She stared at him. Not like she was mad. Not even disappointed. Just tired.

After a beat, she walked out the room without saying anything else.

Royce stayed sitting there for a while. The room smelled like too many things—old smoke, new regret, her perfume lingering like a dare.

Outside the door, the party didn’t care. The music kept playing. Voices kept rising.

He stood up slowly, rolled his shoulders, and went to find that drink.