Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Ending this with Poochie putting his ass down for putting his dick in one too many women is crazy work

might fuck around and put something on the grill that day

Your desire and glee to see a young Black king killed is concerning

Goddamn, y’all got cooked like that??

Offense been shaky all year. Can’t shut it down.

Will be interesting to see how things shake out with the playoffs. Feels like yall can still get in but going to need to clean things up if you’re going to win any

Got a thread to get in but it’s a thin one

[Caesar]

Silence

The locker room didn’t buzz, didn’t hum. It dragged.

A slow, guttural shuffle of cleats on tile. Velcro ripping. The faint smack of helmets being dropped into plastic bins that once held ambition, now just sweat and regret. No music. No banter. Just the weight of a season that had promised everything and delivered a long, cold silence instead.

Royce sat on the end of the bench with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging limp between them. His jersey was peeled halfway off, chest bare, soaked in postgame sweat that clung to the curve of his neck. The towel around his shoulders had stopped doing anything ten minutes ago, but he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t move much, except for the occasional clench of his jaw.

The locker next to his was empty. The one after that held Rickie, slumped with his hoodie up and headphones on but not playing music. Just wearing the silence like armor.

Across the room, someone let out a too-loud laugh that died as soon as it started. It wasn’t funny. Nothing was. Georgia had been one thing. But Texas A&M? That was a knife. That was the one that turned belief into bullshit.

They were done.

Not mathematically, maybe. There was still a bowl game. There would be media ops, donor dinners, long travel days with short practice walkthroughs. But the big dreams—the ones that made August feel electric and every Monday film session feel like it mattered—they were gone.

Royce reached for his phone where it sat facedown beside his cleats. He didn’t even know why. Habit, maybe. Hope, if he was being honest. It had become a routine—pick up, check, feel the drop. Lately, there wasn’t even a flicker before the letdown.

Nothing. No messages. No notifications. No one asking how you holding up or I’m proud of you anyway or want me to come over?

He unlocked it and tapped into his pinned thread with Alix. It was still there, like a scar. The messages green. No profile photo. Just the echo of what used to be.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. It would’ve been so easy to type it again:

You good?

But what was the point? The cursor blinked, waiting, mocking. A few locker stalls down, Demar was talking to one of the trainers. Nothing serious. Just a tape check. But Royce heard it all—like his ears were turned up and the rest of him was on mute.

He hit backspace. Watched the text disappear.

For a second, he closed his eyes. And in the dark behind his eyelids, the game started over. Micah Tease running untouched. The sideline sagging. Burrell’s kick slicing through air that didn’t care anymore. Royce had been on the field for every defensive snap, but it still hadn’t been enough. And it wasn’t the game that broke him—it was the silence after. The knowing.

He was supposed to be the difference.

He exhaled slow through his nose and opened his eyes.

Someone shouted something about Chick-fil-A on the way back to campus. Someone else threw a ball of tape at a trash can and missed. The room had started to settle into that late-season rhythm: a soft focus. Nobody wanted to think too hard.

Royce placed the phone face down again. Harder this time. A crack formed in the corner of the screen. He didn’t care.

He looked around the room—not at anyone in particular, just the space. These people had been with him through blood and sweat. Through the early mornings and the fourth-quarter battles. But right now, they couldn’t reach him. Not where he was.

He wanted someone to sit beside him, say something real. This hurts. I see you. Let’s just sit with it. But nobody did. And he didn’t ask.

There was no one to tell him it wasn’t his fault. No one to take the sting out of feeling like he’d come up short again. No one to hold him while the world mocked the idea of “next time.”

Not Romeo.

Not Alix.

Royce stood finally, knees stiff, body aching in places that weren’t just physical. He didn’t say anything as he moved toward the showers. Didn’t make eye contact. Just walked like someone who’d learned to carry his pain in quiet.

Because tonight, there was no postgame party. No ride home waiting. No warm laugh from the passenger seat. No flurry of notifications lighting up the screen.

Just a boy with a bruised body and a locked-up heart, walking through the wreckage of what was supposed to be his season.

~~~~~~~~~~


The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of pipes in the wall. Toni stood in the middle of her bedroom, barefoot, her hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her phone sat face-down on the nightstand, unanswered texts buried beneath the glass.

The light outside had shifted to that murky in-between—the end of afternoon not quite evening, when shadows stretch long and unforgiving across the floor. She watched one of them crawl toward her closet door.

Her chest felt tight. Not panic, exactly. Not even fear. Just... pressure. Like something inside her was pushing outward, pressing against the seams, begging to be released.

She walked across the room and opened the closet.

It squeaked on its hinges, familiar and sharp. Her clothes hung in uneven rows—hoodies she hadn’t worn in weeks, shoes she didn’t recognize herself in anymore. At the back, under a folded blanket that had started to gather dust, sat a navy blue duffel bag.

She hesitated, then crouched.

Her fingers curled around the handle and pulled it forward into the light. The fabric was stiff, worn at the corners. She unzipped it.

Inside: a stack of clothes, a hoodie she could sleep in, a pair of sneakers wrapped in a grocery bag to keep the soles from staining. In the side pouch, a prepaid phone still in its packaging. A copy of her ID. A laminated insurance card. And at the bottom, stuffed inside a balled-up sock, a wad of cash folded over and rubber-banded tight.

She exhaled, slow and steady, and sat back on her heels.

She didn’t remember packing most of it. Maybe that was the point. It had happened piece by piece, over weeks, months maybe. A forgotten twenty slipped from her wallet into the sock. A hoodie stuffed in after an argument. The phone bought on a day she’d walked six extra blocks just to avoid going straight home.

She reached in and touched the stack of cash—crisp, worn, a little sticky from humidity. It wasn’t enough. Not really. But it was something. A start.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the ID.

It was strange, seeing her own face like that. Frozen in time, lips slightly parted like she’d been mid-thought. Her hair different back then. Fuller, bouncier. Her eyes a little less guarded.

She zipped the bag closed and slid it back under the blanket. Tucked it deep in the closet like before. But this time, the action felt heavier.

Like she’d just confirmed something she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

As she stood, she felt her phone buzz once—brief, sharp. A text.

She didn’t check it. She didn’t have to.

She walked back toward the bed, but paused before she sat. Her hands curled into fists and then uncurled again. In the stillness of the room, she felt the weight of all the unsaid things. All the plans made in secret. All the choices she hadn’t yet made, but might.

And though she didn’t know when, or how, or what would push her over the edge—

She knew now.

There was a way out.

And it was waiting.

[Captain Canada]

The victim mentality is contagious, huh

[Caesar]

The victim mentality is contagious, huh

this man experiencing heartbreak and y’all punching down. Men have feelings too

[Caesar]

Reckonings

The coffee shop was tucked between an antique bookstore and an old tailor’s storefront on Government Street—quiet, unremarkable, and chosen with purpose. No fans. No teammates. No social media interns or NIL brand reps asking for content. Just dark roast, creaky chairs, and enough space for real conversations.

Royce slid into the seat across from Delpit without a word. He looked tired—more emotionally than physically. A hoodie draped low over his face, eyes darker than they’d been the last time they sat down like this. The loss to Texas A&M had gutted the locker room. The film had been brutal. The silence afterward even worse.

Delpit didn’t greet him. He didn’t need to.

“You been watching?” Royce finally asked, nodding toward the flat screen behind the barista. SEC Now played on mute.

“I’ve seen enough,” Delpit said, sipping from a plain ceramic mug. “You didn’t lose that game because you weren’t ready. You lost it because the pieces around you cracked.”

Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Delpit said. “It’s supposed to remind you what you can and can’t control.”

Royce exhaled through his nose and leaned back. “Everybody’s been asking about the draft already. Billy. Reporters. One of my potnas called this morning and said I’d be a fool not to go. Said if I didn’t declare, I was soft.”

Delpit smiled, not kindly. “Everybody’s got something to say when they don’t have to live the choice.”

Royce didn’t respond.

The two of them sat in silence for a beat, watching people pass outside. A woman in scrubs crossed the street with a coffee in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. A man in a Southern cap waved at someone through a car window.

“Look,” Delpit said, setting his cup down, “I didn’t ask you to come here for clarity. I knew you wouldn’t have that yet.”

Royce blinked slow. “Then why?”

Delpit reached into his leather messenger bag and pulled out a slim folder. He didn’t slide it across the table just yet.

“Because it’s time to shift how you see yourself,” he said. “You’ve done everything we talked about. Media day. Conditioning leadership. Brand partnerships. You cleaned up good. Didn’t punch a camera. Didn’t skip class. Didn’t self-destruct.”

Royce huffed a short laugh. “Yet.”

Delpit didn’t flinch. “Yet. But you haven’t built anything yet either. And now’s the window. You can go chase that league money and hope you get picked day two or three. Or…” He tapped the folder. “You can start playing chess.”

Royce stared at him. “You think I ain’t playing chess?”

“I think you’re playing defense,” Delpit said. “Which makes sense. You’re a linebacker. But life don’t give you defensive snaps, son. Just the field.”

Royce looked down at his hands. The calluses from spring ball were long gone, but he still rubbed the pads of his fingers like he was trying to find something familiar there.

Delpit finally pushed the folder toward him.

Royce didn’t open it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A partnership opportunity. Quiet. Clean. It doesn’t have your face on it yet—but it could. It’s not sexy like a sneaker deal, but it’s a stake in something. That means money when you’re sleeping. Leverage. Longevity. You always say you’re trying to eat forever? This is that.”

Royce stared at the folder, the weight of it more psychological than physical.

“You kept the image clean,” Delpit added softly. “Even when the floor dropped. That matters. People notice. You earned more than just applause this year. Now the question is—what do you want to build?”

Royce didn’t answer right away. The noise of the café swirled around him—steam from an espresso machine, the low hum of indie jazz, the soft clatter of a spoon against a saucer.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, but unflinching.

Delpit nodded, not disappointed. “That’s fair. But that answer has an expiration date.”

Royce looked up.

“I’m not the only one knocking,” Delpit said. “And if you don’t open the door for the right reasons, someone else will walk through it for you—and take the credit.”

They sat there a minute longer.

Finally, Royce reached for the folder.

He didn’t open it. Not yet.

But he didn’t leave it behind either.

~~~~~~~~~~

The bus terminal in Natchitoches barely looked like one. Just a squat brick building off the highway, its sign missing a letter, the pavement outside cracked and sun-bleached. A single vending machine hummed under the awning. Mike leaned against his car, hoodie up despite the afternoon chill, checking the time again.

When Laila stepped off the bus, she had a scarf wrapped twice around her neck and an overnight bag slung across her body. Her hair was tucked under a beanie, her nails glossy lavender. She looked at the terminal and then at him.

“This place look like a movie set where nothing ever happens,” she said, smirking.

Mike grinned, shoulders loosening. “Yeah, well. Depends on the movie.”

He took her bag and tossed it into the trunk. She climbed into the passenger seat like she’d been there a hundred times before. No small talk. Just the warmth of presence.

They drove with the windows cracked, wind slipping in soft. Downtown was already halfway dressed for the Christmas Festival. Strings of lights were wound through the lampposts, and garlands curved over the wrought-iron balconies. Shops had “Holiday Hours” signs in their windows, and a pop-up vendor was selling spiced pecans on the corner near the Cane River.

They parked and wandered, hands brushing but not quite held. Laila stopped to take a picture of a storefront painted with fake snow. “Y’all really lean into the small-town charm, huh?”

Mike chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” she said, still looking through her phone. “Just different.”

They had lunch at a little café with mismatched chairs and tiny wreaths hanging in the windows. Mike ordered shrimp and grits. Laila picked at a cranberry pecan salad, then stole some of his fries.

She watched him in the middle of a bite, expression thoughtful. “Do you think you’re staying?”

The question wasn’t an accusation. Just air, like breath.

Mike set down his fork, wiped his hands on a napkin. “I don’t hate it here,” he said finally. “It’s just… slower. Like the world breathes deeper.”

Laila tilted her head. “You think that’s a good thing?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“It might be,” he said eventually.

That night, they curled into the twin XL bed in his apartment, which still smelled faintly of laundry and the grocery store candles he used to cover up the funk of practice gear. A single string of lights blinked along his window—half the bulbs already out.

They didn’t speak for a long time. Just the soft rustle of the sheets and the low hum of someone’s TV through the wall.

Outside, vines crawled up the brick. They’d grown since the summer, clinging higher, framing the window in green that darkened to near-black in the night. Laila lay with her head on his chest, one leg tangled with his. She traced lazy patterns along the hem of his shirt.

“You feel more like you when you talk like that,” she murmured.

Mike didn’t say anything.

But his hand, resting in the hollow between them, tightened around hers.

And that was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~

The warehouse off Choctaw smelled like dust and damp plywood, the kind of forgotten corner Baton Rouge didn’t advertise. Light slanted in through busted-out panes near the ceiling, catching the swirl of cigarette smoke and old insulation. The floor was scarred concrete, stained in places. A rusted-out Camaro without plates sat near the back wall like it had grown roots.

Meech stood in front of it, arms folded, voice low but sharp. “It ain’t complicated. We stage a grab, public enough to make it look legit. I put the word out we got hit, we clean house before anyone asks why that spot so full.”

Poochie leaned against a folding table, nodding like he was tracking—but his eyes kept drifting. First to his phone. Then to the exit. Then to nowhere.

“Distraction gotta be sloppy,” Meech went on. “Loud. Just long enough for Shayla to get the car to where it need to be. They gon’ think they hit us. But they only gon’ get what we want ‘em to.”

Poochie rubbed the back of his neck. “Who gon’ be the dummy in the street?”

Meech’s eyes narrowed. “You.”

There was a pause.

Poochie gave a lopsided grin like it was a joke, but nobody laughed. The smile faded. “Right,” he muttered.

Shayla stood near the Camaro, arms crossed tight. She hadn’t said much the whole meeting. Just watched. Measured.

She saw the way Poochie’s knee bounced. The way he kept adjusting his hoodie, even though it wasn’t cold. The way he almost asked a question, twice, then swallowed it. And more than anything, she saw what wasn’t there—his usual twitchy bravado, the jokes, the noise. He was quiet. Off.

Meech didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“You got a problem?” Meech asked him flatly.

Poochie blinked. “Nah. I’m straight.”

“Because I need you dialed. Ain’t no room for nerves.”

“I said I’m good.”

Meech studied him for a beat longer, then nodded, satisfied enough to move on. “It’s going down Thursday. Broad daylight. Corner of 69th and Adams. Two heads in the car, just enough heat to make it look real. You roll through, pop the tires, pull a piece, make a scene. Real fast. Get ghost.”

Poochie nodded again, slower this time. “Thursday,” he echoed.

Meech clapped his hands once. “Then we done here.”

Shayla didn’t move. She watched Poochie pick up his phone, thumb tapping at the screen, pretending to scroll. Watched him fail to meet her eyes as he walked out.

When she caught up to him in the parking lot, the sun was low, bleeding orange into the skyline. Poochie was already lighting a Black & Mild.

“Yo,” she said.

He didn’t turn. Just took a drag. “What.”

“You not good,” she said.

Poochie blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “I said I’m straight.”

“I saw you in there. You was floating.”

He turned then, eyes bloodshot and defensive. “Why you pressing me?”

“Because you gonna get somebody clipped moving like that. Maybe me. You think Meech care who catch heat if it go bad? You worse than that nigga Royce with that better than shit.”

Poochie flinched at Royce’s name. It was subtle. But Shayla clocked it.

“What’s that about?” she pressed.

“Nothing.”

“Lotta geating at you these days.”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer, voice lowering. “Whatever got you bent, you need to fix it. Fast. ‘Cause if you freeze up on Thursday? Ain’t nobody gon’ save you.”

She walked off without waiting for him to respond.

Behind her, Poochie flicked the half-smoked cigar into the gutter and watched the embers die out.

~~~~~~~~~~

The end-of-semester party wasn’t her scene. Not really. But Alix came anyway—out of loyalty, out of habit, out of some unspoken agreement with her roommates that she wouldn’t let the year close out with her moping in the apartment, again.

Inside, the music was loud enough to shake the tables. Someone had dragged colored lights across the ceiling, and bodies swayed together in loose, unfocused rhythm. Alix had smiled through two drinks and a dozen surface-level conversations. She'd danced a little. She’d let herself laugh when Simone twirled in heels she could barely walk in. But it all felt like performance. Lighter than real.

She slipped out the side door and stepped into the cold Baton Rouge air, the chill biting through her dress and into her skin. She didn’t shiver. She welcomed it.

He was already out there—leaning against the brick wall near the dumpsters, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. A dark one, clean but faded, not trendy. Just worn in.

Co straightened slightly when he saw her, gave a half-nod like the night didn’t surprise him anymore.

“Thought you might come out here,” he said.

She smiled, soft and unsurprised. “Thought I might too.”

“You good?”

Alix folded her arms across her chest. “I’m okay.”

He nodded like that answer held enough weight. “That’s something.”

For a moment they just stood there, not close enough to touch but not far. The bass from inside thudded under their feet.

“You on shift tonight?” she asked.

“Nah. Got off around six. Double tomorrow, though. ICU’s short.”

“Always is.”

He glanced at her. “You remember that?”

“I remember you telling me.”

Co smiled, faint. “Guess I do talk a lot when I’m tired.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Alix laughed under her breath. Something uncoiled in her chest at the sound.

“You seem different,” he said after a pause. “Not like—new. Just clearer.”

“I feel the same,” she admitted. “But I guess I’m finally hearing my own voice again.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, looking off toward the street where the occasional car passed under flickering lamplight.

Then, gently: “I’ve been wanting to say something.”

She turned slightly toward him, brows raised.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Co said, voice even. “Not a decision, not an explanation. You don’t owe me any of that.”

Alix’s lips parted, but he kept going.

“I just want to be someone you don’t have to bounce back from. That’s all.”

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat rising before she could stop it.

“You are,” she said, voice soft. “You already are.”

He exhaled through his nose, nodded once.

Behind them, the door burst open and someone shouted, laughter spilling into the alley with a trail of cigarette smoke. Alix didn’t flinch. She just looked at Co, eyes steady.

“You cold?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Liar.”

She grinned. “Maybe a little.”

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders without a word. She didn’t protest.

They stood there, sharing silence under the streetlight’s glow. Not touching, but warm anyway. When she finally spoke again, her voice was clearer.

“I should head back in.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Alix paused, then reached out and squeezed his hand, just once. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me feel like I don’t have to perform around you.”

His eyes softened. “You never did.”

She left then, disappearing back into the crowd and noise. The jacket stayed on her shoulders long after she stopped feeling the cold.

[Captain Canada]

Shout out Alix, Phoenix rising type shit

[Caesar]

Shout out Alix, Phoenix rising type shit

[Caesar]

Life in Boxes

The air was thin and crisp, the kind that bit at your cheeks but left your mind clear. Malik pulled his hood tighter over his ears as he hiked the narrow trail snaking up the ridge outside Reno, the crunch of gravel under his boots a steady rhythm. Ahead, Jazlyn was chatting with two locals—ski bums with backpacks and Patagonia jackets—while Donovan hung back, letting the others take the lead.

They’d been out here for almost two hours, just long enough for the jokes to run out and the silence to settle in. Malik didn’t mind. He liked the quiet, liked the way it made his thoughts spread out instead of stacking on top of each other like bricks.

Donovan finally spoke. "You ever think about what you left behind?"

Malik glanced over, catching the edge of his friend’s expression—tired, but not bitter. The same way he looked back in high school when practice ended and the lights shut off. “Sometimes,” Malik admitted. “But I don’t miss being angry all the time.”

Donovan nodded, then nudged a small rock off the path with his boot. “I do. I miss the noise sometimes. The mess. Felt like home.”

“That mess almost ate us.”

“Yeah,” Donovan said, and left it there.

They walked a little farther, up where the trees thinned out and the wind cut harder. Donovan zipped his jacket up to his chin and tilted his head toward Malik. “Remember when Coach used to make us do up-downs in the mud behind the gym?”

Malik barked a laugh. “You mean when you fake-limped so he’d pull you out?”

“I was preserving the talent,” Donovan grinned. “Still made All-District, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

Their laughter echoed down the trail, bouncing off the pines. Malik hadn’t realized how much he missed that. Not the mud or the shouting, but this—the way Donovan always knew when to pull him back from whatever edge he was skirting.

They found a flat outcropping near a bend in the trail and sat down. Jazlyn handed Malik a bottle of water and dropped beside him, her legs swinging over the edge.

“So what’s the music out here?” she asked, breaking the heaviness. “Y’all still on that Louisiana bounce or have you evolved yet?”

Malik smirked. “I still got it in rotation.”

Donovan leaned back on his hands. “Only when he’s feeling nostalgic. Man started listening to Bon Iver last week. I caught him.”

“That’s character development,” Malik said, and Jazlyn laughed.

They talked about music, snowboarding—Donovan still too scared to try—and what they might do for Christmas. Jazlyn’s mom wanted her home. Donovan didn’t want to go back to Baton Rouge. Malik hadn’t decided yet.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains and the sky softened to a watercolor of purples and oranges, Malik exhaled slowly, eyes tracking the tree line. For the first time in a long time, his shoulders didn’t feel like they were bracing for something.

He thought of the boys back home still stuck in old loops—shouting over Xbox lobbies, dodging cops, chasing something they couldn’t name. He thought of Royce, worn down and world-weary even in triumph. And for a second, guilt crept in. But it didn’t stay.

He was still an athlete. But here, in this space with people who didn’t expect him to perform or explode or impress, he didn’t have to be just that.

He was Malik.

~~~~~~~~~~


It was late afternoon when Royce’s boredom curdled into restlessness. The apartment was too quiet—eerily so. Not peaceful, not calm. Just still in that heavy way that felt like being left behind. The hum of the AC clicked on and off with no rhythm. His phone buzzed occasionally—junk notifications, a stale group chat meme, a text from a girl he didn’t want to see.

He scrolled. Past Bree. Past Hollie. His thumb hovered, then stopped on Effie.

You busy?

The reply came a few minutes later.

Putting up prints at the Shaw Center. Expo runs the next few weeks. Come through if you want.

He stared at the screen. He didn’t want to stand under gallery lights pretending to care about art. But he wanted to sit in his silence even less.

Bet.

The walk to the Shaw Center felt longer than it was. December in Baton Rouge wasn’t freezing, but it carried a clingy dampness that got into your bones. The sun was already sliding behind the skyline, the light bruised and gold. When he stepped into the building, the air inside was crisp, the polished tile floor amplifying each echo of his sneakers.

Effie was alone in the gallery space. She wore paint-streaked jeans and a loose tank top under an oversized flannel tied at the waist. Her hair was up, strands curling and falling around her face like they’d made peace with imperfection. She looked up when he walked in, one hand holding a frame steady against the wall.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” she said.

“Didn’t have anything better to do,” he answered, voice low.

She didn’t smile, not exactly, but her posture eased. She slid the last photo into place and stepped back, arms crossed. “You can look around. If you want.”

He followed her lead, moving through the gallery in slow steps. The space was quiet. Not just in sound—but in presence. Every photo seemed to hush the air around it.

The portraits were stark. Raw. Almost confrontational. A woman on a hospital bed, eyes closed but face clenched. A boy sitting on a curb, clutching a photo to his chest like a life raft. A middle-aged man with blood on his knuckles, staring at something beyond the frame.

Royce kept his hands in his pockets. His shoulders stayed square, but his eyes flicked across the images with something like reverence. Or maybe guilt. It was hard to tell.

They reached a photograph that stopped him. Effie in the frame this time—sitting on the floor, curled over a cardboard box, her head in her hands. The light in the image felt artificial, but her grief didn’t.

He nodded toward it. “What’s in the box?”

Effie stared at the photo like she hadn’t already seen it a hundred times.

“My sister’s stuff,” she said finally.

Royce didn’t ask which sister. He didn’t have to.

He shifted on his feet. “You put yourself in it?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “If it’s honest.”

He glanced at her. “All these people... they know you took the picture?”

She tilted her head. “Some of them. Some didn’t need to.”

Royce frowned. “You just snap people without asking?”

“I wait,” Effie said. “For the moment. People wear masks all day. But grief... grief don’t wait for permission. When it shows, it shows.”

He looked back at the wall. “You think people want to see that?”

“I think they already do,” she said. “They just don’t want to admit it.”

Royce was quiet for a while. “They feel like moments right before something breaks.”

Effie gave him a long glance. “That’s the idea.”

His eyes moved back to the photo of her and the box. “You... look like you didn’t know anyone was watching.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

The silence after that was thick. He didn’t try to break it. Neither did she.

“Why this?” he asked. “Why show all this pain?”

Effie’s voice didn’t change, but something in her posture pulled tighter. “Because pretending it doesn’t exist is how people end up not making it. I’d rather hold it up. Say, here. This happened. You’re not the only one.”

Royce’s jaw twitched. He looked away.

They walked to the next photo. A woman on a porch, her hands clenched in her lap. A baby blanket beside her, empty.

Royce cleared his throat. “Your sister... the one in the box picture. Was she older or younger?”

Effie’s eyes didn’t leave the frame. “Younger.”

He nodded once. “I get it.”

Effie turned to him, really turned.

“I know,” she said.

He shrugged, but it was stiff.

Another beat passed.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he said.

They didn’t move from the gallery for a long time. Just stood there, two people who didn’t know how to explain what they’d lost. But knew, somehow, the other already understood.

The silence between them held. But this time, it felt like something living. Something whole.

~~~~~~~~~~

Poochie saw her by accident.

Natalia was coming out of her apartment building, talking to someone he didn’t recognize—some square in a hoodie with a notebook under his arm. She laughed at something the guy said, touching his elbow like she used to touch his. It was a small thing, fleeting. But it stayed with Poochie like a stone in his shoe. By the time she looked in his direction, he was already walking away.

That night, he showed up to the meet late. And drunk.

The spot was an abandoned garage on 17th and Myrtle, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw eyes if they moved quick and didn’t act stupid. Meech was already there, pacing near the back wall, arms folded tight across his chest. Shayla sat on the hood of her car, scrolling on her phone. A black duffel rested at her feet.

“You good?” she asked when Poochie stumbled out of his car.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” he mumbled, swinging the door shut too hard.

Meech clocked his stagger immediately. “Man, you been drinking?”

Poochie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t nobody ask you that.”

Meech took a step closer, voice low. “I’m asking now.”

Poochie laughed, loud and bitter. “Oh, so you the boss now?”

“The fuck you mean, nigga? I’ve always been the fucking boss.”

Shayla stood, watching the exchange. The air between them was tight.

“I seen Royce earlier,” Poochie said suddenly, his tone shifting. “Just out here walking around campus like he ain’t got no dirt on him. Like he clean.”

Meech didn’t respond.

Poochie sniffed hard. “He think just ‘cause he wearin’ purple and gold he untouchable. But he not. He not better than us.”

“Man, nobody said he was,” Meech said, trying to keep his voice even.

“But you act like it,” Poochie snapped. “Y’all let him be around everything, knowing damn well he ain’t built for this.”

“He ain’t in it,” Shayla said sharply. “That was the point. You the one acting out of pocket.”

“Whatever.” Poochie kicked a rock across the concrete floor, the sound echoing.

That’s when they heard it—tires crunching gravel outside. Fast.

Meech’s head snapped toward the noise. Shayla reached for the bag.

Two cars rolled into view. Blacked-out SUVs. Too clean. Too quiet.

“Shit,” Meech hissed. “That’s them.”

“Cops?” Shayla asked, already backing toward her car.

Meech didn’t answer. He was already moving.

Poochie just stood there, staring at the headlights like they owed him something. It took Shayla yanking him by the arm to snap him out of it.

“Get your dumb ass in the car,” she barked.

They peeled off into the night, scattered and rattled. The drop was a bust. The bag stayed behind.

And as the flashing lights flooded the empty garage, Poochie sat in Shayla’s passenger seat, silent now, head pressed to the window. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything.

But the damage was done.

Meech wouldn’t forget.

[Captain Canada]

Dirt naps on sale - two for one

[Soapy]

what is poochie's origin again lmao