Spilled Milk
Roni opened the door with her mouth already going.
“Well look who decided we’re worth a visit.”
Royce half-smiled, bracing himself. He stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon cleaner and leftover gumbo drifting in from the kitchen.
“I been busy,” he said.
Roni rolled her eyes so hard it was almost theatrical. “Right. Too busy to text your little sister back but not too busy to be on TV.”
Julian, toddling barefoot in a onesie with mismatched socks, squealed and ran full-speed into Royce’s leg, hugging him like a padded missile.
“Ro Ro!”
Royce grunted, then scooped the boy up with one arm. “What’s up, man?”
Julian beamed, already pointing toward the kitchen. “Mac-an-cheese!”
“You know what it is,” Tyrell’s voice called from inside.
Rana appeared behind him, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her locs tied back, a hint of softness under her usual calm. “Food’s almost done. You staying or just dropping by so Roni doesn’t file a missing person’s report?”
Roni grinned and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “He owes me. Big time.”
Royce let Julian down gently. “What I owe you now?”
Roni folded her arms. “You gonna buy me a car next year when you go pro?”
Royce scoffed. “I got you either way—even though I’m stuck here another year.”
Roni raised an eyebrow. “You act like you didn’t choose that.”
That shut him up.
Rana glanced at him, saying nothing. Tyrell called from the kitchen again, “Y’all coming to eat or should I bring it to you like y’all’re royalty?”
They gathered around the dining table—a bit cramped, chairs mismatched, the table itself covered with a plastic runner full of old sauce stains and water rings. Plates stacked with baked chicken, mac and cheese, green beans, and cornbread. Julian insisted on sitting next to Royce, who helped him with his cup every two minutes.
Conversation buzzed.
Roni talked about a dance team audition coming up. Tyrell told a story about a guy at work who got stuck in a piperack. Rana laughed once—soft, real.
Royce didn’t say much. He nodded. Chewed. Smiled when expected.
He felt out of place in a room that used to feel like home.
Then Julian reached across the table for a second roll and knocked his juice clean over—right into Royce’s lap.
The cold splash made Royce jolt back.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing his chair out fast, napkin already soaking uselessly against his sweats.
Tyrell laughed. “Ooooh, that ain’t coming out.”
Julian froze, then looked at Royce with wide eyes, unsure if he was in trouble.
Roni snorted. “That’s what you get for going ghost.”
Even Rana cracked a smile. “You alright, Ro?”
Royce didn’t smile. Not really. “Yeah.”
He dabbed at his pants, but his jaw was clenched.
Later, after the plates had been scraped and cleared, after Tyrell had gone to rock Julian to sleep and Roni disappeared into her room with TikTok on full blast, Royce stood alone in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms folded.
Rana came in quietly, carrying two glasses and a pitcher of water. She poured without asking.
“You gonna keep showing up like this?”
Royce blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you’re doing us a favor.”
He didn’t respond.
Rana handed him a glass. “You got something going on. I get it. But you think you’re the only one tired?”
Royce looked away. “I am tired.”
She nodded. “Good. Get some rest then.”
He frowned. “That’s not what I—”
“Ro.” Her voice dropped low, the way it used to when she was breaking up his fights with Romeo. “You got people who care about you that are tired, too. Tired of wondering if you’re gonna show up. Tired of watching you disappear into yourself and act like it’s strength.”
He looked at her finally.
Her eyes were soft, but firm. “You don’t gotta be perfect to come home.”
Royce stared at his glass, then took a long sip.
“I hear you.”
Rana didn’t push further.
She just nodded and reached for a dish towel.
And Royce, for the first time in months, let himself stay in the room a little longer than he had to.
~~~~~~~~~~
The classroom lights were too bright, the hum of the projector buzzing in the corner like an anxious thought no one could shake. Effie sat near the back, one foot tucked under her chair, the other bouncing lightly, heel against tile. Her fingers curled around the edge of her portfolio case resting across her lap.
It was presentation day—one of those student-led critiques in her photography seminar where everyone took turns showing their work and pretending to listen. The professor, a lean, soft-spoken man with glasses that always slid down his nose, had been moving clockwise through the room.
Effie was next.
She knew it before he said her name.
“Josefina?”
Only her professors ever used her full name.
Effie stood slowly, smoothing the crease of her sweatshirt with one hand as she walked to the front of the room. She didn’t bring a USB or slideshow. Just one mounted print, already waiting on the easel beside the projector screen.
She pulled the cloth from it with a quiet breath.
The photograph was simple: a pair of worn pink ballet slippers, toes frayed, ribbons unraveled, laid softly on a wood floor with warm light slicing in from a window. There was no body in the shot. No dancer. Just the ghosts of motion.
Effie turned to face the room. Twenty eyes, more or less, blinked back at her. Some curious. Some distracted. One kid near the window scrolled silently on his phone under the table.
She cleared her throat.
“These were my sister’s.”
She didn’t say “Paz.” She didn’t say when. She didn’t say how.
She didn’t have to.
The air thinned.
“She danced in them until the sole gave out. Literally,” Effie said, a small, mirthless curve to her lips. “Then she kept them. Said they felt more like her than her own skin did.”
She let that sit. No one moved.
Effie’s eyes hovered near the corner of the room. Not at anyone. Just somewhere safe.
“They were in her closet when we packed her stuff,” she said, voice even, but quieter now. “She wasn’t a dancer anymore by then. She hadn’t been for a long time.”
Silence again.
“That's all.”
The professor looked like he might say something, then stopped. He gave a slight nod.
Effie stepped back from the easel, returning to her seat without waiting for feedback. No one clapped. It wasn’t that kind of moment.
She slid back into her chair, pulled her hoodie over her head, and fixed her gaze on the floor.
No one said a word for a long time.
But for the first time that semester, they all really saw the photo.
~~~~~~~~~~
The hallway outside the lecture room was mostly empty now—just the scrape of chairs being dragged back into place and the low murmur of a study group forming at the other end. Toni stood by the vending machine, her backpack slipping off one shoulder, her phone in one hand, untouched. Her thumb hovered over the screen, screen still lit, but she hadn’t typed anything. Not yet.
Keisha leaned against the wall beside her, sipping an iced coffee and squinting at her planner. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor’s cart squeaked as it rolled past.
“You good?” Keisha asked, not looking up.
Toni blinked and nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the truth.
Keisha hummed in response and made a note in her planner. “Same.”
Toni shifted her weight, pulled the strap of her bag up higher, then let it fall again. She didn’t know why her chest felt so tight. The class hadn’t been hard. Nothing had happened. Not really.
But she felt it anyway—this strange pull in her throat like words were trying to rise and her jaw wouldn’t open wide enough to let them through.
Keisha tossed her empty cup into the trash and stretched her arms overhead. “Deshawn picking you up?”
Toni shook her head. “Nah. I’m walking.”
“Cool. I’ll head with—”
Toni turned suddenly. “Hey… can I ask you something?”
Keisha paused mid-step. “Yeah. Course.”
Toni stared at the floor for a beat, then looked up.
“Do you think people ever just leave and never tell anybody why?”
The words came out quieter than she meant. She hadn’t even realized she was going to ask until they were already between them.
Keisha’s brows lifted a little, but she didn’t laugh. Didn’t ask for context.
She just nodded. “Yeah.”
She said it like it was fact. Like she knew people who had. Maybe had thought about it herself.
They stood there a second longer. Neither of them said anything else.
Toni nodded back, like that was enough, and Keisha adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder.
“You wanna walk?” she asked.
Toni hesitated. “No, I think I’m gonna stay here a little longer.”
Keisha didn’t push. “Alright. See you next class.”
“Yeah.”
She waited until Keisha’s footsteps faded before turning back to the vending machine, not even seeing it anymore.
She wasn’t thinking about snacks or classes or her walk home.
She was thinking about what it might feel like to disappear.
And whether silence could count as a reason.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Before the Fall
The Union was busy in the way it always was in early spring—sunlight leaking in through high windows, sneakers squeaking faintly against linoleum floors, people half-laughing too loud over half-finished smoothies. Royce sat at a table near the back with Earl and Jay, shoulders loose, hoodie halfway unzipped from the morning warmth that hadn’t quite settled into the air yet.
Jay had a protein bar in one hand, twirling it like a pointer. “Spring install’s gonna be ass if Coach keeps running zone drops like it’s still 2020.”
Earl chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody trying to get cooked in curl flats all over again. You remember that shit against Auburn?”
“I was watching from the sideline,” Royce said dryly.
“Lucky bastard,” Earl muttered.
Royce smirked, but it was faint—more reflex than joy. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes occasionally drifting toward the big front doors like he expected someone to walk through at any minute. He wasn’t listening as much as he was sitting inside the noise.
Students passed by in twos and threes, some recognizing him, some not. A few slowed down enough to say something.
“Yo, Royce! Glad you stayed, man.”
“Next year’s the one. Appreciate you.”
Royce gave small nods, raised his hand once or twice. Nothing big. Nothing loud.
It was the same script, different voices.
Earl nudged him once the fourth person stopped to say, “Thanks for coming back, we need you.”
“You gonna sign autographs too or what?”
Royce shook his head, but didn’t respond.
Jay glanced at him, more curious now. “You good?”
“Yeah.” Royce shifted in his seat. “Just tired.”
They let it hang.
That’s when he saw her.
Effie was crossing the main floor, a notebook tucked under her arm, her hair catching the light as she moved with purpose—like someone always headed somewhere she meant to be. She wore those same boots that scuffed a little when she walked too fast, and Royce watched the way she stopped when she noticed him.
Just for a second.
She didn’t smile at first. Just walked closer, slow and deliberate, like she wasn’t quite sure if she was intruding.
Then, when she was close enough, she asked softly, “So, you’re staying?”
Royce straightened in his chair. “Yeah.”
He studied her face for a beat. Then added, “You were right.”
She smiled now—not wide, but genuine, like she appreciated being told something she already knew.
“I usually am.”
He nodded toward the empty chair beside him. “You wanna sit?”
Effie looked down at it, then back at him. Her expression didn’t shift much, but something in her eyes flickered—regret, maybe. Or restraint.
“I hope you do more than stay,” she said.
Then she turned and walked away, the click of her boots swallowed by the buzz of students reentering the room.
Royce sat still, not looking at Jay or Earl or anyone now. His hands came to rest on the table, fingers twitching once, then settling.
“Yo,” Jay said after a long pause. “Ol’ girl always speak in riddles?”
Royce didn’t answer.
Because it hadn’t felt like a riddle.
It had felt like a dare.
~~~~~~~~~~
The crowd inside the Pete Maravich Assembly Center buzzed with the jittery energy of a close game—the kind where the lead kept flipping every possession and the student section had half-sat, half-stood for the entire second half. LSU’s band pounded through the floor during timeouts, and gold foam fingers wobbled above a sea of sweatshirted arms.
Alix stood in the aisle with her phone in hand, scanning the QR code on the jumbotron for attendance credit.
“Y’all scan it yet?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the arena noise.
Ashlee leaned in, clicking through her phone. “Got it. That’s what, like, twenty points?”
“Twenty-five if you stay the whole game,” Simone added, already halfway through her nachos.
Madi rolled her eyes. “That still won’t get us front row. Everybody’s out here point-chasing.”
Alix slid her phone into her jacket pocket. “We just need enough to stay above the cutoff. Doesn’t have to be pretty.”
The football lottery was always ruthless. There were never enough student tickets to go around—not for the home games that mattered, and definitely not after the year LSU had just finished. Pasadena hadn’t ended with a trophy, but it had ended with momentum. And now everybody on campus wanted in on the next chapter.
Ashlee nudged her shoulder. “Still worth it. You know fall’s gonna be crazy. Imagine being there at night after a Bama win.”
“Assuming we even get in,” Madi muttered.
They all laughed, but Alix didn’t.
…
The buzzer sounded. LSU by three. The crowd erupted, students high-fiving strangers and jumping in place. But Alix barely flinched.
They funneled toward the exits in a wave of gold and purple, a mix of sweatshirts and gameday jackets and breathless conversations about missed dunks and refs with vendettas.
Outside, the air hit cold. Sharp enough to make her zip her coat higher.
They walked together toward the parking deck, but Alix fell a few steps behind as they reached the crosswalk. There, across the street, stood Tiger Stadium.
Silent. Massive. Steeped in floodlights and memory.
Her feet slowed.
The stadium looked the same—gargantuan and unbothered. But to Alix, it was something else entirely now. A place with ghosts in its shadows. A place where she'd sat in the stands and watched herself become unrecognizable. Not all at once. Just slowly, every week, in small moments that built up until even cheering started to feel performative.
“Alix?”
Ashlee’s voice snapped her back.
Alix blinked, then looked away from the stadium and caught up with the group, falling back into stride like nothing had happened.
She didn’t say anything.
Just kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The flyer took Arianna less than ten minutes to make.
White text against a grainy black background, the words a little raw around the edges like they’d been spoken before they were typed. At the center, a dim spotlight washed over a microphone tilted on its stand—no face, no audience, just the ghost of a voice waiting to land.
“Open Mic Night: Speak. Heal. Be Heard.”
Thursday @ 7PM | Cypress Coffeehouse | Free to attend.
Below that, in smaller font:
Hosted by UL Spoken Word Collective.
She stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the “Post to Story” button. The caption she typed underneath was short—cool, almost too casual:
“If you know, you know. If you feel, show up.”
It didn’t scream anything. It didn’t beg.
It just offered.
Arianna had learned to value subtle things lately—quiet invitations, soft gestures. The kind that didn’t draw blood but still cut deep enough to be felt.
She scrolled to the “Tag People” prompt.
Paused.
Her thumb floated over the names in her recents—friends from UL, a few familiar faces from the collective, two girls she’d exchanged poems with at the last event who told her her piece made them cry in the best way.
And then she typed:
Toni.
No heart emoji. No nickname. Just Toni.
The tag auto-filled, her cousin’s username still there, like it had never left, even if the closeness had.
Arianna tapped it.
Didn’t second-guess.
Didn’t add anything else.
Then she posted it.
The story went live.
The circle around her profile turned pink.
She set the phone down, face down on her bed, and leaned back against her pillow. The lamp by her desk glowed warm against the fading light through the blinds, and the room smelled faintly like rosemary and vanilla from the candle she forgot to blow out. Her laptop was open, half an essay blinking at her in a Google Doc. She stared at the screen for a while, then closed the lid.
Her fingers played absently with the edge of the blanket, thoughts pacing.
She hadn’t texted Toni in weeks.
Hadn’t seen her in longer than that.
Not since Christmas, really. And even that had felt… restrained. Like they were both performing some faded version of closeness for family tradition’s sake. Smiles without spark. Inside jokes with half the life in them.
Arianna didn’t blame her.
Didn’t blame herself, either.
That was the point of this.
She wasn’t trying to fix things in a DM. She wasn’t asking Toni to talk about Deshawn, or the way she barely posted anything personal anymore, or how Arianna had started seeing her cousin’s silences for what they were: tiredness disguised as peace.
No.
This wasn’t pressure.
This was a crack in the door.
A “Hey. If you’re looking for a way out of wherever you are right now, there’s a stool with your name on it. Or a chair in the back where you don’t have to say a word.”
A gesture Toni could ignore without guilt.
But not without knowing.
An hour later, Arianna picked her phone back up.
There was no message from Toni. No heart react. No nothing.
But the tag had been viewed.
That was enough—for now.
Arianna let her phone drop beside her, and stared up at the ceiling, letting the soft hum of her fan spin through the stillness. She didn't need immediate proof that the message had landed. She just needed to keep building the world she wanted to live in.
If Toni was ready, she'd find her way there.
And if not—Arianna would leave the light on anyway.
The Union was busy in the way it always was in early spring—sunlight leaking in through high windows, sneakers squeaking faintly against linoleum floors, people half-laughing too loud over half-finished smoothies. Royce sat at a table near the back with Earl and Jay, shoulders loose, hoodie halfway unzipped from the morning warmth that hadn’t quite settled into the air yet.
Jay had a protein bar in one hand, twirling it like a pointer. “Spring install’s gonna be ass if Coach keeps running zone drops like it’s still 2020.”
Earl chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody trying to get cooked in curl flats all over again. You remember that shit against Auburn?”
“I was watching from the sideline,” Royce said dryly.
“Lucky bastard,” Earl muttered.
Royce smirked, but it was faint—more reflex than joy. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes occasionally drifting toward the big front doors like he expected someone to walk through at any minute. He wasn’t listening as much as he was sitting inside the noise.
Students passed by in twos and threes, some recognizing him, some not. A few slowed down enough to say something.
“Yo, Royce! Glad you stayed, man.”
“Next year’s the one. Appreciate you.”
Royce gave small nods, raised his hand once or twice. Nothing big. Nothing loud.
It was the same script, different voices.
Earl nudged him once the fourth person stopped to say, “Thanks for coming back, we need you.”
“You gonna sign autographs too or what?”
Royce shook his head, but didn’t respond.
Jay glanced at him, more curious now. “You good?”
“Yeah.” Royce shifted in his seat. “Just tired.”
They let it hang.
That’s when he saw her.
Effie was crossing the main floor, a notebook tucked under her arm, her hair catching the light as she moved with purpose—like someone always headed somewhere she meant to be. She wore those same boots that scuffed a little when she walked too fast, and Royce watched the way she stopped when she noticed him.
Just for a second.
She didn’t smile at first. Just walked closer, slow and deliberate, like she wasn’t quite sure if she was intruding.
Then, when she was close enough, she asked softly, “So, you’re staying?”
Royce straightened in his chair. “Yeah.”
He studied her face for a beat. Then added, “You were right.”
She smiled now—not wide, but genuine, like she appreciated being told something she already knew.
“I usually am.”
He nodded toward the empty chair beside him. “You wanna sit?”
Effie looked down at it, then back at him. Her expression didn’t shift much, but something in her eyes flickered—regret, maybe. Or restraint.
“I hope you do more than stay,” she said.
Then she turned and walked away, the click of her boots swallowed by the buzz of students reentering the room.
Royce sat still, not looking at Jay or Earl or anyone now. His hands came to rest on the table, fingers twitching once, then settling.
“Yo,” Jay said after a long pause. “Ol’ girl always speak in riddles?”
Royce didn’t answer.
Because it hadn’t felt like a riddle.
It had felt like a dare.
~~~~~~~~~~
The crowd inside the Pete Maravich Assembly Center buzzed with the jittery energy of a close game—the kind where the lead kept flipping every possession and the student section had half-sat, half-stood for the entire second half. LSU’s band pounded through the floor during timeouts, and gold foam fingers wobbled above a sea of sweatshirted arms.
Alix stood in the aisle with her phone in hand, scanning the QR code on the jumbotron for attendance credit.
“Y’all scan it yet?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the arena noise.
Ashlee leaned in, clicking through her phone. “Got it. That’s what, like, twenty points?”
“Twenty-five if you stay the whole game,” Simone added, already halfway through her nachos.
Madi rolled her eyes. “That still won’t get us front row. Everybody’s out here point-chasing.”
Alix slid her phone into her jacket pocket. “We just need enough to stay above the cutoff. Doesn’t have to be pretty.”
The football lottery was always ruthless. There were never enough student tickets to go around—not for the home games that mattered, and definitely not after the year LSU had just finished. Pasadena hadn’t ended with a trophy, but it had ended with momentum. And now everybody on campus wanted in on the next chapter.
Ashlee nudged her shoulder. “Still worth it. You know fall’s gonna be crazy. Imagine being there at night after a Bama win.”
“Assuming we even get in,” Madi muttered.
They all laughed, but Alix didn’t.
…
The buzzer sounded. LSU by three. The crowd erupted, students high-fiving strangers and jumping in place. But Alix barely flinched.
They funneled toward the exits in a wave of gold and purple, a mix of sweatshirts and gameday jackets and breathless conversations about missed dunks and refs with vendettas.
Outside, the air hit cold. Sharp enough to make her zip her coat higher.
They walked together toward the parking deck, but Alix fell a few steps behind as they reached the crosswalk. There, across the street, stood Tiger Stadium.
Silent. Massive. Steeped in floodlights and memory.
Her feet slowed.
The stadium looked the same—gargantuan and unbothered. But to Alix, it was something else entirely now. A place with ghosts in its shadows. A place where she'd sat in the stands and watched herself become unrecognizable. Not all at once. Just slowly, every week, in small moments that built up until even cheering started to feel performative.
“Alix?”
Ashlee’s voice snapped her back.
Alix blinked, then looked away from the stadium and caught up with the group, falling back into stride like nothing had happened.
She didn’t say anything.
Just kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~
The flyer took Arianna less than ten minutes to make.
White text against a grainy black background, the words a little raw around the edges like they’d been spoken before they were typed. At the center, a dim spotlight washed over a microphone tilted on its stand—no face, no audience, just the ghost of a voice waiting to land.
“Open Mic Night: Speak. Heal. Be Heard.”
Thursday @ 7PM | Cypress Coffeehouse | Free to attend.
Below that, in smaller font:
Hosted by UL Spoken Word Collective.
She stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the “Post to Story” button. The caption she typed underneath was short—cool, almost too casual:
“If you know, you know. If you feel, show up.”
It didn’t scream anything. It didn’t beg.
It just offered.
Arianna had learned to value subtle things lately—quiet invitations, soft gestures. The kind that didn’t draw blood but still cut deep enough to be felt.
She scrolled to the “Tag People” prompt.
Paused.
Her thumb floated over the names in her recents—friends from UL, a few familiar faces from the collective, two girls she’d exchanged poems with at the last event who told her her piece made them cry in the best way.
And then she typed:
Toni.
No heart emoji. No nickname. Just Toni.
The tag auto-filled, her cousin’s username still there, like it had never left, even if the closeness had.
Arianna tapped it.
Didn’t second-guess.
Didn’t add anything else.
Then she posted it.
The story went live.
The circle around her profile turned pink.
She set the phone down, face down on her bed, and leaned back against her pillow. The lamp by her desk glowed warm against the fading light through the blinds, and the room smelled faintly like rosemary and vanilla from the candle she forgot to blow out. Her laptop was open, half an essay blinking at her in a Google Doc. She stared at the screen for a while, then closed the lid.
Her fingers played absently with the edge of the blanket, thoughts pacing.
She hadn’t texted Toni in weeks.
Hadn’t seen her in longer than that.
Not since Christmas, really. And even that had felt… restrained. Like they were both performing some faded version of closeness for family tradition’s sake. Smiles without spark. Inside jokes with half the life in them.
Arianna didn’t blame her.
Didn’t blame herself, either.
That was the point of this.
She wasn’t trying to fix things in a DM. She wasn’t asking Toni to talk about Deshawn, or the way she barely posted anything personal anymore, or how Arianna had started seeing her cousin’s silences for what they were: tiredness disguised as peace.
No.
This wasn’t pressure.
This was a crack in the door.
A “Hey. If you’re looking for a way out of wherever you are right now, there’s a stool with your name on it. Or a chair in the back where you don’t have to say a word.”
A gesture Toni could ignore without guilt.
But not without knowing.
An hour later, Arianna picked her phone back up.
There was no message from Toni. No heart react. No nothing.
But the tag had been viewed.
That was enough—for now.
Arianna let her phone drop beside her, and stared up at the ceiling, letting the soft hum of her fan spin through the stillness. She didn't need immediate proof that the message had landed. She just needed to keep building the world she wanted to live in.
If Toni was ready, she'd find her way there.
And if not—Arianna would leave the light on anyway.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16575
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
So it's Elfie turn now. salute, sis.
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djp73
- Posts: 13183
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
"I'm a self-destructive landslide if you want to be the hill." Royce to Effie, probably.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Terms and Conditions
Poochie was pacing, his slides kicking up dust from the patchy driveway out front, a half-finished Newport dangling from his fingers and twitching every time he spoke. The sun was sliding down behind the rooftops, painting the sky in angry purples and washed-out golds. It was humid in that way that made everything feel heavier than it needed to.
Shayla sat on the hood of her sister’s car, arms crossed tight, eyes following Poochie like she was watching a child throw a tantrum she didn’t have the patience to entertain. Her bun was pulled high, edges laid, hoops swinging with every slight tilt of her head.
“I’m just saying,” Poochie snapped, “you had one job.”
“I never said I could get him to do it,” Shayla replied, calm but clipped.
Poochie scoffed, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t have to say it. Meech told you, and you didn’t say no. That’s the same thing.”
Shayla rolled her eyes. “You got it twisted. Meech told me to try. I did. He wasn’t going for it.”
“He trusts you though, right? Or was all that talk just for the mirror?” Poochie circled closer now, gesturing wide. “You over there laid up with him like he not just some ball player with his name on a lease and his head in the clouds.”
She didn’t flinch. “He’s not stupid.”
“He don’t gotta be stupid,” Poochie shot back. “He just gotta be useful.”
Shayla slid off the hood, standing now. Her voice dropped a register. “That’s why this whole plan’s gonna fall apart—because y’all assuming shit.”
“You defending him now?” he asked, stepping in.
“No. I’m telling you he clocked the setup before I even mentioned his name.”
“Then lie better,” Poochie snapped, eyes narrowing.
The screen door creaked open behind them.
Meech stepped out onto the porch, hoodie on despite the heat, blunt tucked behind his ear, his expression unreadable.
Poochie turned toward him, arms already lifted in frustration. “Yo, I’m trying to tell her—she not doing what you asked.”
“I asked her to get it done,” Meech said evenly. “Not babysit it.”
“She said he wouldn’t sign.”
Shayla crossed her arms again, her voice quiet but firm. “I said he’s not dumb. He knew what I was doing before I finished my sentence.”
Meech stepped off the porch slowly, coming down the concrete steps like gravity didn’t apply to him. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word sliced clean.
“You fuck this up, Pooch, you not just crashing your shit,” he said. “You crashing mine. That means everything I built, everything I positioned, gone. You ready to answer for that?”
Poochie looked down. “It ain’t like that.”
“It better not be. Lil’ cousin or not.”
Meech looked to Shayla.
“Text him,” he said. “Friday. Same time. Just get him there. Don’t push it. Don’t bait it. Just get him there. That’s it.”
Shayla didn’t move.
“You hear me?” Meech asked again.
She pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
She opened the thread with Royce.
The last message from him was still unread. From a week ago.
Her thumb paused.
Then she locked the phone and slid it into her back pocket.
“I’ll think about it.”
Meech stared at her for a long beat. Then turned, walking back up the steps without another word.
The screen door creaked, then slammed.
Poochie watched her like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. Not now.
Shayla didn’t offer him a look. Just walked toward the house, her hoops catching the last sliver of dying sun.
Behind her, the streetlights buzzed to life. One flickered. Then held.
~~~~~~~~~~
The weight room was quiet at 6:12 a.m.—not silent, but quiet in the way of sacred places before the crowd arrived. Fluorescent lights buzzed low overhead, the rubber floors still damp from the mop that had just finished sweeping across them. The clang of metal plates hadn’t started yet. No music. No shouting. Just the steady hum of breath and early discipline.
Royce stood near the squat rack, hoodie over his head, one AirPod in. Not playing anything. Just there to give him the illusion of solitude.
He’d already foam-rolled, already cracked his back on the mat, and now he was standing, arms overhead, rotating slowly through a shoulder stretch. The tension pulled deep into the joint like it was asking to be remembered.
Outside the glass doors, morning light was beginning to stir. But in here, it could’ve still been midnight. Time didn’t mean much when you were trying to outwork a ghost.
He moved through his stretches without hurry. Down into a hip opener. Back into a banded ankle mobility drill. Every movement was deliberate, slow enough to feel. There was no music blasting, no cameras rolling—just the sound of his own bones learning to trust the day.
Two offensive linemen walked in, juniors, their laughter echoing into the space. They nodded at Royce. He gave a small one back but didn’t break pace.
They peeled off toward the free breakfast corner—hard-boiled eggs, oatmeal, bananas lined up in plastic bins under a handwritten sign that said FUEL UP BEFORE YOU BREAK DOWN.
A couple more guys trickled in. A long snapper. A freshman DB. Someone still yawning.
Royce was mid-rep in a single-leg Romanian deadlift when he heard the voice.
“Damn, y’all see this?”
It was Dre—sophomore corner, loud in the way that only kids who hadn’t been humbled yet knew how to be.
He was talking to no one in particular. Just loud enough to be heard.
“If an OG’s in here already, what the fuck are we doing still chewing bananas?”
A few of the other players chuckled, a little embarrassed, a little energized.
Royce didn’t say anything.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t even look their way.
He just picked up the barbell.
Loaded his plates.
And kept going.
Deadlifts. Four sets. Slow tempo. Controlled descent.
He wasn’t here to set an example.
He was here because this was the only place where things made sense lately. Where the bar didn’t lie. Where reps didn’t change their mind about you halfway through. Where weight only moved if you did.
He heard them start to gather behind him. The shuffle of footsteps heading toward racks. The low sound of chalk rubbing into hands.
Someone hit play on a speaker—NBA YoungBoy blaring from the corner, bass climbing into the atmosphere like smoke.
Royce reset at the bar, head down, breath slow.
He didn’t smile.
But he noticed.
And when he pulled that bar from the floor—smooth, tight, unflinching—he didn’t do it for the cameras.
He did it because this is where he still knew who he was. Because if his name was gonna stay on jerseys, on headlines, on stories—then this was where that version of him started.
Not on the field.
Here. Before the sun.
When no one was watching.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was small—two bedrooms, beige walls, and a kitchen counter that doubled as both dining table and drop zone for junk mail. It was clean enough to pass inspection, messy enough to prove people lived there. Effie stood by the sink, hands still damp from rinsing out her coffee mug, when Kelsey walked in with that walk—tight shoulders, quick steps, like she’d been waiting to start something since the moment she got home.
Kelsey dropped her bag on the couch and started in before her shoes even came off.
“So you’re just not gonna say anything?”
Effie didn’t turn around. “About what?”
Kelsey threw up her hands. “About anything, Effie. You live here like you’re a damn ghost. You come and go. You make dinner and vanish into your room. You listen to everyone else’s shit, but God forbid someone asks what’s going on with you.”
Effie dried her hands slowly. “I didn’t know this was confession hour.”
“I’m serious.” Kelsey stepped closer, voice rising. “You always make it feel like we’re intruding just by caring. Like you’re above it or something.”
Effie turned around now, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s not what I do.”
“You sure? Because I can’t remember the last time you said anything that wasn’t a deflection or a one-liner or some poetic bullshit about someone else’s pain.”
Effie’s jaw tightened.
Kelsey kept going. “You walk around acting like you’re made of barbed wire and soft lighting, but I’m starting to think you’re just scared.”
There was a pause. Something sharp in the air. Then—
“Not everyone performs all the fucking time,” Effie snapped, louder than she meant to.
The silence that followed was immediate. Dense. Kelsey blinked, startled—not because Effie was loud, but because she’d finally cracked.
Effie pushed past her words now, breath shallow. “Some of us are trying to get through the day without unraveling in public. Some of us don’t need to narrate every wound just to prove we’re bleeding.”
Kelsey stood still, shoulders softening.
Effie shook her head, her voice breaking into something quieter. “I’m not a monologue, Kelsey. I’m a person.”
The room went still again.
Kelsey swallowed. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Effie said quickly, rubbing her palm against the back of her neck. “You’re not wrong. I just… I’m not ready.”
There was nothing poetic about it. Just truth. Uneven. Incomplete. Honest.
Kelsey nodded. “Okay.”
She didn’t ask more.
And Effie didn’t say more.
But that night, when Kelsey made dinner—pasta, plain, nothing fancy—she left a plate on the counter with Effie’s name on a sticky note. No questions. No apology. Just presence.
And for the first time in a long time, Effie didn’t eat in her room.
Poochie was pacing, his slides kicking up dust from the patchy driveway out front, a half-finished Newport dangling from his fingers and twitching every time he spoke. The sun was sliding down behind the rooftops, painting the sky in angry purples and washed-out golds. It was humid in that way that made everything feel heavier than it needed to.
Shayla sat on the hood of her sister’s car, arms crossed tight, eyes following Poochie like she was watching a child throw a tantrum she didn’t have the patience to entertain. Her bun was pulled high, edges laid, hoops swinging with every slight tilt of her head.
“I’m just saying,” Poochie snapped, “you had one job.”
“I never said I could get him to do it,” Shayla replied, calm but clipped.
Poochie scoffed, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t have to say it. Meech told you, and you didn’t say no. That’s the same thing.”
Shayla rolled her eyes. “You got it twisted. Meech told me to try. I did. He wasn’t going for it.”
“He trusts you though, right? Or was all that talk just for the mirror?” Poochie circled closer now, gesturing wide. “You over there laid up with him like he not just some ball player with his name on a lease and his head in the clouds.”
She didn’t flinch. “He’s not stupid.”
“He don’t gotta be stupid,” Poochie shot back. “He just gotta be useful.”
Shayla slid off the hood, standing now. Her voice dropped a register. “That’s why this whole plan’s gonna fall apart—because y’all assuming shit.”
“You defending him now?” he asked, stepping in.
“No. I’m telling you he clocked the setup before I even mentioned his name.”
“Then lie better,” Poochie snapped, eyes narrowing.
The screen door creaked open behind them.
Meech stepped out onto the porch, hoodie on despite the heat, blunt tucked behind his ear, his expression unreadable.
Poochie turned toward him, arms already lifted in frustration. “Yo, I’m trying to tell her—she not doing what you asked.”
“I asked her to get it done,” Meech said evenly. “Not babysit it.”
“She said he wouldn’t sign.”
Shayla crossed her arms again, her voice quiet but firm. “I said he’s not dumb. He knew what I was doing before I finished my sentence.”
Meech stepped off the porch slowly, coming down the concrete steps like gravity didn’t apply to him. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word sliced clean.
“You fuck this up, Pooch, you not just crashing your shit,” he said. “You crashing mine. That means everything I built, everything I positioned, gone. You ready to answer for that?”
Poochie looked down. “It ain’t like that.”
“It better not be. Lil’ cousin or not.”
Meech looked to Shayla.
“Text him,” he said. “Friday. Same time. Just get him there. Don’t push it. Don’t bait it. Just get him there. That’s it.”
Shayla didn’t move.
“You hear me?” Meech asked again.
She pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
She opened the thread with Royce.
The last message from him was still unread. From a week ago.
Her thumb paused.
Then she locked the phone and slid it into her back pocket.
“I’ll think about it.”
Meech stared at her for a long beat. Then turned, walking back up the steps without another word.
The screen door creaked, then slammed.
Poochie watched her like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. Not now.
Shayla didn’t offer him a look. Just walked toward the house, her hoops catching the last sliver of dying sun.
Behind her, the streetlights buzzed to life. One flickered. Then held.
~~~~~~~~~~
The weight room was quiet at 6:12 a.m.—not silent, but quiet in the way of sacred places before the crowd arrived. Fluorescent lights buzzed low overhead, the rubber floors still damp from the mop that had just finished sweeping across them. The clang of metal plates hadn’t started yet. No music. No shouting. Just the steady hum of breath and early discipline.
Royce stood near the squat rack, hoodie over his head, one AirPod in. Not playing anything. Just there to give him the illusion of solitude.
He’d already foam-rolled, already cracked his back on the mat, and now he was standing, arms overhead, rotating slowly through a shoulder stretch. The tension pulled deep into the joint like it was asking to be remembered.
Outside the glass doors, morning light was beginning to stir. But in here, it could’ve still been midnight. Time didn’t mean much when you were trying to outwork a ghost.
He moved through his stretches without hurry. Down into a hip opener. Back into a banded ankle mobility drill. Every movement was deliberate, slow enough to feel. There was no music blasting, no cameras rolling—just the sound of his own bones learning to trust the day.
Two offensive linemen walked in, juniors, their laughter echoing into the space. They nodded at Royce. He gave a small one back but didn’t break pace.
They peeled off toward the free breakfast corner—hard-boiled eggs, oatmeal, bananas lined up in plastic bins under a handwritten sign that said FUEL UP BEFORE YOU BREAK DOWN.
A couple more guys trickled in. A long snapper. A freshman DB. Someone still yawning.
Royce was mid-rep in a single-leg Romanian deadlift when he heard the voice.
“Damn, y’all see this?”
It was Dre—sophomore corner, loud in the way that only kids who hadn’t been humbled yet knew how to be.
He was talking to no one in particular. Just loud enough to be heard.
“If an OG’s in here already, what the fuck are we doing still chewing bananas?”
A few of the other players chuckled, a little embarrassed, a little energized.
Royce didn’t say anything.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t even look their way.
He just picked up the barbell.
Loaded his plates.
And kept going.
Deadlifts. Four sets. Slow tempo. Controlled descent.
He wasn’t here to set an example.
He was here because this was the only place where things made sense lately. Where the bar didn’t lie. Where reps didn’t change their mind about you halfway through. Where weight only moved if you did.
He heard them start to gather behind him. The shuffle of footsteps heading toward racks. The low sound of chalk rubbing into hands.
Someone hit play on a speaker—NBA YoungBoy blaring from the corner, bass climbing into the atmosphere like smoke.
Royce reset at the bar, head down, breath slow.
He didn’t smile.
But he noticed.
And when he pulled that bar from the floor—smooth, tight, unflinching—he didn’t do it for the cameras.
He did it because this is where he still knew who he was. Because if his name was gonna stay on jerseys, on headlines, on stories—then this was where that version of him started.
Not on the field.
Here. Before the sun.
When no one was watching.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was small—two bedrooms, beige walls, and a kitchen counter that doubled as both dining table and drop zone for junk mail. It was clean enough to pass inspection, messy enough to prove people lived there. Effie stood by the sink, hands still damp from rinsing out her coffee mug, when Kelsey walked in with that walk—tight shoulders, quick steps, like she’d been waiting to start something since the moment she got home.
Kelsey dropped her bag on the couch and started in before her shoes even came off.
“So you’re just not gonna say anything?”
Effie didn’t turn around. “About what?”
Kelsey threw up her hands. “About anything, Effie. You live here like you’re a damn ghost. You come and go. You make dinner and vanish into your room. You listen to everyone else’s shit, but God forbid someone asks what’s going on with you.”
Effie dried her hands slowly. “I didn’t know this was confession hour.”
“I’m serious.” Kelsey stepped closer, voice rising. “You always make it feel like we’re intruding just by caring. Like you’re above it or something.”
Effie turned around now, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s not what I do.”
“You sure? Because I can’t remember the last time you said anything that wasn’t a deflection or a one-liner or some poetic bullshit about someone else’s pain.”
Effie’s jaw tightened.
Kelsey kept going. “You walk around acting like you’re made of barbed wire and soft lighting, but I’m starting to think you’re just scared.”
There was a pause. Something sharp in the air. Then—
“Not everyone performs all the fucking time,” Effie snapped, louder than she meant to.
The silence that followed was immediate. Dense. Kelsey blinked, startled—not because Effie was loud, but because she’d finally cracked.
Effie pushed past her words now, breath shallow. “Some of us are trying to get through the day without unraveling in public. Some of us don’t need to narrate every wound just to prove we’re bleeding.”
Kelsey stood still, shoulders softening.
Effie shook her head, her voice breaking into something quieter. “I’m not a monologue, Kelsey. I’m a person.”
The room went still again.
Kelsey swallowed. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Effie said quickly, rubbing her palm against the back of her neck. “You’re not wrong. I just… I’m not ready.”
There was nothing poetic about it. Just truth. Uneven. Incomplete. Honest.
Kelsey nodded. “Okay.”
She didn’t ask more.
And Effie didn’t say more.
But that night, when Kelsey made dinner—pasta, plain, nothing fancy—she left a plate on the counter with Effie’s name on a sticky note. No questions. No apology. Just presence.
And for the first time in a long time, Effie didn’t eat in her room.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16575
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
lining him up!
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Slow Roll
The sky was softening, streaked with muted oranges and early violet, the kind of evening that made you walk slower without realizing it. Malik and Donovan took the long way home from practice—shoulder to shoulder, duffel bags swinging low, cleats clinking against the side pockets, their silence easy after two hours of drills and collisions.
They didn’t talk much during these walks. Didn’t have to. There was something sacred in the way their footsteps synced, in the crunch of gravel beneath worn sneakers, in the ache of limbs pushed to the edge.
The apartment building came into view—a squat, weather-worn complex tucked near the edge of campus. Faded stucco, cracked pavement, rust-colored stairwells. Someone had left a grill on the front lawn again, smoke rising in lazy spirals. Music spilled faintly from an open window upstairs—slow R&B with too much bass.
Donovan slowed when they reached the sidewalk out front.
Malik did too.
Donovan stretched his neck and exhaled, then looked up at the building like it was a checkpoint instead of home.
“Crazy how we used to think the League was the only way out,” he said.
Malik cracked a grin, not quite looking at him. “You mean the only way up.”
Donovan chuckled. “Same difference back then.”
Malik dropped his bag to the grass and sat down on the curb, elbows resting on his knees. The sweat on his skin was drying in the breeze, leaving a chill that crept through the back of his collar. He looked up at the sky—quiet, endless, slowly turning from lavender to indigo.
“Now I just want peace,” he said.
He didn’t mean it dramatically. He wasn’t trying to make a point. He just said it like it was finally okay to admit.
Donovan stayed standing, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah?”
Malik nodded. “Used to think peace came after everything. After the grind. After the combine. After you were somebody.”
He paused.
“But I think it’s quieter than that. Smaller.”
Donovan tilted his head. “Like what?”
“Like waking up next to someone who makes you feel like you ain’t gotta prove shit,” Malik said. “Like making dinner with Jaz. No TV, no noise. Just… her talking ‘bout something I forgot to listen to ‘cause I’m staring at her too long.”
Donovan smirked. “That kind of peace?”
Malik smiled. “That kind.”
Donovan nodded, letting the silence return for a moment.
“Hell,” he said eventually, “I wouldn’t mind some of that.”
Malik bumped his fist lightly against Donovan’s leg. “It’s out there. Just might not come with a playbook.”
Donovan laughed, deep and real. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Malik stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder again. The porch light flickered above them.
“I’m thinking tacos,” he said. “You in?”
Donovan rubbed his jaw. “Only if we skip that sad-ass spot on Carson.”
“No promises,” Malik said, grinning. “I’m loyal to the struggle.”
And with that, they headed up the stairs—two players still wearing the game in their bodies, but slowly learning to leave it off the field. Learning that sometimes the way out isn’t always up.
Sometimes, it’s just quiet.
And earned.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet when Alix walked in, that end-of-day kind of quiet where the walls felt soft and the lighting too warm. She dropped her bag by the door, slipped off her flats, and unpinned her badge with a slow tug. Her head ached from staring at backlit floorplans for six hours, and her inbox still had three unread messages flagged urgent—all of which could wait.
She was halfway through pulling her hair out of its bun when the knock came.
Three quick taps.
Alix opened the door to find Co standing there in his dark blue scrubs, one pant leg bunched slightly over the top of his sneaker. He held a takeout bag in one hand and looked more tired than usual—but still steady, still watching her like she made him more grounded than undone.
“I brought dinner,” he said.
She leaned on the frame. “You’re gonna make this a habit?”
“Only if you keep forgetting to eat.”
Alix smiled faintly, then stepped aside to let him in.
They ate cross-legged on the living room rug, leaning back against the couch, containers spread out between them. He’d brought Thai—her go-to from the place near South Stadium, the one that always forgot the fortune cookies but never messed up the spice.
Conversation came easy. Co talked about his shift—chaotic but manageable. A kid who kept calling him “sir” even after he corrected her three times. An older woman who asked if he was single while getting her vitals taken. Alix, in turn, shared about a client who wanted a full living room redesign with a “Bayou Victorian aesthetic” and no clear idea what that meant.
“I Googled it and still don’t know,” she said.
“Sounds like a horror movie with antique furniture.”
Alix snorted, resting her container against her knee. “It might be.”
As the food disappeared, so did the urgency of the day. They sank into silence—not awkward, just settled. The TV was on but muted, showing some cooking competition with flames and flour and people shouting at each other in high definition.
Co shifted, resting one arm along the back of the couch, close but not touching. Alix could feel the heat of him beside her.
She turned to look at him just as he turned toward her.
There was a moment—brief but full.
A breath away from something unspoken.
Neither moved.
Not forward, not back.
Alix looked away first. “I should clean up.”
Co nodded and stood with her. He helped gather the containers, stacking them neatly and slipping the plastic bags back inside one another. When they reached the door, he hesitated.
She opened it slowly.
“Thanks for the food,” she said.
“Anytime.”
Then, just before he stepped into the hallway, she reached out and touched his wrist.
Light. Quick. Deliberate.
Her fingers rested there just a second longer than necessary. His eyes dropped to where she touched him, then lifted to meet hers again.
He didn’t say a word.
She didn’t either.
He walked out.
And the door closed behind him.
Alix leaned against it, hand still warm from where she’d touched him, thumb brushing absentmindedly across the inside of her wrist. The air felt heavier now—thicker, like it had absorbed everything they hadn’t said.
She was still there, still quiet, when the other door opened.
Madi walked into the living room with a water bottle in one hand and her gym bag hanging off her shoulder. She paused when she saw Alix standing at the door, saw the takeout boxes on the counter, saw the light in Alix’s face that hadn’t been there earlier.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Was that your rebound,” she asked, “or your replacement?”
Alix didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smirk.
Just looked over at her calmly and said, “Neither.”
Then added, after a long beat, “Maybe.”
Madi raised an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
Alix pushed away from the door and headed toward the kitchen, voice low but certain.
“It’s honest.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun had just slipped behind the oak trees lining the edge of the quad, casting everything in that late dusk wash of gold and blue. Royce stepped out of the football facility, his hoodie damp at the chest, the strap of his backpack digging into one shoulder. The weight of his workout clung to him, but it wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that settled—just something that buzzed under the surface, unresolved.
He crossed the sidewalk without really thinking, letting habit guide his feet, and that’s when he saw her.
Effie.
She was walking up the path, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, tote bag slung low, curls catching the last bit of light like haloed shadows. Her stride was steady, but her eyes weren’t on anything in particular. Half in the world, half somewhere else.
“Effie,” he called.
She stopped, turned.
She didn’t smile, not exactly, but her face opened a little when she saw him. “Hey.”
“You tryna get food?”
She looked down at her phone, then back at him. “I’ve got a couple calls—some school stuff. But I’ll have time later.”
He nodded. “Cool.”
That was all it took.
…
Later, just after nine, she knocked once, soft and quick, before letting herself in.
Royce was already on the couch, hoodie still on, the TV flickering silently across the room. He didn’t bother to get up—just tilted his head toward the door, his eyes meeting hers briefly as she stepped in.
The apartment smelled faintly of clean laundry and the faint spice of something microwaved an hour ago. It was dark, save for the warm amber of a floor lamp near the kitchen and the soft gray-blue glow coming from the screen. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was waiting.
Effie set her tote down by the door with the quiet grace of someone who didn’t want to wake anything—an old instinct. Her boots made a soft thump against the wall as she slid them off, then padded toward the couch in thick socks.
She sat in the same spot she took the last time now: the far corner, feet tucked under her, arms folded close like she was trying to shrink, but not disappear. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Royce offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted, unscrewing the cap just to hold it in her hands.
The two of them sat there, not quite facing each other, both staring toward the screen even though neither one was paying attention. A replay of an old bowl game looped in the background, the audio off, players in fast motion celebrating something they couldn’t hear.
Every few seconds, Royce shifted slightly—leaning forward, then back, adjusting his arms. Not restless. Just present.
Effie curled tighter into the couch, her thumb slowly running along the seam of the bottle label. She wasn’t watching the TV at all. Her eyes were somewhere else.
Royce broke the silence first. His voice was quiet, almost like he didn’t want it to reach too far.
“What did you mean… that doing nothing can change your life?”
Effie didn’t look at him.
She blinked, then focused on a spot on the floor. Her shoulders rose slightly with the breath she took, and when she let it out, it was like something small was loosening inside her. Not falling apart—just softening.
She spoke without drama, without buildup.
“I left my little sister at a party once.”
Her voice was even. Not fragile, not trembling. Just… neutral. Like she had learned to sand the edges off the memory so it wouldn’t cut every time it touched air.
Royce turned his head a little, watching her now.
She didn’t continue. Didn’t clarify. Didn’t offer a name or a year or what happened after. The sentence just… sat there. Like a door barely cracked open.
Royce leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He nodded once, absorbing it, not trying to fit it into a story.
“Yeah,” he said, the word landing like understanding. “I get that.”
Effie didn’t speak. Just gave the tiniest nod, her eyes still on the floor, and whispered back,
“Yeah, I know.”
It was more an echo than a response. Like she was saying it to herself. A confirmation. A memory she wasn’t ready to unpack, but needed to acknowledge.
They stayed like that for a while.
The silence wasn’t tense—it stretched, warm and full, letting both of them breathe inside it. Royce leaned back against the couch again, this time a little closer. He didn’t try to touch her. Didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t make it about him.
Effie finally lifted her eyes, not to meet his, but to look at the space between them. She uncapped the bottle and took a slow sip, the sound of it small but grounding.
Royce exhaled quietly and glanced back at the TV. One of the linebackers on screen was dancing in the end zone, caught in a celebration freeze-frame.
“I used to think silence meant you ain’t had shit to say,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Effie didn’t reply.
But after a few seconds, she reached forward and set the bottle down gently on the coffee table.
Then sat back.
And stayed.
Still no sex. Still no physical closeness.
Just presence.
Two people with too much history behind them and too much ahead, sitting in the soft glow of nothing urgent. Sharing space. Sharing breath.
And in that quiet, nothing had to be fixed.
Nothing had to be said again.
They were simply there.
The sky was softening, streaked with muted oranges and early violet, the kind of evening that made you walk slower without realizing it. Malik and Donovan took the long way home from practice—shoulder to shoulder, duffel bags swinging low, cleats clinking against the side pockets, their silence easy after two hours of drills and collisions.
They didn’t talk much during these walks. Didn’t have to. There was something sacred in the way their footsteps synced, in the crunch of gravel beneath worn sneakers, in the ache of limbs pushed to the edge.
The apartment building came into view—a squat, weather-worn complex tucked near the edge of campus. Faded stucco, cracked pavement, rust-colored stairwells. Someone had left a grill on the front lawn again, smoke rising in lazy spirals. Music spilled faintly from an open window upstairs—slow R&B with too much bass.
Donovan slowed when they reached the sidewalk out front.
Malik did too.
Donovan stretched his neck and exhaled, then looked up at the building like it was a checkpoint instead of home.
“Crazy how we used to think the League was the only way out,” he said.
Malik cracked a grin, not quite looking at him. “You mean the only way up.”
Donovan chuckled. “Same difference back then.”
Malik dropped his bag to the grass and sat down on the curb, elbows resting on his knees. The sweat on his skin was drying in the breeze, leaving a chill that crept through the back of his collar. He looked up at the sky—quiet, endless, slowly turning from lavender to indigo.
“Now I just want peace,” he said.
He didn’t mean it dramatically. He wasn’t trying to make a point. He just said it like it was finally okay to admit.
Donovan stayed standing, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah?”
Malik nodded. “Used to think peace came after everything. After the grind. After the combine. After you were somebody.”
He paused.
“But I think it’s quieter than that. Smaller.”
Donovan tilted his head. “Like what?”
“Like waking up next to someone who makes you feel like you ain’t gotta prove shit,” Malik said. “Like making dinner with Jaz. No TV, no noise. Just… her talking ‘bout something I forgot to listen to ‘cause I’m staring at her too long.”
Donovan smirked. “That kind of peace?”
Malik smiled. “That kind.”
Donovan nodded, letting the silence return for a moment.
“Hell,” he said eventually, “I wouldn’t mind some of that.”
Malik bumped his fist lightly against Donovan’s leg. “It’s out there. Just might not come with a playbook.”
Donovan laughed, deep and real. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Malik stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder again. The porch light flickered above them.
“I’m thinking tacos,” he said. “You in?”
Donovan rubbed his jaw. “Only if we skip that sad-ass spot on Carson.”
“No promises,” Malik said, grinning. “I’m loyal to the struggle.”
And with that, they headed up the stairs—two players still wearing the game in their bodies, but slowly learning to leave it off the field. Learning that sometimes the way out isn’t always up.
Sometimes, it’s just quiet.
And earned.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet when Alix walked in, that end-of-day kind of quiet where the walls felt soft and the lighting too warm. She dropped her bag by the door, slipped off her flats, and unpinned her badge with a slow tug. Her head ached from staring at backlit floorplans for six hours, and her inbox still had three unread messages flagged urgent—all of which could wait.
She was halfway through pulling her hair out of its bun when the knock came.
Three quick taps.
Alix opened the door to find Co standing there in his dark blue scrubs, one pant leg bunched slightly over the top of his sneaker. He held a takeout bag in one hand and looked more tired than usual—but still steady, still watching her like she made him more grounded than undone.
“I brought dinner,” he said.
She leaned on the frame. “You’re gonna make this a habit?”
“Only if you keep forgetting to eat.”
Alix smiled faintly, then stepped aside to let him in.
They ate cross-legged on the living room rug, leaning back against the couch, containers spread out between them. He’d brought Thai—her go-to from the place near South Stadium, the one that always forgot the fortune cookies but never messed up the spice.
Conversation came easy. Co talked about his shift—chaotic but manageable. A kid who kept calling him “sir” even after he corrected her three times. An older woman who asked if he was single while getting her vitals taken. Alix, in turn, shared about a client who wanted a full living room redesign with a “Bayou Victorian aesthetic” and no clear idea what that meant.
“I Googled it and still don’t know,” she said.
“Sounds like a horror movie with antique furniture.”
Alix snorted, resting her container against her knee. “It might be.”
As the food disappeared, so did the urgency of the day. They sank into silence—not awkward, just settled. The TV was on but muted, showing some cooking competition with flames and flour and people shouting at each other in high definition.
Co shifted, resting one arm along the back of the couch, close but not touching. Alix could feel the heat of him beside her.
She turned to look at him just as he turned toward her.
There was a moment—brief but full.
A breath away from something unspoken.
Neither moved.
Not forward, not back.
Alix looked away first. “I should clean up.”
Co nodded and stood with her. He helped gather the containers, stacking them neatly and slipping the plastic bags back inside one another. When they reached the door, he hesitated.
She opened it slowly.
“Thanks for the food,” she said.
“Anytime.”
Then, just before he stepped into the hallway, she reached out and touched his wrist.
Light. Quick. Deliberate.
Her fingers rested there just a second longer than necessary. His eyes dropped to where she touched him, then lifted to meet hers again.
He didn’t say a word.
She didn’t either.
He walked out.
And the door closed behind him.
Alix leaned against it, hand still warm from where she’d touched him, thumb brushing absentmindedly across the inside of her wrist. The air felt heavier now—thicker, like it had absorbed everything they hadn’t said.
She was still there, still quiet, when the other door opened.
Madi walked into the living room with a water bottle in one hand and her gym bag hanging off her shoulder. She paused when she saw Alix standing at the door, saw the takeout boxes on the counter, saw the light in Alix’s face that hadn’t been there earlier.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Was that your rebound,” she asked, “or your replacement?”
Alix didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smirk.
Just looked over at her calmly and said, “Neither.”
Then added, after a long beat, “Maybe.”
Madi raised an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
Alix pushed away from the door and headed toward the kitchen, voice low but certain.
“It’s honest.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun had just slipped behind the oak trees lining the edge of the quad, casting everything in that late dusk wash of gold and blue. Royce stepped out of the football facility, his hoodie damp at the chest, the strap of his backpack digging into one shoulder. The weight of his workout clung to him, but it wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that settled—just something that buzzed under the surface, unresolved.
He crossed the sidewalk without really thinking, letting habit guide his feet, and that’s when he saw her.
Effie.
She was walking up the path, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, tote bag slung low, curls catching the last bit of light like haloed shadows. Her stride was steady, but her eyes weren’t on anything in particular. Half in the world, half somewhere else.
“Effie,” he called.
She stopped, turned.
She didn’t smile, not exactly, but her face opened a little when she saw him. “Hey.”
“You tryna get food?”
She looked down at her phone, then back at him. “I’ve got a couple calls—some school stuff. But I’ll have time later.”
He nodded. “Cool.”
That was all it took.
…
Later, just after nine, she knocked once, soft and quick, before letting herself in.
Royce was already on the couch, hoodie still on, the TV flickering silently across the room. He didn’t bother to get up—just tilted his head toward the door, his eyes meeting hers briefly as she stepped in.
The apartment smelled faintly of clean laundry and the faint spice of something microwaved an hour ago. It was dark, save for the warm amber of a floor lamp near the kitchen and the soft gray-blue glow coming from the screen. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was waiting.
Effie set her tote down by the door with the quiet grace of someone who didn’t want to wake anything—an old instinct. Her boots made a soft thump against the wall as she slid them off, then padded toward the couch in thick socks.
She sat in the same spot she took the last time now: the far corner, feet tucked under her, arms folded close like she was trying to shrink, but not disappear. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Royce offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted, unscrewing the cap just to hold it in her hands.
The two of them sat there, not quite facing each other, both staring toward the screen even though neither one was paying attention. A replay of an old bowl game looped in the background, the audio off, players in fast motion celebrating something they couldn’t hear.
Every few seconds, Royce shifted slightly—leaning forward, then back, adjusting his arms. Not restless. Just present.
Effie curled tighter into the couch, her thumb slowly running along the seam of the bottle label. She wasn’t watching the TV at all. Her eyes were somewhere else.
Royce broke the silence first. His voice was quiet, almost like he didn’t want it to reach too far.
“What did you mean… that doing nothing can change your life?”
Effie didn’t look at him.
She blinked, then focused on a spot on the floor. Her shoulders rose slightly with the breath she took, and when she let it out, it was like something small was loosening inside her. Not falling apart—just softening.
She spoke without drama, without buildup.
“I left my little sister at a party once.”
Her voice was even. Not fragile, not trembling. Just… neutral. Like she had learned to sand the edges off the memory so it wouldn’t cut every time it touched air.
Royce turned his head a little, watching her now.
She didn’t continue. Didn’t clarify. Didn’t offer a name or a year or what happened after. The sentence just… sat there. Like a door barely cracked open.
Royce leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He nodded once, absorbing it, not trying to fit it into a story.
“Yeah,” he said, the word landing like understanding. “I get that.”
Effie didn’t speak. Just gave the tiniest nod, her eyes still on the floor, and whispered back,
“Yeah, I know.”
It was more an echo than a response. Like she was saying it to herself. A confirmation. A memory she wasn’t ready to unpack, but needed to acknowledge.
They stayed like that for a while.
The silence wasn’t tense—it stretched, warm and full, letting both of them breathe inside it. Royce leaned back against the couch again, this time a little closer. He didn’t try to touch her. Didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t make it about him.
Effie finally lifted her eyes, not to meet his, but to look at the space between them. She uncapped the bottle and took a slow sip, the sound of it small but grounding.
Royce exhaled quietly and glanced back at the TV. One of the linebackers on screen was dancing in the end zone, caught in a celebration freeze-frame.
“I used to think silence meant you ain’t had shit to say,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Effie didn’t reply.
But after a few seconds, she reached forward and set the bottle down gently on the coffee table.
Then sat back.
And stayed.
Still no sex. Still no physical closeness.
Just presence.
Two people with too much history behind them and too much ahead, sitting in the soft glow of nothing urgent. Sharing space. Sharing breath.
And in that quiet, nothing had to be fixed.
Nothing had to be said again.
They were simply there.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7844
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Yikes. Trauma bonding 101.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
kindred spirits*