Platform
The room wasn’t full, but it was packed with expectation.
Students filled the front rows, some scribbling into notebooks, others chewing gum or watching the panelists with guarded curiosity. Faculty stood along the back wall, arms crossed, whispering to each other behind polite smiles. Someone from the athletic department was pacing near the side curtain, checking their phone, checking the clock, checking the vibe.
Royce sat on the end of the panel table, knees wide, LSU windbreaker zipped halfway up, and a bottle of water gripped tightly in one hand. The stage lights weren’t too hot, but they made it hard to see beyond the first couple rows. He didn’t care. He wasn’t here to scan the crowd.
He was here because Chance Delpit told him to be.
Not as punishment. As penance.
As a reminder that perception mattered—and that this was how you take control of it.
Onstage with him were five others. A volleyball player from Southern who’d just come back from an ACL tear. A quiet, lanky hooper from BRCC who answered every question with “yes ma’am” and “yes sir.” A former LSU safety turned nonprofit director. Two alumni who now ran mentorship programs in Baton Rouge high schools.
The moderator, a composed woman in her early thirties with tortoise-shell glasses and box braids pulled into a bun, began with introductions.
Then came the questions.
They started light. Managing classwork and competition. Time management. Public image.
Royce mostly listened.
He hadn’t prepped. Delpit had told him not to.
“Don’t rehearse,” he’d said. “Just be real.”
So he sat in that chair like it was a hot seat and tried to breathe through the weight in his chest.
Then came the first direct question.
“Royce, if you don’t mind—what does accountability mean to you?”
The words were gentle, careful. No mention of the phrase detained. No incident or investigation. But it was in the air anyway. Everyone in the room knew why he was on this stage.
He took the mic and paused. Water bottle cap clicking softly between his fingers.
“A lot of people,” he started, “think accountability means saying the right thing after you mess up.”
His voice was even, low, controlled.
“But sometimes it means not talking. It means listening. Owning the silence.”
That got a few heads to tilt. A few pens slowed mid-scribble.
Royce continued, his gaze somewhere over the top of the crowd.
“I never been the person that people have claimed I am. But I put myself close enough for people to wonder.”
He let that hang. Let the honesty breathe.
“And that part’s on me.”
The moderator nodded, gently.
Royce kept going.
“We talk about pressure like it only happens on the field. Fourth quarter. Clock ticking. That kind of thing.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs.
“But the real pressure?” His voice dropped.
“It’s after. When it’s quiet. When you go home and there’s no coaches, no teammates, no crowd. Just you. And whatever you done carried in with you.”
Silence followed. Not awkward. Not forced.
Just full.
The kind of silence that meant people were listening for real.
Royce handed the mic back without flourish.
After the event ended, people stood slowly. There was no stampede. Just soft murmurs, half-hearted clapping, and students pushing in their chairs with that post-panel uncertainty—should they say something? Should they leave quietly?
Royce stood near the edge of the stage, answering two questions from a journalism major with a mic clipped to her jacket. Then a handshake from a man with a Southern staff badge. Then Delpit again—firm squeeze to the shoulder and a nod.
“You did good,” he said.
Royce gave a tired smile. “Trying.”
But his eyes were already searching the crowd.
And then he saw Effie.
Standing by the exit. Hoodie on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair was loose tonight, and her expression unreadable from the distance, but her presence hit like gravity.
She hadn’t sat. Just leaned back against the wall and watched.
Like she always did.
Royce stepped down from the stage and made his way through the thinning crowd. No swagger in his walk. No posturing. Just steady movement toward something that had nothing to do with press or perception.
When he reached her, she straightened a little, but didn’t move back.
“Looks like you’re not the only one that can perform for a crowd,” Royce said, smirking just enough to take the edge off.
Effie’s lips curved slightly. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re pretty good under pressure.”
Royce shrugged. “This ain’t really pressure.”
She tilted her head, waiting.
He scratched the back of his neck.
“You gonna stick around long enough to see if that’s true?” he asked, softer now.
It wasn’t a pickup line.
It wasn’t even about the event.
It was a question about presence. About time. About whether she still saw him as someone worth believing in, even a little.
Effie’s smile was faint but real.
“Maybe,” she said.
Then she stepped aside to let someone pass, turning toward the door.
Royce didn’t follow her.
Not yet.
He just watched her go—shoulders relaxed, stride steady.
~~~~~~~~~~
The smoothie shop near campus had the same LED menu and fake grass wall as every other one in Lafayette, but Arianna liked the way the afternoon light slanted through the window at this hour, casting long gold stripes across the table. She liked how quiet it got around three, when most of the rush had already passed and the workers behind the counter were more interested in their phones than the blender.
Toni was already at the table when Arianna came back from the pickup counter, sipping something bright pink through a straw and tapping her nails against her cup.
Arianna slid into the seat across from her. “Dragon fruit?”
Toni smiled. “Always.”
Arianna raised a brow. “That’s just sugar and vibes.”
“Don’t judge me,” Toni said, mock defensive. “Some of us like life sweet.”
Arianna took a sip of her own—something green and tart—and leaned back in her seat. She looked tired, but focused. Her eyes had that sharp clarity that came when her body was moving slower than her thoughts.
They talked for a few minutes about class. Professors who didn’t answer emails. Financial aid that took too long. A girl in their building who’d adopted a stray cat that now lived on the roof.
It felt easy, almost like old times.
Then Toni reached into her bag.
“Tell me if this is ugly,” she said, pulling out her phone and flipping it around. On the screen was a photo of a dress—tight, red, with a high slit and thin straps. Nothing about it looked like Toni.
Arianna blinked. “Where you wearing that to?”
“One of Deshawn’s friend is having a party. He wants me to wear it.”
Arianna looked back down at the photo, then at Toni.
Toni’s nails were perfect—almond-shaped, glossy, red. She was chewing her bottom lip without realizing it.
Arianna took another sip of her smoothie.
Didn’t speak right away.
Then, carefully, gently: “Do you like it? Or does he like it?”
Toni didn’t answer.
Just looked away for a second, then shrugged.
“Sometimes those aren’t the same thing.”
She said it like a joke, but her eyes didn’t laugh.
Arianna nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
That was all she said.
She didn’t push.
Didn’t dive into the kinds of questions she used to ask. The ones that were really accusations wrapped in love—Why are you with him? Why do you let him talk to you like that? Do you even recognize yourself anymore?
She knew those didn’t work.
She’d tried them all. Yelling. Crying. Calling it what it was.
It hadn’t saved Toni then.
So now she was trying something else.
A quieter kind of resistance. One that left room.
Little seeds.
She glanced back down at her own cup and swirled it with the straw.
“I mean,” she said casually, “yellow used to be your color. Not red.”
Toni looked up at that.
Softly. Thoughtfully.
“I know.”
They didn’t say anything else about the dress.
But something had been planted.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bass thumped soft and steady through the floor of Malik’s off-campus apartment, just enough to keep the air moving but not enough to drown the sound of laughter. The smell of microwaved pizza rolls and Cajun wings hung in the air, mixing with the faint hint of a lemon candle Jazlyn had insisted on lighting before people arrived.
The front hallway was a pile of sneakers and slides, some tipped over, some stacked like dominos. Inside, the living room had been rearranged—coffee table pushed to the side, beanbags dragged in from the bedrooms, and a folding table commandeered from the trunk of Donovan’s car now taking center stage for the game.
Donovan stood with a Solo cup in hand, smirking as he leaned against the fridge. “Man, y’all got grown-up lighting in here. Look at this ambiance. You tryna host a party or a therapy circle?”
Malik laughed, tossing a ping pong ball from one hand to the other. “It’s called mood setting, bro. I ain’t tryna play flip cup under an interrogation lamp.”
“You light one candle and suddenly you’re thirty,” Jazlyn teased from the couch, legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled past her knuckles.
Malik raised a brow at her. “Says the woman who picked the playlist and still put ‘Hotline Bling’ on it.”
“Don’t disrespect a classic,” she said, throwing a pretzel at him.
A couple of Malik’s classmates from his ethics seminar—Ashanti and Gabe—were perched on the edge of the floor cushions, already tipsy and competitive. A third-year wide receiver named Derrick had his hoodie tied around his waist and was halfway through a story about getting locked out of his dorm with no socks.
“Wait, wait,” Ashanti said, raising her hand as Gabe shuffled the cards. “Are we still doing no phones during the game?”
Everyone glanced around the room.
Malik grinned, leaning over the table as he arranged the cups into a triangle.
“That’s the only rule that matters,” he said.
Phones were collected in the basket by the front door—no texts, no distractions, no scrolling. It had started as a joke months ago, but now it felt like a ritual. If you were here, you were here.
The game started.
Cards flew. Drinks spilled. Accusations of cheating were hurled playfully across the table.
Donovan got loud early—faking like he didn’t know the rules, even though he always did. Jazlyn stayed undefeated at “Never Have I Ever,” quietly sipping while everyone else accused her of living five lives. Malik took two shots back-to-back and still beat Gabe at Speed.
“I swear he marked the cards,” Gabe groaned.
“Nah, that’s just washed-up safety instincts,” Donovan said, elbowing Malik in the ribs.
Malik shrugged. “Read and react.”
“You really are old now,” Jazlyn said, sliding up beside him on the couch and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
He smiled, slow and warm, resting his arm along the back of the couch behind her.
“I like old,” he said. “Old’s peaceful.”
“Old also stretches after workouts and complains about gas prices.”
“Exactly.”
Outside, the wind rattled a few branches against the windowpane, but inside, everything stayed soft. Familiar.
Not wild.
Not reckless.
Just right.
The room buzzed with comfort—the kind that came from people who knew each other’s tells, who didn’t need to perform, who left their baggage by the door with their shoes.
Malik looked around, watching his people laugh and drink and call each other liars over cards, and thought: This… this might be enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The workshop classroom on the third floor of the humanities building always smelled faintly like old wood and burnt coffee. Mike sat near the back, hood up, spiral notebook open but empty. He hadn’t touched his pen all class.
The professor, a slim white woman with close-cropped gray hair and a voice that carried without needing to raise it, had just finished returning their first creative nonfiction assignments. She moved slowly through the aisles, sliding papers face-down onto desks. No names called. No commentary given aloud.
When she reached Mike, she placed his printout quietly in front of him, tapping it once with her finger before moving on. He waited until she was halfway back to her desk before flipping it over.
Where I’m From – Michael W.
The title stared back at him, bold and slightly smudged from the printer in the dorm library.
He hadn’t written it to impress anyone.
He hadn’t even written it for the grade.
It was an assignment. That’s all. Two to three pages. “Describe a place you know deeply.”
So he wrote.
He wrote about Houma in the dead heat of July, when the sky felt thick and the mosquitos bit through jeans. About the smell of fry grease clinging to your clothes after waiting in line at Popeye’s long enough to know the workers by name. About Ma Beulah’s back porch, sagging at one end, where he used to count the days until high school football season while his cousins shot dice by the shed.
He wrote about debt—not just the money kind, but the kind that clings to your name like smoke. The kind where people don’t text, they just shout across gas station parking lots: “Aye, Mike-Mike! You straight?”
He didn’t use metaphor. He didn’t wrap it in anything soft. He just told it.
And now, at the bottom of the last page, in clean red ink, was a note:
This reads like you’re still there. Want to talk about it?
Mike stared at the sentence.
He didn’t know what it meant—if it was judgment or invitation.
If it was concern or curiosity.
He slid the paper into his notebook and zipped it shut before anyone could glance over. When class ended, he was the first out the door.
That night, back in his dorm room, the wind outside his window howled like something alive. The radiator clicked. The kid in the room next to his kept playing drill music at half volume, just loud enough to rattle the vents.
Mike sat at his desk, hoodie still on, one leg bouncing under the chair. His bag sat at his feet, unopened.
It was late. He should’ve been reading for midterms or checking on his FAFSA status or calling Arianna back.
Instead, he reached down and pulled out the notebook.
He opened to the pages he’d printed out. Flattened them against the desk.
Read it again.
Line by line.
Every word was still his. Still raw. Still a little angry.
But now, under the classroom lights of his memory, he realized something else:
He hadn’t just written about where he came from.
He’d written about why he left.
And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as far away from it as he thought.
He didn’t write the professor back.
Didn’t say he wanted to talk.
But he reread it once more before bed, slower this time.
Like maybe he was finally ready to listen to himself.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7824
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Royce and Effie's relationship is so fucking weird. Shoutout to the Arianna/Toni reclamation project tho
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
She just a bit different, bro. Maybe that’s what he need. You ever thought of that?!Captain Canada wrote: ↑23 May 2025, 13:55Royce and Effie's relationship is so fucking weird. Shoutout to the Arianna/Toni reclamation project tho
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Structure
The sun hadn’t fully risen when Royce jogged out onto the turf at the LSU practice facility, breath clouding slightly in the early chill, the sleeves of his compression shirt rolled just above the elbows. The sky was still a muted purple, streaked with orange at the edges. Baton Rouge was quiet in that liminal hour, but inside the walls of the ops center, the weight of expectation was already crackling.
Spring ball had begun.
And Royce was locked in.
No cameras in his head. No press. No whispers about being detained. No guilt about Alix or confusion about Effie. None of it followed him here.
The field was clean.
Uncluttered.
And in a life full of noise, it was the only place he still trusted.
Coach Lupoi blew the first whistle.
“Circle up!”
The players moved quickly. Not like summer. No dragging feet, no yawns. Everyone had something to prove. Royce was the first to hit the line, chin lifted, eyes steady. A freshman linebacker named Elijah fell in beside him, still tying one cleat, and Royce shot him a look.
“Don’t waste time,” he muttered.
Elijah nodded quickly, face flushed, pulling the strap tight.
The warmup started fast—dynamic stretches, backpedals, hip flips. Then sprint intervals. Royce was first every rep. No coasting. No talking.
The team started noticing.
By the second round, players were lining up behind him, not beside. By the third, freshmen were trying to keep pace with him, red in the face and gulping air like it might buy them respect.
When someone dropped to a knee too early, Royce was the one who barked, “Up. We don’t sit in pain.”
Coach Lupoi let him say it. Didn’t correct him. Just blew the whistle again.
“Let’s go. Again.”
On the last round—shuttle sprints—Royce bent at the knees, fingers brushing the turf, shoulders squared like he was standing at the edge of something more than a cone.
When he exploded off the line, it wasn’t just about speed. It was a kind of release.
Power in motion.
When he crossed the line, he didn’t stop. He turned around, clapped his hands hard, and shouted, “Run that back!”
No one moved.
Then Kolaj jogged up, nodded once, and said, “Bet.”
They ran another.
And another.
Until the sweat dripped from elbows, and cleats started squeaking, and no one dared say they were tired before he did.
From the sideline, LSU’s social media intern caught it all—phone angled low, slow-motion pan of Royce hitting the final sprint, fists pumping, eyes locked.
By noon, it was on the team’s official page.
@LSUFootball: captain energy. unmatched standard.
The comments lit up within minutes.
“LB1.”
“That boy different.”
“Defense gonna eat this year.”
“Leader.”
Royce saw it after film.
He didn’t repost.
Didn’t like it.
Just turned his phone off and dropped it in his locker.
Because the post didn’t matter.
The cameras didn’t matter.
He wasn’t running for a headline.
He was running to stay sane. To keep his feet under him when the rest of his life kept trying to slip.
This field, this grind, this fire in his lungs—
This was structure.
~~~~~~~~~~
The studio at Roux Interiors carried the quiet elegance of a space built for vision. Clean lines. Soft light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tables covered in swatches and samples, ceramic mugs half-full beside sketchbooks, and a steady hum of conversation that stayed just shy of disruptive.
Alix stood beside her workstation, hands lightly pressed against the edge of the presentation board she’d just finished walking the team through. Her heart was still beating a little fast, but she kept her expression neutral—composed. Her concept, a warm, modern layout for a client’s Mid City loft, sat in front of her like an offering.
“Amber tones for warmth,” she’d said earlier, “but anchored by black steel and cool linen textures. It’s about contrast without tension.”
Now came the pause. The part where she waited.
Renee, her boss, stepped forward—heels soft on the polished concrete. She wore her usual crisp navy blouse and high-waisted trousers, a tape measure draped around her neck like a scarf. She glanced over the board again, then looked at Alix.
“You found the line,” Renee said, tapping a corner of the design.
Alix blinked. “The line?”
“Between safety and intuition,” Renee clarified. “This isn’t trying too hard to be liked. It’s confident. Restrained where it needs to be. Thoughtful where it matters.”
Alix didn’t respond immediately. She felt a small flicker of pride, but she held it down—kept it steady.
Renee smiled, just slightly. “You still overthink some of your decisions. I see the moments you hesitate. But you’re getting better. Cleaner.”
She stepped back, folded her arms.
“It’s clear you’re starting to speak in certainty.”
That’s what stuck.
Not good job. Not this is solid. But certainty.
Alix nodded. “Thank you.”
Renee gave a simple nod in return and moved on, already speaking to the next intern about a mismatched mood board.
Alix turned back to her own desk, the compliment still echoing in her mind, not loud—but rooted.
She slid into her chair and reached for her phone.
She didn’t open the group chat. Didn’t scroll.
She opened Co’s thread.
Alix: My boss said I’m starting to “speak in certainty.”
It took a moment.
Then the dots appeared.
Co: That’s because you finally stopped asking permission to be right.
She smiled—soft, slow, and private.
No one saw it. No one needed to.
She locked her phone, tucked it into her bag, and pulled her chair closer to the table.
For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t second-guessing what came next.
She just… moved forward.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie didn’t sit in the front.
She slipped into the lecture hall through the side door, her notebook tucked under one arm, her bag slung across her chest. The rows were filling with students—psych majors, grad students, a few professors scribbling names on attendance sheets. Onstage, the projector glowed softly, casting the title of the talk against the whiteboard:
“The Cost of Containment: Emotional Regulation in Trauma-Surviving Youth” Dr. Nora Feldman, LCSW
Effie settled in the third row from the back, far enough to disappear but close enough to see. She pulled her sleeves down past her wrists and crossed one leg over the other, bracing her foot against the metal rung of the chair in front of her.
Dr. Feldman stepped up to the mic a minute later, her salt-and-pepper curls pinned back, glasses sliding a little down the bridge of her nose. She looked exactly the same. Same wide scarves. Same calm cadence. Same piercing stillness that made you feel like silence could be something sacred.
Effie had been fourteen the first time she sat across from her.
She remembered crossing her arms and daring her not to fix her.
Now, almost a decade later, she was back in a different seat—older, smarter, still carrying things that refused to be named.
Dr. Feldman began the talk with a story about a boy who always smiled when he was scolded.
“A survival reflex,” she explained. “If you can keep everyone else comfortable, they won’t notice that you’re drowning.”
Effie’s jaw tightened. She didn’t write anything down.
The lecture lasted just under an hour. No theatrics. No clickbait studies or flashy data. Just clean, direct language about regulation, repression, dissociation. About what happens when a child learns too young that their needs are less important than maintaining peace.
She watched the way other students nodded, some of them scribbling notes. Effie didn’t move. Just listened. Absorbed. Let the words settle into places she rarely let anyone touch.
Afterward, the crowd thinned. Some stayed to ask questions. Others filed out in clumps. Effie waited until the noise died down before approaching the stage.
Dr. Feldman was gathering her papers, smiling at a professor who had invited her. She looked up when she heard the footsteps.
And smiled softer.
“Effie.”
Effie felt herself shrink and steady all at once.
“Hi,” she said, voice low. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“I remember everyone who taught me something.”
Effie smiled, blinking. “Guess that makes two of us.”
Dr. Feldman nodded toward the side of the room. “You want to walk a bit?”
Effie nodded. They stepped into the quiet hallway, where the hum of vending machines and the echo of distant voices softened the air. They stopped near a bench, not sitting, just standing like they might keep moving any second.
“I was surprised to see your name on the flyer,” Effie admitted.
“I was surprised to see yours on the roster.”
Effie smirked. “Only auditing. I’m not trying to be anybody’s therapist.”
“You already are,” Dr. Feldman said gently. “In your own way.”
Effie looked down. Fidgeted with the sleeve of her sweater.
“I’ve been thinking about something you said once,” she murmured. “About how some of us get so good at managing other people’s emotions, we forget we’re allowed to have our own.”
Dr. Feldman nodded. “It wasn’t a throwaway line.”
Effie looked at her then—really looked. Eyes darker now, heavier. But kind.
“You always said I was calm,” Effie said. “Even when I didn’t feel it.”
“I said you were holding calm. Not that you were calm.”
Effie swallowed.
Dr. Feldman took a step closer, voice soft. “You’ve always carried what other people couldn’t. And you did it so well most people forgot to ask how heavy it was.”
Effie’s eyes burned. She blinked fast.
“I see how tired you are,” Dr. Feldman said.
Effie didn’t deny it.
Didn’t deflect.
She just nodded once, mouth pressing into a thin line, and looked away.
They stood there like that for another long minute—two women in the quiet hall of an old lecture building, with only the hum of a soda machine bearing witness.
Finally, Effie spoke. “I don’t want to fall apart.”
“You won’t,” Dr. Feldman said. “But you might finally rest.”
Effie exhaled.
Even if being able to was only temporary.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet, except for the sound of Toni’s closet door creaking on its hinges and the faint thrum of Deshawn’s music leaking from the living room speakers. The bass pulsed low through the walls, just loud enough to make her stomach tighten. Not because it was aggressive—just because it was always on. Always there. Always his.
She stood barefoot in front of her closet, towel-wrapped and damp from a rushed shower, staring at the dress draped over the foot of the bed. Red. Tight. Long enough to be decent but short enough to be watched.
He’d bought it two days ago. No note. No tag. Just left it in a thin plastic bag on the bed with a text that said: Wear this Saturday.
That was it.
Not Do you like it? Not Want to?
Just Wear this.
Toni stared at it now, her stomach flipping like it always did when the decision had already been made for her.
She reached for it anyway.
The fabric felt thinner than she expected—cool in her hands, slick between her fingers. It clung as she pulled it on, riding up slightly over her hips, and she had to shimmy to get the zipper all the way without catching her skin.
By the time she made it to the mirror, her face was flushed. Not from heat.
From being seen. Even when she was alone.
The dress hugged her thighs, pressed in against her ribs. The neckline dipped in a way that made her feel less like a woman and more like an outline.
She adjusted the straps. Smoothed the sides. Pulled the hem down an inch.
And still didn’t recognize herself.
The mirror didn’t lie. It never had.
And tonight, it showed her a girl she didn’t know how to stop becoming.
She leaned in closer.
Stared at her own eyes.
Tired. Pretty. Quiet.
Then she whispered to her reflection, so soft she barely heard it:
“You used to like yellow.”
It came out without permission.
Without planning.
And it landed in the room like a memory.
Yellow.
That sundress she wore every summer her junior year. The one with the sunflower buttons and the slit she sewed herself. That mustard blouse Arianna said made her look like she lit from within.
That hoodie she stole from her cousin’s closet in high school and never gave back because it felt like armor.
The color she used to choose without thinking.
Now she chose red.
Because red was what he liked.
What he said looked good on her.
What he said made her look grown.
Toni blinked hard and stepped back from the mirror.
The silence felt heavier now.
The music outside had shifted—Deshawn skipping tracks like he was waiting on her to hurry up.
She slipped on her heels, grabbed her bag, and didn’t take one last look.
The mirror already told her everything.
And none of it felt like hers.
The sun hadn’t fully risen when Royce jogged out onto the turf at the LSU practice facility, breath clouding slightly in the early chill, the sleeves of his compression shirt rolled just above the elbows. The sky was still a muted purple, streaked with orange at the edges. Baton Rouge was quiet in that liminal hour, but inside the walls of the ops center, the weight of expectation was already crackling.
Spring ball had begun.
And Royce was locked in.
No cameras in his head. No press. No whispers about being detained. No guilt about Alix or confusion about Effie. None of it followed him here.
The field was clean.
Uncluttered.
And in a life full of noise, it was the only place he still trusted.
Coach Lupoi blew the first whistle.
“Circle up!”
The players moved quickly. Not like summer. No dragging feet, no yawns. Everyone had something to prove. Royce was the first to hit the line, chin lifted, eyes steady. A freshman linebacker named Elijah fell in beside him, still tying one cleat, and Royce shot him a look.
“Don’t waste time,” he muttered.
Elijah nodded quickly, face flushed, pulling the strap tight.
The warmup started fast—dynamic stretches, backpedals, hip flips. Then sprint intervals. Royce was first every rep. No coasting. No talking.
The team started noticing.
By the second round, players were lining up behind him, not beside. By the third, freshmen were trying to keep pace with him, red in the face and gulping air like it might buy them respect.
When someone dropped to a knee too early, Royce was the one who barked, “Up. We don’t sit in pain.”
Coach Lupoi let him say it. Didn’t correct him. Just blew the whistle again.
“Let’s go. Again.”
On the last round—shuttle sprints—Royce bent at the knees, fingers brushing the turf, shoulders squared like he was standing at the edge of something more than a cone.
When he exploded off the line, it wasn’t just about speed. It was a kind of release.
Power in motion.
When he crossed the line, he didn’t stop. He turned around, clapped his hands hard, and shouted, “Run that back!”
No one moved.
Then Kolaj jogged up, nodded once, and said, “Bet.”
They ran another.
And another.
Until the sweat dripped from elbows, and cleats started squeaking, and no one dared say they were tired before he did.
From the sideline, LSU’s social media intern caught it all—phone angled low, slow-motion pan of Royce hitting the final sprint, fists pumping, eyes locked.
By noon, it was on the team’s official page.
@LSUFootball: captain energy. unmatched standard.
The comments lit up within minutes.
“LB1.”
“That boy different.”
“Defense gonna eat this year.”
“Leader.”
Royce saw it after film.
He didn’t repost.
Didn’t like it.
Just turned his phone off and dropped it in his locker.
Because the post didn’t matter.
The cameras didn’t matter.
He wasn’t running for a headline.
He was running to stay sane. To keep his feet under him when the rest of his life kept trying to slip.
This field, this grind, this fire in his lungs—
This was structure.
~~~~~~~~~~
The studio at Roux Interiors carried the quiet elegance of a space built for vision. Clean lines. Soft light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tables covered in swatches and samples, ceramic mugs half-full beside sketchbooks, and a steady hum of conversation that stayed just shy of disruptive.
Alix stood beside her workstation, hands lightly pressed against the edge of the presentation board she’d just finished walking the team through. Her heart was still beating a little fast, but she kept her expression neutral—composed. Her concept, a warm, modern layout for a client’s Mid City loft, sat in front of her like an offering.
“Amber tones for warmth,” she’d said earlier, “but anchored by black steel and cool linen textures. It’s about contrast without tension.”
Now came the pause. The part where she waited.
Renee, her boss, stepped forward—heels soft on the polished concrete. She wore her usual crisp navy blouse and high-waisted trousers, a tape measure draped around her neck like a scarf. She glanced over the board again, then looked at Alix.
“You found the line,” Renee said, tapping a corner of the design.
Alix blinked. “The line?”
“Between safety and intuition,” Renee clarified. “This isn’t trying too hard to be liked. It’s confident. Restrained where it needs to be. Thoughtful where it matters.”
Alix didn’t respond immediately. She felt a small flicker of pride, but she held it down—kept it steady.
Renee smiled, just slightly. “You still overthink some of your decisions. I see the moments you hesitate. But you’re getting better. Cleaner.”
She stepped back, folded her arms.
“It’s clear you’re starting to speak in certainty.”
That’s what stuck.
Not good job. Not this is solid. But certainty.
Alix nodded. “Thank you.”
Renee gave a simple nod in return and moved on, already speaking to the next intern about a mismatched mood board.
Alix turned back to her own desk, the compliment still echoing in her mind, not loud—but rooted.
She slid into her chair and reached for her phone.
She didn’t open the group chat. Didn’t scroll.
She opened Co’s thread.
Alix: My boss said I’m starting to “speak in certainty.”
It took a moment.
Then the dots appeared.
Co: That’s because you finally stopped asking permission to be right.
She smiled—soft, slow, and private.
No one saw it. No one needed to.
She locked her phone, tucked it into her bag, and pulled her chair closer to the table.
For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t second-guessing what came next.
She just… moved forward.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie didn’t sit in the front.
She slipped into the lecture hall through the side door, her notebook tucked under one arm, her bag slung across her chest. The rows were filling with students—psych majors, grad students, a few professors scribbling names on attendance sheets. Onstage, the projector glowed softly, casting the title of the talk against the whiteboard:
“The Cost of Containment: Emotional Regulation in Trauma-Surviving Youth” Dr. Nora Feldman, LCSW
Effie settled in the third row from the back, far enough to disappear but close enough to see. She pulled her sleeves down past her wrists and crossed one leg over the other, bracing her foot against the metal rung of the chair in front of her.
Dr. Feldman stepped up to the mic a minute later, her salt-and-pepper curls pinned back, glasses sliding a little down the bridge of her nose. She looked exactly the same. Same wide scarves. Same calm cadence. Same piercing stillness that made you feel like silence could be something sacred.
Effie had been fourteen the first time she sat across from her.
She remembered crossing her arms and daring her not to fix her.
Now, almost a decade later, she was back in a different seat—older, smarter, still carrying things that refused to be named.
Dr. Feldman began the talk with a story about a boy who always smiled when he was scolded.
“A survival reflex,” she explained. “If you can keep everyone else comfortable, they won’t notice that you’re drowning.”
Effie’s jaw tightened. She didn’t write anything down.
The lecture lasted just under an hour. No theatrics. No clickbait studies or flashy data. Just clean, direct language about regulation, repression, dissociation. About what happens when a child learns too young that their needs are less important than maintaining peace.
She watched the way other students nodded, some of them scribbling notes. Effie didn’t move. Just listened. Absorbed. Let the words settle into places she rarely let anyone touch.
Afterward, the crowd thinned. Some stayed to ask questions. Others filed out in clumps. Effie waited until the noise died down before approaching the stage.
Dr. Feldman was gathering her papers, smiling at a professor who had invited her. She looked up when she heard the footsteps.
And smiled softer.
“Effie.”
Effie felt herself shrink and steady all at once.
“Hi,” she said, voice low. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“I remember everyone who taught me something.”
Effie smiled, blinking. “Guess that makes two of us.”
Dr. Feldman nodded toward the side of the room. “You want to walk a bit?”
Effie nodded. They stepped into the quiet hallway, where the hum of vending machines and the echo of distant voices softened the air. They stopped near a bench, not sitting, just standing like they might keep moving any second.
“I was surprised to see your name on the flyer,” Effie admitted.
“I was surprised to see yours on the roster.”
Effie smirked. “Only auditing. I’m not trying to be anybody’s therapist.”
“You already are,” Dr. Feldman said gently. “In your own way.”
Effie looked down. Fidgeted with the sleeve of her sweater.
“I’ve been thinking about something you said once,” she murmured. “About how some of us get so good at managing other people’s emotions, we forget we’re allowed to have our own.”
Dr. Feldman nodded. “It wasn’t a throwaway line.”
Effie looked at her then—really looked. Eyes darker now, heavier. But kind.
“You always said I was calm,” Effie said. “Even when I didn’t feel it.”
“I said you were holding calm. Not that you were calm.”
Effie swallowed.
Dr. Feldman took a step closer, voice soft. “You’ve always carried what other people couldn’t. And you did it so well most people forgot to ask how heavy it was.”
Effie’s eyes burned. She blinked fast.
“I see how tired you are,” Dr. Feldman said.
Effie didn’t deny it.
Didn’t deflect.
She just nodded once, mouth pressing into a thin line, and looked away.
They stood there like that for another long minute—two women in the quiet hall of an old lecture building, with only the hum of a soda machine bearing witness.
Finally, Effie spoke. “I don’t want to fall apart.”
“You won’t,” Dr. Feldman said. “But you might finally rest.”
Effie exhaled.
Even if being able to was only temporary.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was quiet, except for the sound of Toni’s closet door creaking on its hinges and the faint thrum of Deshawn’s music leaking from the living room speakers. The bass pulsed low through the walls, just loud enough to make her stomach tighten. Not because it was aggressive—just because it was always on. Always there. Always his.
She stood barefoot in front of her closet, towel-wrapped and damp from a rushed shower, staring at the dress draped over the foot of the bed. Red. Tight. Long enough to be decent but short enough to be watched.
He’d bought it two days ago. No note. No tag. Just left it in a thin plastic bag on the bed with a text that said: Wear this Saturday.
That was it.
Not Do you like it? Not Want to?
Just Wear this.
Toni stared at it now, her stomach flipping like it always did when the decision had already been made for her.
She reached for it anyway.
The fabric felt thinner than she expected—cool in her hands, slick between her fingers. It clung as she pulled it on, riding up slightly over her hips, and she had to shimmy to get the zipper all the way without catching her skin.
By the time she made it to the mirror, her face was flushed. Not from heat.
From being seen. Even when she was alone.
The dress hugged her thighs, pressed in against her ribs. The neckline dipped in a way that made her feel less like a woman and more like an outline.
She adjusted the straps. Smoothed the sides. Pulled the hem down an inch.
And still didn’t recognize herself.
The mirror didn’t lie. It never had.
And tonight, it showed her a girl she didn’t know how to stop becoming.
She leaned in closer.
Stared at her own eyes.
Tired. Pretty. Quiet.
Then she whispered to her reflection, so soft she barely heard it:
“You used to like yellow.”
It came out without permission.
Without planning.
And it landed in the room like a memory.
Yellow.
That sundress she wore every summer her junior year. The one with the sunflower buttons and the slit she sewed herself. That mustard blouse Arianna said made her look like she lit from within.
That hoodie she stole from her cousin’s closet in high school and never gave back because it felt like armor.
The color she used to choose without thinking.
Now she chose red.
Because red was what he liked.
What he said looked good on her.
What he said made her look grown.
Toni blinked hard and stepped back from the mirror.
The silence felt heavier now.
The music outside had shifted—Deshawn skipping tracks like he was waiting on her to hurry up.
She slipped on her heels, grabbed her bag, and didn’t take one last look.
The mirror already told her everything.
And none of it felt like hers.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13180
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Microwaving pizza rolls is a crime
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Pressure Makes Diamonds
The air at LSU’s spring practice facility was thick with heat and anticipation. The turf steamed in the early afternoon sun, the kind of dense humidity that clung to your skin and filled your lungs with fire. Coaches barked signals over whistles, helmets clashed like drums, and cleats tore into synthetic grass as if the ground owed them something.
It was the first full-contact scrimmage of spring camp.
And everyone knew who the eyes were on.
Royce Lafitte stood near midfield with his hands on his hips, visor pulled low, chest rising in steady rhythm. His jersey clung to his back, darkened by sweat. The white number across his chest—5—was sharp, clean, unmoving. He hadn't said much since they broke into team drills. He didn’t have to. Not today.
The defense huddled near the hash marks, pads thudding softly as players jostled into formation. Freshmen and early enrollees lingered on the sideline, notebooks in hand, pretending to stretch but really watching the first unit like it was gospel.
“Run it again,” called Coach Lanning, signaling the scout offense.
Royce adjusted his gloves and nodded once. He was lined up at the will backer spot, crouched and balanced, his weight forward like a coil.
The ball snapped.
Everything exploded.
The running back—a sophomore, named Tyrin, with something to prove—took the handoff on an inside zone. He hit the hole quick, eyes up, but Royce was already there. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Just one perfect read and a full-speed collision that echoed off the concrete walls.
CRACK.
The back folded on contact, pads slapping the turf, breath ripped from his lungs.
Silence.
Then a low ripple of whistles and helmet slaps from the defensive sideline.
Royce didn’t linger.
He extended a hand, gripping the running back’s forearm and pulling him up in one smooth motion.
“Again,” he said, flatly. Not angry. Not arrogant.
Just certain.
Tyrin nodded, jaw tight. He wanted another shot. That meant Royce had done his job.
Back at the line, the defensive huddle was quiet. Focused. Players leaned in tighter when Royce did. Even the upperclassmen matched his cadence. His eyes flicked from the quarterback’s stance to the receiver’s split to the tight end’s depth.
Everything catalogued. Processed. Stored.
He didn’t talk much between reps, but the younger guys watched him like he did.
Every twitch of his fingers.
Every shift in his stance.
One freshman scribbled a note that just said: #5 plays like he’s pissed at the grass.
By the end of the period, Royce had tallied two TFLs, a forced fumble, and three clean-up tackles on stretch plays that died the second he took a step downhill. No celebrating. No dancing. Just business.
Coach Lupoi blew the whistle and called for water.
As Royce jogged toward the sideline, LSU’s social media intern caught him in motion—visor up, mouthguard clipped to his facemask, sweat streaked across his jaw like war paint.
…
The film room was darker than it needed to be, the overhead lights dimmed to let the screen take center stage. Sweat and turf still clung to the players’ clothes, the echo of cleats scraping linoleum tapering off as the last few guys filtered out after the session.
Royce stayed in the same seat the whole time—third row, dead center, notebook open but blank. He didn’t need to write down what he already saw in his mind like muscle memory. A missed stunt read on the second drive. A clean stick on an inside zone. A late fill on a bootleg he should’ve sniffed out sooner.
Coach Lupoi had run the session like he always did—direct, clipped, no wasted words.
Now, with the projector humming behind him and the others gone, Lupoi stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, waiting.
Royce started to gather his things.
“Hang back,” Lupoi said, not harsh—just steady.
Royce froze for half a beat, then dropped his pen back into his bag and leaned back in his chair.
The room felt quieter now. Still too cold, like all film rooms were. Cold enough to remind you this was business.
Lupoi walked a few steps closer, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking slightly on the floor.
“Where’s your head at?” he asked. “After… everything.”
He didn’t say what “everything” meant.
He didn’t have to.
Royce exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of it with his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m straight,” he said.
Lupoi raised a brow.
Royce corrected himself. “I’m here. I show up.”
“I know that,” Lupoi said. “That’s never been your problem.”
Royce sat forward, elbows on knees, staring at the muted screen frozen on a paused clip of the last scrimmage. His body halfway through a tackle, mouth open, eyes narrowed.
“What is it then?” Royce asked, quieter now.
Lupoi didn’t hesitate.
“The team’s watching you.”
Royce didn’t move.
Lupoi continued, “You set the tone, Royce. The way you move, the way you don’t flinch—these guys feel that.”
Royce let that sit for a second, then said, “I ain’t never been the leader type, Coach.”
Lupoi tilted his head.
“Ain’t no one ever taught me how to do all that leader shit.”
Now it was out loud. The part he never said.
Lupoi walked toward the table, leaned his palms on the edge.
“You either got it or you don’t,” he said. “But when you play better, the defense does. And that’s leadership. Whether you like it or not.”
Royce nodded slowly, eyes still on the screen.
“And Royce?”
He looked up.
“You know they’re still watching, right? The NFL. Scouts. GMs. All of it. You’re on tape every day now.”
Royce’s jaw flexed. He sat back in his chair.
“They watch the plays?”
“They watch everything,” Lupoi said. “Especially the parts between the plays.”
Royce didn’t speak for a second.
Then: “Got it.”
He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Lupoi didn’t follow him to the door. Just watched.
And when Royce reached for the handle, he paused.
Only for a beat.
Then nodded once—more to himself than anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~
They met at Zeeland Street, a little spot tucked just off Perkins where the sweet tea was always too sweet and the mac and cheese came baked in ramekins, still bubbling when it hit the table. Alix had been coming here since high school—back when her mom used to drag her after church, back when she thought the mismatched chairs and chalkboard menu were just old, not cool.
Now, she chose it.
Familiar. Low-key. No one trying to impress anyone.
Co was already at the table when she arrived, sitting under one of the ceiling fans near the window, still in his scrubs with a gray hoodie thrown over. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but bright. He stood when she approached, gave her a quick once-over, then smiled like he hadn’t seen her in months instead of just days.
“You order already?” she asked, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Nah. Wanted to see if you still got the shrimp and grits.”
Alix smirked. “That was three months ago. I’ve grown.”
“You sure?” he teased. “Look like you’re still ordering with your heart.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she opened her menu—even though she didn’t need to. She already knew what she wanted. They both did.
The food came quick. Fried green tomatoes for her, red beans for him. No drinks—just water, with lemon on the side for her like always.
They talked about nothing for a while. Work. Class. A patient Co had who insisted on being called “Paw Paw Jones” no matter how many times the nurse corrected him.
Alix laughed once—genuine, bright. But as the plates emptied and the room quieted, something softer settled between them. Not tension, exactly. Just weight.
She took a sip of water, then set the glass down, her fingers lingering on the condensation.
Co leaned back a little, studying her. “You ever think about New Year’s?” he asked, like it wasn’t a loaded question.
Alix didn’t flinch. “Sometimes.”
There was a long pause.
Then Co said, gently, “Timing doesn’t seem to be our strong suit.”
Alix didn’t answer right away. She glanced outside, where the sun was catching on the windshield of a parked car, turning everything gold for a second.
Then she looked back at him.
“Maybe we stop watching the clock.”
It wasn’t flirtatious.
It wasn’t even hopeful.
It was honest. Tired, maybe. But true.
Co didn’t smile, but something in his face shifted—his eyes softened, the lines in his brow eased.
They didn’t touch.
But their hands rested on the same side of the table now, not far apart. Close enough that the space between them felt deliberate. Measured.
Alix’s thumb brushed the edge of her napkin, slow and rhythmic.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
When the bill came, they both reached for it at the same time, then laughed and let it fall in the middle. Split it, like always.
No one rushed to leave. No one filled the silence.
They just let it be what it was.
Something.
Something beginning again—or maybe never really finished.
When they finally walked outside, the heat hit them hard, late spring pressing close. Alix tucked her sunglasses on and turned toward her car, but not before glancing back at him once.
She didn’t say goodbye.
Just: “Text me when you get off next time.”
Co nodded.
“I will.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The classroom smelled faintly of dust and photo paper—chemical memory clinging to the darkroom that shared a wall. Afternoon light streaked through the high windows in sharp slats, catching on portfolios laid out across tables and chairs pushed into loose, crooked rows. The projector hummed at the front of the room, casting faint glows onto half-drawn blinds.
Effie sat near the edge, spine straight, arms folded across her chest. Her critique was last. She’d volunteered for it. Not because she was eager, but because she wanted to get it over with.
Her piece—a single photograph—was projected onto the white screen at the front.
It was stark.
A burned-out bedroom. Ash-covered floor. Peeling walls stained with smoke. A melted ceiling fan hung limp in the top left of the frame, and in the bottom right, a single shoe rested sideways on the edge of a scorched mattress coil.
The room was empty.
But it felt full of something gone.
The silence that followed was longer than usual.
Then Professor Leeds—tall, silver-haired, with a voice that never needed volume to cut—cleared her throat.
“It’s composed well,” she said. “Technically thoughtful. Excellent depth.”
She paused.
“But it feels curated. Controlled. Almost… too composed to be personal.”
The comment hung in the air like a dare.
Effie didn’t blink.
She stared at the photo, arms still crossed, and then said—clear, steady:
“It’s not.”
Leeds raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Effie unfolded her arms, laced her fingers in her lap, and added, “It’s what’s left after personal burns away.”
The room shifted. No one moved, but the silence grew denser.
A girl in the second row glanced at Effie, then quickly back at her notebook. A guy near the window exhaled like he’d been holding something.
Professor Leeds nodded slowly, lips pressed in a line. She didn’t press. Didn’t ask for more.
She didn’t need to.
Effie’s words had done the thing the photo couldn’t.
Later, as the class packed up, no one said much. A few murmured goodbyes. The projector blinked off. The blinds were pulled open all the way, flooding the room in harsh light that made the screen’s emptiness feel exposed.
Effie stayed seated.
She looked at the floor where the photo had once been, then at her hands, still calm in her lap.
She didn’t feel vindicated.
She didn’t feel shaken.
She just… felt.
It was rare, these days.
She gathered her things and left without a word, the echo of her own sentence trailing behind her like smoke.
It’s what’s left after personal burns away.
The air at LSU’s spring practice facility was thick with heat and anticipation. The turf steamed in the early afternoon sun, the kind of dense humidity that clung to your skin and filled your lungs with fire. Coaches barked signals over whistles, helmets clashed like drums, and cleats tore into synthetic grass as if the ground owed them something.
It was the first full-contact scrimmage of spring camp.
And everyone knew who the eyes were on.
Royce Lafitte stood near midfield with his hands on his hips, visor pulled low, chest rising in steady rhythm. His jersey clung to his back, darkened by sweat. The white number across his chest—5—was sharp, clean, unmoving. He hadn't said much since they broke into team drills. He didn’t have to. Not today.
The defense huddled near the hash marks, pads thudding softly as players jostled into formation. Freshmen and early enrollees lingered on the sideline, notebooks in hand, pretending to stretch but really watching the first unit like it was gospel.
“Run it again,” called Coach Lanning, signaling the scout offense.
Royce adjusted his gloves and nodded once. He was lined up at the will backer spot, crouched and balanced, his weight forward like a coil.
The ball snapped.
Everything exploded.
The running back—a sophomore, named Tyrin, with something to prove—took the handoff on an inside zone. He hit the hole quick, eyes up, but Royce was already there. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Just one perfect read and a full-speed collision that echoed off the concrete walls.
CRACK.
The back folded on contact, pads slapping the turf, breath ripped from his lungs.
Silence.
Then a low ripple of whistles and helmet slaps from the defensive sideline.
Royce didn’t linger.
He extended a hand, gripping the running back’s forearm and pulling him up in one smooth motion.
“Again,” he said, flatly. Not angry. Not arrogant.
Just certain.
Tyrin nodded, jaw tight. He wanted another shot. That meant Royce had done his job.
Back at the line, the defensive huddle was quiet. Focused. Players leaned in tighter when Royce did. Even the upperclassmen matched his cadence. His eyes flicked from the quarterback’s stance to the receiver’s split to the tight end’s depth.
Everything catalogued. Processed. Stored.
He didn’t talk much between reps, but the younger guys watched him like he did.
Every twitch of his fingers.
Every shift in his stance.
One freshman scribbled a note that just said: #5 plays like he’s pissed at the grass.
By the end of the period, Royce had tallied two TFLs, a forced fumble, and three clean-up tackles on stretch plays that died the second he took a step downhill. No celebrating. No dancing. Just business.
Coach Lupoi blew the whistle and called for water.
As Royce jogged toward the sideline, LSU’s social media intern caught him in motion—visor up, mouthguard clipped to his facemask, sweat streaked across his jaw like war paint.
…
The film room was darker than it needed to be, the overhead lights dimmed to let the screen take center stage. Sweat and turf still clung to the players’ clothes, the echo of cleats scraping linoleum tapering off as the last few guys filtered out after the session.
Royce stayed in the same seat the whole time—third row, dead center, notebook open but blank. He didn’t need to write down what he already saw in his mind like muscle memory. A missed stunt read on the second drive. A clean stick on an inside zone. A late fill on a bootleg he should’ve sniffed out sooner.
Coach Lupoi had run the session like he always did—direct, clipped, no wasted words.
Now, with the projector humming behind him and the others gone, Lupoi stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, waiting.
Royce started to gather his things.
“Hang back,” Lupoi said, not harsh—just steady.
Royce froze for half a beat, then dropped his pen back into his bag and leaned back in his chair.
The room felt quieter now. Still too cold, like all film rooms were. Cold enough to remind you this was business.
Lupoi walked a few steps closer, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking slightly on the floor.
“Where’s your head at?” he asked. “After… everything.”
He didn’t say what “everything” meant.
He didn’t have to.
Royce exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of it with his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m straight,” he said.
Lupoi raised a brow.
Royce corrected himself. “I’m here. I show up.”
“I know that,” Lupoi said. “That’s never been your problem.”
Royce sat forward, elbows on knees, staring at the muted screen frozen on a paused clip of the last scrimmage. His body halfway through a tackle, mouth open, eyes narrowed.
“What is it then?” Royce asked, quieter now.
Lupoi didn’t hesitate.
“The team’s watching you.”
Royce didn’t move.
Lupoi continued, “You set the tone, Royce. The way you move, the way you don’t flinch—these guys feel that.”
Royce let that sit for a second, then said, “I ain’t never been the leader type, Coach.”
Lupoi tilted his head.
“Ain’t no one ever taught me how to do all that leader shit.”
Now it was out loud. The part he never said.
Lupoi walked toward the table, leaned his palms on the edge.
“You either got it or you don’t,” he said. “But when you play better, the defense does. And that’s leadership. Whether you like it or not.”
Royce nodded slowly, eyes still on the screen.
“And Royce?”
He looked up.
“You know they’re still watching, right? The NFL. Scouts. GMs. All of it. You’re on tape every day now.”
Royce’s jaw flexed. He sat back in his chair.
“They watch the plays?”
“They watch everything,” Lupoi said. “Especially the parts between the plays.”
Royce didn’t speak for a second.
Then: “Got it.”
He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Lupoi didn’t follow him to the door. Just watched.
And when Royce reached for the handle, he paused.
Only for a beat.
Then nodded once—more to himself than anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~
They met at Zeeland Street, a little spot tucked just off Perkins where the sweet tea was always too sweet and the mac and cheese came baked in ramekins, still bubbling when it hit the table. Alix had been coming here since high school—back when her mom used to drag her after church, back when she thought the mismatched chairs and chalkboard menu were just old, not cool.
Now, she chose it.
Familiar. Low-key. No one trying to impress anyone.
Co was already at the table when she arrived, sitting under one of the ceiling fans near the window, still in his scrubs with a gray hoodie thrown over. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but bright. He stood when she approached, gave her a quick once-over, then smiled like he hadn’t seen her in months instead of just days.
“You order already?” she asked, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Nah. Wanted to see if you still got the shrimp and grits.”
Alix smirked. “That was three months ago. I’ve grown.”
“You sure?” he teased. “Look like you’re still ordering with your heart.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she opened her menu—even though she didn’t need to. She already knew what she wanted. They both did.
The food came quick. Fried green tomatoes for her, red beans for him. No drinks—just water, with lemon on the side for her like always.
They talked about nothing for a while. Work. Class. A patient Co had who insisted on being called “Paw Paw Jones” no matter how many times the nurse corrected him.
Alix laughed once—genuine, bright. But as the plates emptied and the room quieted, something softer settled between them. Not tension, exactly. Just weight.
She took a sip of water, then set the glass down, her fingers lingering on the condensation.
Co leaned back a little, studying her. “You ever think about New Year’s?” he asked, like it wasn’t a loaded question.
Alix didn’t flinch. “Sometimes.”
There was a long pause.
Then Co said, gently, “Timing doesn’t seem to be our strong suit.”
Alix didn’t answer right away. She glanced outside, where the sun was catching on the windshield of a parked car, turning everything gold for a second.
Then she looked back at him.
“Maybe we stop watching the clock.”
It wasn’t flirtatious.
It wasn’t even hopeful.
It was honest. Tired, maybe. But true.
Co didn’t smile, but something in his face shifted—his eyes softened, the lines in his brow eased.
They didn’t touch.
But their hands rested on the same side of the table now, not far apart. Close enough that the space between them felt deliberate. Measured.
Alix’s thumb brushed the edge of her napkin, slow and rhythmic.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
When the bill came, they both reached for it at the same time, then laughed and let it fall in the middle. Split it, like always.
No one rushed to leave. No one filled the silence.
They just let it be what it was.
Something.
Something beginning again—or maybe never really finished.
When they finally walked outside, the heat hit them hard, late spring pressing close. Alix tucked her sunglasses on and turned toward her car, but not before glancing back at him once.
She didn’t say goodbye.
Just: “Text me when you get off next time.”
Co nodded.
“I will.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The classroom smelled faintly of dust and photo paper—chemical memory clinging to the darkroom that shared a wall. Afternoon light streaked through the high windows in sharp slats, catching on portfolios laid out across tables and chairs pushed into loose, crooked rows. The projector hummed at the front of the room, casting faint glows onto half-drawn blinds.
Effie sat near the edge, spine straight, arms folded across her chest. Her critique was last. She’d volunteered for it. Not because she was eager, but because she wanted to get it over with.
Her piece—a single photograph—was projected onto the white screen at the front.
It was stark.
A burned-out bedroom. Ash-covered floor. Peeling walls stained with smoke. A melted ceiling fan hung limp in the top left of the frame, and in the bottom right, a single shoe rested sideways on the edge of a scorched mattress coil.
The room was empty.
But it felt full of something gone.
The silence that followed was longer than usual.
Then Professor Leeds—tall, silver-haired, with a voice that never needed volume to cut—cleared her throat.
“It’s composed well,” she said. “Technically thoughtful. Excellent depth.”
She paused.
“But it feels curated. Controlled. Almost… too composed to be personal.”
The comment hung in the air like a dare.
Effie didn’t blink.
She stared at the photo, arms still crossed, and then said—clear, steady:
“It’s not.”
Leeds raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Effie unfolded her arms, laced her fingers in her lap, and added, “It’s what’s left after personal burns away.”
The room shifted. No one moved, but the silence grew denser.
A girl in the second row glanced at Effie, then quickly back at her notebook. A guy near the window exhaled like he’d been holding something.
Professor Leeds nodded slowly, lips pressed in a line. She didn’t press. Didn’t ask for more.
She didn’t need to.
Effie’s words had done the thing the photo couldn’t.
Later, as the class packed up, no one said much. A few murmured goodbyes. The projector blinked off. The blinds were pulled open all the way, flooding the room in harsh light that made the screen’s emptiness feel exposed.
Effie stayed seated.
She looked at the floor where the photo had once been, then at her hands, still calm in her lap.
She didn’t feel vindicated.
She didn’t feel shaken.
She just… felt.
It was rare, these days.
She gathered her things and left without a word, the echo of her own sentence trailing behind her like smoke.
It’s what’s left after personal burns away.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16530
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
someone needs to get this criminal off the street for good
Son been a starter for four years and still needs to be told to lead
#notmyLB
Son been a starter for four years and still needs to be told to lead
#notmyLB
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16802
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47