Dying to Live

[Caesar]

Soapy wrote on the poster

9/10 chance

Glad Malik is adjusting to his normal so well. At least one character has seemed to turn the corner now

One? You were all in on the Alix Revival. Switched up on her.

finding THE chise goat still at it?

I don't know if I'll ever have time to read through 97 pages, but I'm here now lol

Not new to this, we true to this.

Just peep American Sun from the beginning

[Caesar]

Ro Two Times

[Captain Canada]

My boy wants that 1st team All American this year. No more excuses

[Caesar]

My boy wants that 1st team All American this year. No more excuses

Nation on notice

[Caesar]

Last One Left

He sat hunched over the kitchen island, bare-chested in mesh shorts and one sock, the early morning sun sliding through the half-open blinds like it was still deciding if the day deserved to begin. Steam curled lazily from the chipped LSU mug in his hand. The mug had survived everything—campus moves, dorm drops, a drunken night sophomore year where it got chipped on the side but still held coffee fine. Some mornings, it felt like the only thing left that did.

His phone leaned against the salt shaker. Highlights from the late games played on low volume. Oregon’s quarterback scrambled left, shook off a linebacker, and broke free for forty. The crowd roared—muffled, distant, like it was happening behind glass. Royce raised the mug to his lips, sipped, and muttered to nobody:

“Soft.”

In the hallway, Bree’s voice trickled out of the cracked bedroom door. Quiet. Tight. The kind of voice that only existed on damage control mode.

“No, I told you, I crashed at a friend’s,” she was saying.

A pause. Then again, sharper: “What does it matter who? I was tired—don’t start.”

Royce didn’t flinch. He just kept watching his phone.

The door creaked open behind him. Bree emerged with her hair stuffed into a messy bun, her makeup half-smeared, dressed in last night’s outfit, still clutching her phone. She didn’t look at Royce, not really. Her eyes skimmed over him like checking for knives. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

She walked past him to the door, muttering into her phone again. “I’m coming now. Just wait.”

She didn’t say thanks. Didn’t say bye. Just slipped out, soft steps and then the click of the door catching. Royce didn’t look up from his phone.

The phone buzzed against the counter. Unknown number. Houma area code.

He let it ring.

It buzzed again—this time with a name: Rana.

He exhaled, then swiped to answer.

“Ro...” Her voice was raw from crying already, and she didn’t wait. “He’s gone.”

The words landed like gravel in the gut. No windup. No softening.

Royce closed his eyes, jaw flexing. “When?”

“This morning. Real early. The hospice nurse said it was... peaceful.”

That word again. Peaceful. A joke.

Nothing about Reg’s life had been that.

Not when he was thirteen and hiding bruises behind school uniforms. Not when he was twenty and disappearing for weeks at a time. Not when he got clean. Not when he didn’t stay clean.

“Julian’s still sleep,” Rana added after a pause. “Ty’s making breakfast. I just... thought you should hear it from me.”

Royce nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see. “Yeah. I’m glad you called.”

“You okay?”

He hesitated. Then lied. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to come today,” she said, softer now. “I’m gonna handle what needs handling.”

Another pause. Royce’s hand tightened around the mug.

“Call me if you need something,” he said. His voice was even, but too low.

When they hung up, he sat there, the silence closing around him like a tide. The apartment had that too-clean smell. Sterile. Soulless. He hadn’t meant to decorate it. He had the money, but not the interest. None of this had ever felt permanent.

He stood slowly. Walked to the window. Outside, Baton Rouge was starting to wake up—kids on bikes with backpacks slung over one shoulder, a garbage truck groaning up the street. The city didn’t stop just because someone died.

Romeo.

Reg.

His father, still alive but already gone.

Royce was the last one left.

He didn’t move for a long time. Just stood there with the mug in hand and a pit in his stomach.

They’re all gone.

He whispered it to the window, like it might bounce back with comfort. It didn’t.

His phone buzzed again.

This time it was a text from LSU’s media team: Hey! Hype video drops at noon. You’re all over it. Fans are gonna eat it up.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, walked back to the kitchen, and poured the rest of the coffee down the sink. The smell stuck in the air like regret.

Then, without thinking, he grabbed a hoodie off the hook, pulled it over his head, and left. No destination. No headphones. Just footsteps and air.

Sometimes walking was the only way to remember you were still here.

Still breathing.

Still moving.

Still trying to figure out how to carry a name that used to belong to four men—and now only belonged to one.

~~~~~~~~~~

Toni pushed open the door of the lecture hall with her forearm, the weight of her backpack pulling on her shoulder, the weight of everything else pulling harder. The early afternoon sun was brutal, heat clinging to the back of her neck as she squinted against the light. Her phone buzzed in her hand before she even made it halfway down the steps.

Four missed calls. All from Deshawn.

And a scroll of texts.

“Where you at”
“Why you not picking up”
“You playing games again huh”
“Call me NOW”

She stopped on the edge of the quad and stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the reply button. Then, with a tight exhale, she hit call.

It barely rang before he picked up.

“Why the fuck you not answering?” he snapped, voice hot and fast like he’d been pacing.

Toni pulled her bag higher on her shoulder. “I was in class.”

“You act like class more important than me.”

She paused. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because what was she supposed to say?

Yes?

It was. It was more important. It had to be. It was a door she hadn’t shut yet. And he—he was the one still standing in the threshold, trying to keep her from walking through.

But she didn’t say that. Didn’t say anything at all. Just stood beneath a cloudless Louisiana sky and let the silence speak for her.

The line went quiet.

Then, three beeps. He hung up.

Toni lowered the phone and stared at the black screen, her reflection faint in the glass—tired eyes, lips pressed into a line too familiar, too practiced.

She opened the messages again. Her thumb dragged across them slowly, like maybe they'd rearrange into something kinder if she just gave them time.

They didn’t.

One by one, she deleted them. Every line. Every demand. Every accusation.

Then she hovered over the contact.

Block.

It glared back at her in red.

She didn’t press it.

Not yet.

Instead, she shoved the phone deep into her bag and walked across the quad, letting the sweat bead on her temples, letting the heat remind her she was still here.

Still choosing.

Even if she hadn’t finished choosing yet.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun had been down for hours, but the sky outside Effie’s window still held onto its deep blue tint, just enough to blur the lines between day and night. The room was dim—only the flickering glow of her laptop screen and the warm light of her bedside lamp casting soft halos across scattered sketches and half-full notebooks.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, back against her bedframe, phone in hand. The app was already open—her private account, the one only a handful of people followed. Not her professors. Not her classmates. Just the ones who wouldn’t ask questions with their eyebrows.

The photo was simple. Shot from the levee a few nights back—just a silhouette walking alone into that last stretch of honeyed light, their head down, shoulders square, the world swallowing them whole. She’d adjusted the contrast until the figure looked like shadow against fire.

She typed the caption slowly.

“Grief doesn’t knock. It just rearranges your house while you’re out.”

She stared at it for a while. Not poetic enough to feel like fiction, but not raw enough to cut too deep. It was safe. It was true.

She hit post.

Moments later, as she sifted through the stack of photographs she’d printed for critique, her phone buzzed. She reached for it without thinking—just a check.

BayouBoyRoLafitte liked your photo.

She blinked.

It was the first time he’d interacted with anything on that account. He’d followed the account months ago—quietly, without announcement—but he never said a word, never left a like. She hadn’t expected one. Didn’t even know he looked.

She tapped open his profile, just for a second, as if to confirm it hadn’t been a mistake.

And then, without overthinking it, she typed:

You good?

She set the phone down and returned to sorting her prints. A few minutes passed. Five. Maybe ten.

The screen lit up again.

Not even a little.

She inhaled.

Bit her lip.

Typed:

Want to talk about it?

Watched the typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Then a reply.

nah.

Just that.

Effie exhaled slowly and let the silence settle back in the room like dust. She didn’t press him. Didn’t send a follow-up. Didn’t need to.

She set the phone aside and picked up the last photo in her stack. It was one she hadn’t shown anyone yet—Royce, blurry, mid-step, walking past a chain-link fence near the practice field. One half of him in sunlight. The other in shade.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then quietly slid it to the top of the pile.

[Captain Canada]

That boy need to work on that IG handle

[Caesar]

That boy need to work on that IG handle

this man brother died and you talking about his IG name

[Caesar]

Heavy in the Morning

The light came slow through the blinds, not soft or golden but gray and half-hearted, the way it did when the air outside was colder than it should be in Baton Rouge. The cheap ceiling fan turned lazily above the bed, stirring nothing.

Royce was already awake.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just drifted for a while, hovered at the edge of dreams he didn’t want and memories he couldn’t dodge. He sat on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees, the apartment around him quiet in that unnatural, wrong kind of way.

There was a bowl on the counter. He didn’t remember pouring it, but the cereal inside was already soggy, milk tinged with the faint color of cinnamon. He stood in front of it shirtless, arms slack at his sides, hoodie thrown over one shoulder.

He picked up the spoon. Didn’t raise it.

Instead, he pulled his phone from the counter, thumb smudging the screen as he unlocked it. The screen flashed to life. Notifications—missed calls, unread messages—he ignored them. Opened the photos instead.

There it was.

Him and Romeo, maybe ten or eleven. Matching basketball shorts and too-big tank tops, standing in front of Reg’s old apartment in Houma. Rome had the ball balanced on his hip, grinning too wide. Royce was mean-mugging the camera in a way he thought made him look grown.

And Reg… Reg was off to the side. Not posing. Not really looking at the camera. Shirtless. Eyes glossy. His arm draped loosely around Royce’s shoulder, but his attention somewhere else. He looked high.

High and hollow.

Royce stared at that image a long time. Long enough for the screen to dim.

He tapped it again. Watched the colors reappear.

Then, without flinching, he hit delete.

The screen blinked. Are you sure?

He tapped yes. Then locked the phone and set it face down.

The cereal was cold. He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he pulled on the hoodie and tightened the drawstring. Slid on a pair of beat-up running shoes. No socks. He stepped outside, the wind sharper than it should’ve been for September. Air like a slap.

Downtown Baton Rouge was still asleep. The sun was barely dragging itself up over the skyline. Royce’s breath came out in quick puffs as his feet hit the sidewalk.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

He didn’t stretch. Didn’t check his pace. He just ran.

Down Lafayette. Across Florida. Past the mural on Government where someone had painted wings on a concrete angel—tagged over with the words we all fall someday.

The city moved around him but didn’t touch him. A garbage truck clanged in the distance. Someone cursed at a red light. A woman walked her dog with headphones in.

Royce kept moving.

He didn’t know if he was running toward something or away from it. But his lungs burned, and the ache in his legs felt honest in a way nothing else did.

Back in the apartment, the bowl still sat on the counter.

Untouched.

~~~~~~~~~~

The call came just after ten, buzzing against the dorm’s silence. Effie was lying on her stomach, bare feet kicking lazily in the air, flipping through one of her photography books without really reading it. The ringtone—a generic one she never bothered to change—rattled off her desk like a warning.

Mom

She let it ring twice before answering. Just long enough to feel like it might not matter. Just short enough to avoid the guilt.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft.

Her mother didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Are you coming home for fall break?”

The question landed like a stone on still water. Blunt. Cold. Not even a hi, how are you. Effie stared at the spine of her book, thumb tucked in between the pages.

“I don’t know yet,” she said carefully. “I have a few things I’m working on.”

A pause on the other end. Sharp and surgical.

“Well,” her mother said, “just let me know. I’ll need to put fresh sheets on the guest bed.”

Effie didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just let the words hang. Her mother’s voice was clipped, like she was confirming an appointment, not talking to her daughter. And that phrase—guest bed—carried more weight than either of them acknowledged.

There was a time it had been your room. Now it was a chore that needed preparing. Linens that needed to be fluffed for a visitor.

“Okay,” Effie said.

Not I love you. Not goodbye.

The line went dead a second later. Her mother had never been one for long calls.

Effie stayed still for a beat, phone still pressed to her ear as if there might be more.

There wasn’t.

She lowered the phone slowly, turning it in her hands, the screen going dark in her palm. A quiet hum filled the room—someone’s music bleeding through the wall. Muffled bass. Some girl laughing down the hall. Life still moving.

Effie stared down at her phone like it had betrayed her.

She should’ve expected it. It had been happening in increments for years—the slow reclassification of her presence in that house. From daughter to visitor. From inhabitant to disruption. From problem to silence.

She swallowed hard, blinked once.

Then pushed the book away and sat up, bare feet pressed flat to the cold floor. The walls of the room felt smaller than usual. The air thinner. She didn’t cry. She didn’t throw the phone. She didn’t scream.

She just sat there, hands in her lap, still.

Then—slowly—she picked up her camera from the windowsill.

It was quiet work, threading the strap through her fingers, adjusting the lens. Like muscle memory. Like prayer.

She turned it on, framed the shot. The corner of the bed, the soft crumple of her sweatshirt on the floor, the light from the desk lamp painting long shadows on the wall.

Click.

Another angle.

Click.

The shutter broke the silence like breath in a church.

She wasn’t sure if she was capturing something or just proving she still existed.

Either way, the camera didn’t ask why she didn’t want to go home.

It just listened.

And that was enough—for now.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drive from Lafayette to Baton Rouge hadn’t been quiet, exactly—but it hadn’t been full either. Music played low. Smoke from Toni’s vape blew out the cracked window, her fingers tapping the steering wheel every time they passed another mile marker. Arianna rode with one leg tucked beneath her, arms crossed, gaze steady out the passenger side.

They hadn’t really talked about why they were going. Just… we should check on him. That was all Arianna said.

Now they were here—standing outside Royce’s apartment with the late afternoon sun low on the horizon, pooling gold in the corners of the stairwell. The air smelled like boiled concrete and leftover humidity.

Arianna hesitated before knocking. Her knuckles hovered just above the door. She turned to Toni.

“You sure about this?” she asked, not quite whispering.

Toni shrugged, arms folded tight across her stomach. “I’m not sure about shit lately.”

Arianna nodded once and knocked.

The door opened slower than usual. Royce stood there, hoodie up, eyes unreadable. Not red. Not tired. Just… blank. His gaze flicked from Arianna to Toni and back again, like he was taking inventory more than greeting them.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside.

Inside, the air was stale. A Powerade bottle sat half-drunk on the coffee table next to a prescription bottle with the label peeled halfway off. The TV was on mute—highlights from some NFL preseason game looping in the background.

Royce dropped onto the couch, hoodie still on. His fingers laced together between his knees, back hunched like he was waiting on something to hit.

Toni sat in the far armchair, legs crossed, eyes down.

Arianna stayed standing.

“We heard about Reg,” she said, voice steady.

Royce didn’t look up.

“So?” he said.

Arianna exhaled through her nose, long and quiet. “So we came to check on you.”

“I’m straight.”

“Royce—”

He cut her off. “That nigga died the way he lived. If he hadn’t been shooting that shit up in his veins, he would’ve had been in that bed dying from Hep C, AIDS, whatever the fuck else he had.”

A beat passed.

“He was still your brother,” Toni said quietly.

Royce laughed—dry and bitter. “Yeah, well. That don’t mean he wasn’t a crackhead.”

Toni flinched, just barely. Arianna’s jaw tightened.

“I know he hurt you,” Arianna said, stepping forward. “I’m not here to rewrite that. But you’re allowed to feel something. Even if it’s just anger.”

“I don’t feel nothing,” Royce said. “That’s the difference. I already buried Rome. After that, everything else just starts feeling like background noise.”

Arianna blinked once. Her arms fell to her sides.

“You’ve lost more than most people do in a lifetime,” she said softly. “It’s okay if you’re not okay.”

Royce looked up at her now, eyes flat. “I said I’m straight.”

Arianna held his gaze, searching for something beneath it. She didn’t find it.

“I’m focused on Saturday,” Royce said, leaning back into the couch. “On getting to the league. Everything else? Ain’t shit I can do about it.”

Toni’s fingers twitched against the seam of her jeans. Arianna looked toward her, then back at Royce. The tension in the room was a breathing thing.

“We just wanted to see where your head was,” Arianna said finally, voice clipped now, shaped by something close to frustration. “Guess we got our answer.”

Royce didn’t move.

Arianna turned. “Come on,” she said to Toni.

The hallway outside was cooler than when they came in, the sun casting long shadows across the banister. They walked in silence toward the parking lot.

When they reached the car, Arianna pulled her keys out, but didn’t unlock the doors yet.

“He’s gonna crash,” she said quietly, eyes on the pavement. “If someone don’t keep him from it.”

Toni opened the passenger door and got in. Arianna slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

They reached the first red light before Toni said anything, her voice barely above the hum of the AC.

“Maybe we all will.”

Arianna didn’t reply.

She just stared at the red glow against the windshield.

And realized it wasn’t the silence that scared her most.

It was how close they all were to going under, and how none of them seemed ready to reach for air.

[Caesar]

Nothing to Say

The sun beat down on the practice field like it had something to prove. Early September in Baton Rouge didn’t believe in autumn, and the humidity clung to everything—shoulder pads, skin, even breath. The clang of helmets, the bark of coaches, the steady rhythm of whistles echoed across the turf.

It was a live defensive drill—inside run. Full contact. First team offense against first team defense. No red jerseys. No half-speed.

Royce lined up across from the left guard, legs bent, hands twitching at his thighs, breath even through the mesh of his facemask. Sweat trickled from his brow into his eye. He blinked it away.

The call had come from Kolaj—some variation of trap—but Royce didn’t fully register it. The words reached his ears, but they didn’t stick. His body went through the motions, mind trailing just a second behind.

The ball snapped. Linemen exploded off the line.

And Royce didn’t see the pulling tackle until it was too late.

Trey’Dez came across the formation and smashed into him shoulder-first. The hit lifted Royce off his feet and spun him sideways. He hit the turf with a sickening thud, grass sticking to his gloves, the breath knocked clear from his chest.

Everything went momentarily quiet in his helmet.

Then sound returned in pieces—cleats pounding the ground, the sharp crack of pads, someone shouting “Finish!” in the background.

Royce rolled onto his side, pushed up slowly. No urgency. No fire. Just the methodical, deliberate effort of someone piecing himself together out of instinct.

He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t spit. Didn’t curse.

He just jogged back to the huddle with his head low, one hand raised in apology.

Coach Lupoi’s voice cracked across the field like thunder.

“Royce!”

Royce stopped just short of the huddle, turning slightly. His chest still heaved, but his expression didn’t change.

“You been here four years and don’t know how to watch for blockers?!”

No reply. Royce didn’t flinch. He just nodded once, hand still up. A gesture of admission. Not defeat—but acceptance.

The rest of the players stood quiet. Helmets tilted. Cleats shuffling.

Payton—one of the freshmen, too new to be jaded—took a cautious step closer.

“You good?” he asked, voice low behind his mouthguard.

Royce nodded again. A little tighter this time.

But he didn’t say a word.

They reset the drill. A new rep. Another shot. Royce lined up again—same stance, same posture—but something in his eyes was distant. Not distracted, exactly. Just somewhere else.

The coaches didn’t call him out again. The hit had spoken louder than any correction would.

The rest of practice went on. Reps stacked. Whistles blew. The sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the turf. Players slowly peeled off helmets, stripped tape from their wrists, downed electrolyte bottles with shaky hands.

Royce sat on the sideline, elbows on knees, helmet resting beside him. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t sore.

But he felt like a window that had been left open just long enough to let something cold in.

And no one could see it. Not really.

Because he still showed up. Still lined up. Still hit like hell when it counted.

But when Dorian slapped his shoulder and said, “See you tomorrow, OG,” Royce didn’t answer.

Just nodded.

Like a man trying to convince himself that quiet still meant control.

~~~~~~~~~~

The email came in just as Alix was unlocking her car door.

Her tote bag slid off her shoulder and thudded onto the passenger seat as she sat down, the late sun turning the dashboard warm against her forearm. She hadn’t even shut the door yet when her phone buzzed again—1 new message: “Outstanding Work”.

It was from Renee, her boss at RouxThe subject line sounded like a forwarded newsletter or a group memo, but it was addressed to her directly.

She tapped it open.

Alix,

I just wrapped the debrief with the Fontenot client. They were thrilled with the space. You should’ve seen their faces on the Zoom call—total disbelief that someone “so young” could have “such clear vision.”

Your ability to balance color, light, and texture is well beyond where I’d expect a junior designer to be.

We’ll be submitting the final shots to Southeast Interiors for the spring feature.

Be proud. This one’s yours.

– Renee

Alix reread the words once. Then again. Her finger hovered over the screen, as if pressing too hard might break the moment.

Outside her windshield, the parking lot of Roux reflected the soft hues of early evening—long shadows, streaks of peach and lavender on glass. Someone’s car alarm chirped in the distance.

Inside the car, silence.

Alix blinked, lips parting slightly. No smile yet. No tears. Just stillness. Like her body didn’t trust the words right away. Like she was waiting for the fine print.

Because she’d been praised before—but it always came with something. From boys who said she was “different” like it was a novelty. From exes who called her “ambitious” right before asking why she worked so late. From teachers who assumed “eye for design” was shorthand for “pretty girl with taste.”

But this?

This was just… hers.

No filter. No romance. No performance.

Just her name and her work in the same sentence. In a professional email. On record.

Slowly, she smiled. Soft at first. Then fuller. She let herself feel it.

Not because it was loud. But because it was real.

She leaned back in the driver’s seat, staring up at the roof like it might offer a better version of the sky. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was waiting on anyone to tell her she mattered.

She already did.

That night, her laptop sat open across her comforter, casting a faint glow on the walls of her room. The rest of the apartment was quiet—Simone was in class, Madi was at her late shift, and Ashlee had gone to visit her fiancé in Lake Charles. For once, Alix wasn’t answering texts or swiping through old photos.

She was building.

She clicked through her old design folders, labeling favorites: the compact studio with floating shelves she reimagined for a single mom in Mid City. The retro-modern bathroom concept that had accidentally gone viral on Pinterest. And now, the Fontenot house—polished oak, deep navy accents, brass details that caught light just right.

The homepage came together slowly—Alix Broussard Design in a clean serif, nestled against a minimalist logo she’d sketched in a sketchpad last winter but never shared.

She paused over the "About Me" section.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.

What did she want to say?

That she was born and raised in Baton Rouge?

That her mother once dreamed of turning a condemned duplex into a light-filled haven with nothing but yard sale furniture and paint samples?

That for years, she’d only felt seen when she was being wanted?

No.

She took a breath and started typing:

I believe good design doesn’t shout. It invites. It holds. It reflects who you are—even when you don’t know how to say it yet.

I design spaces the way I learned to live—softly, intentionally, and with room to grow.

She stared at the blinking cursor. Then hit save.

It wasn’t finished. But it was a start.

And for once, starting didn’t feel like a cry for help.

It felt like a choice.

Like her own name was finally worth building something around.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sky over Baton Rouge hung in that slow-motion dusk, where gold met grime and the city looked more like smoke than skyline. From the eighth-floor balcony, it all stretched out in scattered neon and shadow—the river a black streak in the distance, the Chevron sign blinking like a metronome.

Royce sat low in one of the metal chairs, a cold Gatorade bottle sweating on the table beside him. His hoodie sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms. The wind was soft, humid. Cars whispered below. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked twice, then nothing.

He hadn’t come out here to think.

But it was happening anyway.

His phone buzzed against the tabletop, screen flashing up a number he didn’t have saved but recognized instantly.

Dixon Correctional Facility

Royce stared at it. Let it buzz once more before answering.

“Yeah.”

Kevon’s voice came through like gravel under boot. “Took you long enough.”

Royce didn’t rise to it. “Was outside.”

A pause. A beat. Kevon didn’t care.

“I heard about Reg.”

Royce didn’t say anything. The silence itself was an answer.

Kevon exhaled sharply, like he was already annoyed. “Funeral’s set for Monday. Down in Houma.”

“Alright.”

Another pause.

“I want you to say something,” Kevon said. “Give a few words. For your brother.”

Royce’s knuckles flexed once on the armrest. His eyes stayed on the horizon.

“Nah,” he said flatly. “I ain’t doing all that.”

“You what?”

“I said I ain’t speaking, man.”

Kevon’s voice sharpened, the tone shifting from request to reprimand.

“You his brother, Royce.”

Royce’s jaw tensed. “I know who I am.”

“Then act like it! He didn’t have nobody else!”

Royce stood slowly, resting both hands on the railing, eyes scanning the rows of rooftops below. Lights were coming on in windows. Life going on. People who didn’t know Reg, who never would.

“I’ll show up,” Royce said, voice even. “I’ll carry the coffin. Fuck, I’ll even pay to put that nigga in the ground. But I’m not speaking.”

“Why not?” Kevon demanded. “You embarrassed? Too good to say something over the man who used to put you on his shoulders when you was a baby?”

“I ain’t got nothing to say,” Royce said quietly. “Not that ain’t a lie.”

That landed heavy. Even the street noise seemed to pull back for a second.

Kevon’s anger came quick and sharp. “You ungrateful lil—”

Royce cut him off. “Nah. Don’t go there. I ain’t ungrateful. How can I be ungrateful when that nigga ain’t done shit for me in the last 15 years?”

“He was your blood.”

“So what?” Royce snapped, louder now. “I was his brother when he left me at that hospital on my ass, shot the fuck up. I gotta be the bigger man? All that time I spent picking up his slack—you want me to stand up and say what? That he was misunderstood? That he had a good heart? Nah fuck him.”

Kevon was breathing hard now. “You think you better than him.”

“No,” Royce said. “I think I’m luckier.”

That silenced the line for a moment.

Then, in a voice low and bitter, Kevon muttered, “You don’t know what loyalty means.”

Royce laughed once. Dry. “Nah. I know exactly what it means. It means I’m still showing up for a funeral I don’t even want to go to.”

Kevon didn’t respond.

The call ended without a goodbye.

Royce stood there a moment longer, his grip on the railing loosening. The sky had gone indigo, Baton Rouge flickering beneath him like a city in a snow globe someone forgot to shake.

He picked up the Powerade, took a slow sip.

Then sat back down.

Still. Quiet.

Alone with the weight of a man he couldn’t mourn, and a silence he had no interest in breaking.

~~~~~~~~~~

The TV flickered low in the corner of the room, the volume barely louder than a whisper. Some rerun reality show played on mute while the hum of the box fan in the window filled the rest of the silence. The apartment smelled like old incense and faint cologne, with just a trace of grease from Deshawn’s fast-food bag on the counter.

Toni sat curled on the edge of the bed, one leg folded beneath her, wearing his hoodie, sleeves pulled over her knuckles. She was scrolling her syllabus, squinting at the start time for her morning seminar.

9:00 a.m. Art History. Attendance mandatory.

Her thumb hovered over the phone screen.

Deshawn came up behind her, shirtless, damp from the shower, a towel slung loose around his waist. His hand found her shoulder first—lightly—then slid down, fingers trailing until they reached her collarbone. He leaned in, lips brushing the side of her neck.

“I was thinking,” he murmured, voice soft and sticky, “we take a little ride tomorrow.”

Toni tilted her head, not quite looking at him. “A ride?”

“Arnaudville. My boy throwing something out there—seafood, drinks, music. Chill shit.”

She didn’t answer right away.

“I got class at nine,” she said finally, not defensive—just tired. The kind of tired that had started in her bones weeks ago and hadn’t gone anywhere since.

Deshawn chuckled low against her skin. “One class, baby?”

“I already missed twice.”

He pulled her closer by the waist, the towel slipping slightly as he sat beside her on the bed. His voice turned coaxing, syrup-thick. “You always doing everything for everybody else. Just skip it. Come with me. We need a day.”

Toni looked down at her hands, sleeves bunched up at her wrists. “I’m behind.”

“We’ll make it up.”

“I’m tired, Deshawn.”

He kissed her neck again, slower this time. “Then you need to relax. What’s more relaxing than riding out with your man?”

His hand slid across her thigh, thumb circling her skin just beneath the hem of her shorts.

“You my ride-or-die, right?” he said against her jaw.

That phrase. He said it like it was a compliment. Like it was love. Like it was something she should be proud to be.

Toni swallowed.

She nodded. Once.

“Yeah,” she said. Barely audible.

Deshawn smiled, satisfied. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

The morning came too early.

Her alarm buzzed against the nightstand at 7:12 a.m., but Toni didn’t reach for it. She stared at the ceiling, sunlight slanting through the blinds in harsh, perfect lines. Her bookbag was still zipped shut by the door. Her phone pinged once—class reminder.

She didn’t move.

Deshawn was already up, moving through the kitchen, rapping his knuckles against the counter as he reheated leftovers and scrolled music for the ride. She could hear him humming under his breath.

Toni finally sat up.

No makeup. No notebook. No lecture slides. Just an oversized hoodie, old sneakers, and the sound of her professor taking attendance on someone else’s screen.

Another absence.

Her phone buzzed again, screen lighting up with the subject line from the online portal.

Third Missed Class – Attendance Warning

She didn’t open it.

She just turned the screen face down.

Then walked out the door.

[Caesar]

No Sweat