Who to Blame
The drive back from Pensacola had been a long, empty stretch of asphalt and angry silence.
Royce had barely spoken the whole way. Just music blaring louder than necessary, sunglasses hiding the storm brewing behind his eyes. He pulled into Baton Rouge around midday, his body aching, his mind a mess of justifications and resentment he didn’t want to sit with too long.
Instead of heading back to his place, he drove straight to Alix's apartment.
The lights were on when he got there — soft, low, like always — and for a second he sat in the car, staring up at the window, jaw working tight.
He didn’t know what he was even trying to fix anymore. Only that he needed something from her — something she used to give freely and now made him reach for like it was a privilege.
He hated needing it.
Hated needing her.
By the time he knocked, his chest was a knot of anger and confusion he couldn't untangle.
Alix opened the door in a big, loose LSU sweatshirt and socks, hair pulled up messily, her face scrubbed free of makeup.
She looked tired.
And for a half-second, Royce almost softened.
Almost.
But then the ugly coil of everything he’d been stewing in all weekend twisted tighter, and the words snapped out of him before he could catch them.
"You been busy?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Alix closed the door quietly behind him. "Had some work to catch up on."
Royce crossed his arms, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t itching to start a fight.
"Yeah?" he said. "Or you just didn’t wanna tell me about square ass nigga you been letting fuck?"
The accusation landed sharp and ugly in the small living room.
Alix froze for a second — not because she was guilty, but because she recognized the pattern now. How fast things could sour. How every conversation seemed to tilt sideways before she even knew it was happening.
She didn’t bother denying it.
Not this time.
Not because she was hiding anything — she wasn't — but because she was tired.
Tired of scrambling to prove something she never stopped being.
Tired of feeling like she had to audition for a place she already earned.
She shrugged lightly, like his words didn’t cut deep even though they did.
"Believe what you want, Royce," she said softly.
That should’ve disarmed him.
Instead, it made him angrier — the way she refused to fight, refused to give him the reaction he thought he deserved.
He scoffed, pushing off the counter.
"You ain’t even gonna try, huh?"
Alix just looked at him — tired, worn, empty of explanations.
Royce shook his head, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
"Man, fuck this," he muttered, grabbing his keys from the table.
He didn’t slam the door when he left. Didn’t yell.
But somehow the quiet when the door clicked shut was worse.
…
Later, Alix lay curled up in bed, the apartment dim except for the faint glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains.
She stared at the ceiling, the ache behind her eyes too heavy to cry through.
The fan spun slow above her, the hum of it filling the silence he left behind.
She turned the conversations over in her mind — the way it always spiraled, no matter how careful she was.
No matter how much she loved him. No matter how much she tried to hold them together.
Every time, he found a way to make her feel like she wasn’t enough. Like it was her fault for not chasing harder, proving harder, loving harder.
Her fingers twisted into the blanket.
How do you fight for someone who isn’t fighting for you anymore?
She didn’t have an answer.
Didn’t know if there even was one.
All she knew was the hollow space at her side — where he used to be — where he was choosing not to be.
And for the first time, she let herself wonder if maybe he wasn’t just pulling away.
Maybe he was already gone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The afternoon sun hung low and heavy over the quad, making the concrete shimmer like a mirage.
The air smelled like fryer grease and cut grass, the thick scent of a campus that never quite cooled down no matter how late in the year it got.
Royce trudged across the walkway, hoodie loose around his shoulders despite the heat, hands shoved deep into his shorts pockets.
His head throbbed from the drive back from Pensacola, from the weight of everything left unsaid with Alix, from the hollow, ugly ache that seemed to be settling deeper into him with every passing day.
He wasn't looking to see anyone.
He just wanted food. Grease. Silence.
He barely noticed the figure sprawled across the bench until it was too late to veer away clean.
Effie, stretched out like a cat in the sun, earbuds in, sketchbook balanced against her knee.
One leg dangled off the bench, the other propped up. Her pencil scratched lazy strokes against the paper, the tray of cold fries perched next to her like an afterthought.
Royce dipped his head, hoping to slide past without getting pulled into anything.
But she caught him.
Effie popped one earbud out, looking up with a slow, knowing smile.
"For someone who claims to be my friend so often," she said dryly, "you sure were about to just walk on by."
Royce snorted under his breath and changed direction, ambling over with a mock shrug.
"Didn’t wanna break your concentration," he said, nodding toward her sketchbook.
Effie gave him a look. "My flow’s unbreakable. Sit down."
He dropped onto the bench with a groan, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
For a second, they just sat there, the hum of campus noise filling the space between them — a frisbee slapping the ground nearby, the distant roar of a mower.
Effie nudged the tray of fries toward him with the eraser end of her pencil.
"Eat," she said. "I can feel your blood sugar crying from here."
Royce gave a lopsided grin and grabbed a handful. The fries were cold, soggy, way too salty — and somehow exactly what he needed.
"You’re welcome," Effie said grandly, flipping a page.
Royce popped another fry into his mouth. "You always this generous with your leftovers?"
"Only for charity cases," she said, flashing a quick grin. "I’m in a service learning class and gotta get some community service hours in."
He laughed — real and easy, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little.
They sat in comfortable silence for a minute before Effie spoke again, tapping her pencil against her sketchpad.
"You look like shit, by the way," she said, not unkindly.
Royce barked out another soft laugh, shaking his head. "Appreciate that."
She shrugged. "Friends don’t lie."
He glanced sideways at her — the way she lounged without a care, not looking at him like she wanted anything from him, not waiting for him to perform.
It made the knot in his chest pull a little looser.
"You good?" Effie asked, voice lighter now. "Or you need, like, spiritual healing? I can find some crystals or burn sage or whatever."
Royce smirked.
"I’m good," he said. "But you would be the type to have some fucking crystals."
Effie raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.
Instead, she went back to sketching — long, easy strokes across the page — like she trusted him to talk if he needed to, or not.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Royce picked at another fry, letting his head tip back against the bench, staring up at the too-bright sky.
"You ever feel like…" he started, then trailed off, frowning.
Effie glanced at him without lifting her head. "Like what?"
He exhaled slowly. "Like everything’s moving, but you ain’t?"
Effie was quiet for a second, considering.
"Yeah," she said finally. "All the time."
She flipped her pencil around, tapping the eraser lightly against the corner of her sketchbook.
"But just 'cause you’re not sprinting doesn’t mean you’re stuck," she added. "Sometimes you gotta let the world move without you. Catch your breath. Figure your shit out."
Royce turned that over in his head for a second.
It was simple. But it didn’t feel dismissive. It felt real.
"You be reading self-help books or something?" he asked, smirking.
Effie laughed. "Nah. I'm just tired. Being tired makes you wise."
He laughed again, the sound sticking in his throat a little, raw but good.
It felt easy here. Easy in a way almost nothing else did lately.
He hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone fed him — literally or figuratively — without expecting something in return.
Just cold fries. Just a shared bench in the sun. Just breathing without feeling like he owed anyone anything for it.
Royce wiped his hands on his shorts and stood slowly, stretching his arms overhead.
"I’m out," he said, voice easy.
Effie nodded without looking up, like she already knew. "Catch you later, Royce."
Royce hesitated a beat — long enough to let the moment settle — then headed off down the walkway, the afternoon sun warming his back, the taste of salt still on his tongue.
For once, he wasn’t running from anything.
And somehow, it didn’t feel like he was running to anything either.
He was just... moving.
And for right now, that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The gas station sat lonely at the edge of the parking lot, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the cracked pavement sticky under the late-afternoon sun.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. Just a quick pickup — nothing more complicated than swapping a small package for a fat envelope, the kind of thing even a rookie like Poochie should’ve been able to handle without screwing up.
But the second the phone rang in his pocket, buzzing with Natalia’s name flashing across the screen, he hesitated.
And that hesitation cost him.
Across the lot, Meech watched it happen from the driver’s seat of the Charger, his hand tightening around the steering wheel.
The guy they were meeting — a tall, wiry dude in a red hoodie — clocked Poochie’s distraction immediately. He muttered something under his breath, pocketed the envelope halfway, and stalked off, leaving the exchange sloppy and incomplete.
Poochie stood there for a second, blinking like he hadn’t quite realized how fast it had gone sideways.
In his hand, his phone still buzzed.
Meech was out of the car before he even thought about it, the door swinging open with a sharp crack.
"Poochie!" he barked across the lot.
Heads turned — a couple customers by the pumps, a woman walking out with a bag of chips.
Poochie flinched, tucking the phone into his pocket like it might hide how stupid he’d just looked.
Meech crossed the lot fast, heat radiating off him.
"You dumb as hell or just wanna look it?" he snapped, voice cutting through the thick air.
Poochie opened his mouth, but Meech didn’t give him the chance.
"I got you on a layup," Meech said, jabbing a finger toward the parking lot. "A fucking layup — and you fumble 'cause your little girlfriend can't wait five minutes to call you?"
"It wasn’t like that—" Poochie started, voice small, shrinking under the weight of it.
Meech cut him off with a short, sharp laugh — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
"You lucky we in public," he said, stepping in close, chest brushing Poochie's shoulder. "’Cause you act like this again, and you ain’t getting cursed out — you getting violated."
Poochie’s hands twitched at his sides, jaw working like he wanted to say something back — to defend himself, maybe, or just to save a shred of face.
It wouldn’t have mattered.
Meech was already in a mood to bury him.
Before it could snap into something worse, Shayla stepped between them, a hand splayed lightly against Meech’s chest.
She didn’t push — just laid her palm there, firm and steady like a quiet reminder that people were watching.
"Meech," she said, low and even.
Meech’s eyes stayed locked on Poochie for a beat too long.
"Meech," Shayla said again, softer but sharper.
Finally, he exhaled — a hot, sharp breath through his nose — and took a half-step back.
Poochie dropped his eyes to the ground, his sneakers scuffing nervously against the oil-streaked pavement.
"You embarrassing yourself," Shayla muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Meech to hear. “People fucking watching.”
She didn’t say it like an insult. She said it like a fact.
Meech ran a hand down his face, forcing himself to breathe, forcing himself to remember there was a time and a place.
This wasn’t it.
Not yet.
He jabbed a finger toward Poochie one more time.
"No more fuckups," he said, voice tight with barely bottled heat. "Not one."
Poochie nodded stiffly, not looking up.
Meech turned on his heel and stalked back toward the Charger without another word, the doors slamming shut behind him a few seconds later.
Shayla lingered for a beat longer, her arms crossed.
Poochie kicked at a piece of gravel, face burning under the gas station lights.
"I ain’t trying to mess up," he mumbled.
Shayla didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him — really looked — and saw everything he didn’t know how to hide: The panic. The shame. The desperate need to still be seen as useful.
Finally, she said, voice low but clear:
"Then don’t."
And with that, she turned and headed back toward the car, leaving Poochie standing there, the hum of the streetlights buzzing in his ears.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16892
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Poochie’s funeral update is going to go crazy, huh
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16682
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
emo ass nigga, get a grip
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16892
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
A common tale for the young Black male
Toxic masculinity over here
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16892
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Smashing Beaver
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16892
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Fool Me Twice
The party was already full by the time Royce arrived.nMusic bleeding from cheap speakers. Someone on the porch passing out shots. Inside, the house smelled like warm beer and cologne, LSU flags taped crooked to the walls, bodies moving shoulder to shoulder in celebration.
The win over Oregon State had come without drama — 23–7. Just enough to feel like control. Just enough to feel like something was working.
People slapped Royce on the back when he walked in.
“Big man,” someone called from the kitchen. “Y’all finna give Georgia the fucking business.”
He smiled, nodded, let it land without really holding it.
He moved through the house slowly, half-looking for Alix even though he already knew she wasn’t there. She hadn’t been on the field after the game. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t come up behind him in the crowd like she used to.
He’d scanned the student section once, out of habit, early in the second quarter. She was sitting alone then, a row up from everyone else, legs crossed, hoodie loose around her shoulders.
By the third, she was gone.
Now it was almost an hour since he’d texted her to say he was leaving his apartment, and the house pulsed with laughter and noise. Still no sign of her.
Royce pulled a drink from the cooler and leaned against the wall near the stairwell, pretending to check something on his phone.
…
She walked in just after ten.
Her hair was still damp near the ends — not wet, just freshly washed. She looked calm. Collected. Quiet in a way that made people instinctively make room for her.
Royce saw her before she saw him.
Or maybe she had seen him, and just didn’t stop.
She moved toward the kitchen like she wasn’t looking for anyone, said a soft hi to Madi and Simone, let herself drift into the rhythm of the party without pressing too hard against it.
Royce watched her for a while before walking over.
“You didn’t stay for the second half,” he said softly when he reached her.
Alix looked up from her drink. Her expression didn’t change.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
He hesitated. “Why not?”
“I wasn’t feeling it.”
Royce studied her face, tried to read it. “Everything okay?”
She nodded, too quickly. “I’m good.”
Her tone was even. Not cold — just done.
She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t asking anything from him.
That was what made it worse.
He didn’t ask what she’d been doing. Didn’t mention the guy he’d noticed walking in behind her as she entered, the way he was much too close to her, the way she’d adjusted her hair absentmindedly a few minutes later, like she was still shaking him off.
He didn’t ask because part of him already knew.
They stood next to each other for a while, talking with a few people they both halfway knew. Royce let his hand rest lightly on her lower back.
She didn’t move. Didn’t react.
But a few minutes later, without saying a word, she stepped forward to greet someone, and the space between them opened.
She didn’t come back to it.
Royce stood still, the laughter around him rising, the music shifting. He didn’t say anything.
He just finished his drink and stared at the wall for a long moment before setting the cup down gently and walking toward the back of the house.
…
The bathroom was dim and too warm — the kind of heat that clung to skin in old houses packed with too many people and not enough airflow.
Alix locked the door gently behind her and leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like she needed the grounding.
The mirror was speckled, the light overhead flickering in one corner.
She stared at herself without blinking.
Her makeup was still intact. Her hair had dried now, loose and falling around her shoulders the way she used to wear it for Royce — back before he stopped noticing things like that.
Her mouth felt dry.
She reached for the soap pump, washed her hands with mechanical care, then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed tight over her stomach.
She thought about the boy from the game. She didn’t know his name. Didn’t ask.
He’d leaned into her during the second quarter, complimented her smile, said he couldn’t believe she was there alone.
And in that moment — after weeks of being doubted, of being looked through, of being accused — something in her had snapped.
Fine.
Let it be true.
She hadn’t expected it to feel like anything. And it didn’t.
She didn’t feel powerful. Or wild. Or free.
She felt… hollow. Like she’d walked herself even further into the dark just to feel something Royce could have given her if he hadn’t been so afraid to trust her.
Her head thudded gently against the wall as she closed her eyes.
When did I stop being happy?
She couldn’t find the answer. All she knew was she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt wanted — not like an accessory, not like an obligation. Just wanted.
And not for how quiet she could stay.
She opened the bathroom door a few minutes later.
The hallway was quieter now, the party beginning to tip into that late-night haze where everyone either wound down or spun out.
A guy leaned against the wall just a few feet away, sipping something from a plastic cup, casual in a fitted long-sleeve and gold chain.
He looked up as she stepped out and offered a slow, unbothered smile.
“Everything alright?” he asked, like they knew each other. Like maybe they could.
Alix met his eyes. Hesitated.
She could already feel what he wanted from her — not in a creepy way, not even in a pushy way. Just an invitation.
She didn’t answer immediately.
A small part of her wanted to say yes. Not because she cared. But because she wanted to know what it would feel like to be chosen again. Even if just for a moment.
But her body was tired. Her heart was quieter now. The shame from earlier still sat just behind her teeth.
“I’m good,” she said softly, brushing past him without looking back.
…
They didn’t talk about leaving.
Royce found her near the back door, nursing a watered-down drink, watching people drift into the yard like they had nowhere else to be.
He nodded toward the exit. She gave a slight nod back.
And that was that.
They walked out into the warm, close air — neither touching, neither speaking — just moving in sync like people who had done this too many times to need directions.
The drive back was quiet. Royce’s hand rested lightly on the gearshift, the road humming under the tires.
Alix leaned her head against the window, eyes closed but not asleep.
He didn’t ask where she’d gone during the game. She didn’t ask what he’d done in Pensacola.
There were no more questions — just space.
Back at his apartment, the ritual unfolded with muscle memory.
She dropped her purse on the chair by the wall. He peeled off his hoodie, toeing off his shoes. They didn’t bother with music. Didn’t even turn the lights all the way on.
They touched each other like strangers — like two people who used to mean something, now clinging to the shape of what used to be.
Royce kissed her neck. Alix didn’t move.
They had sex quietly, without urgency. No foreplay. No laughter. No attempt to close the gap that stretched between them.
Just motion. Just warmth. Just noise to drown out the echo of what they’d already lost.
Afterward, Royce lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling fan.
Alix turned away from him, the sheet pulled halfway up her chest, her breath evening out in the stillness.
They didn’t touch.
No arms tangled.
No fingertips tracing skin.
No whispered I love yous.
Just silence.
Just two people lying next to each other in the dark, quietly disappearing.
…
The room was pale with morning light when Royce blinked awake — not sunlight exactly, but that soft gray glow that settled just before the sun came fully up.
The fan above him clicked faintly with each slow rotation. His mouth was dry. His body ached in the way it always did after games — but this was different. This ache sat deeper.
He reached across the bed without thinking.
His hand landed on cold sheets.
No warmth. No weight. Just emptiness.
He sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes, staring at the space beside him like it might offer an explanation.
But her things were gone. Her clothes. Her earrings. Even the scent of her — faint perfume, shampoo, something citrus — had faded from the room.
No note. No text. No goodbye.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.
Checked his phone.
Nothing.
He dropped it face down on the nightstand and let himself fall back onto the mattress, the quiet swallowing him whole.
In the kitchen, the hum of the fridge filled the air.
The apartment felt too still — no signs of life beyond him. He stood there shirtless, staring at nothing in particular.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Not the sex. Not the silence. Not even her leaving without a word.
It was how normal it had all become.
Like this was just how it ended now. Like this was the rhythm they’d slipped into without either of them saying it out loud.
And for the first time, Royce didn’t feel angry.
He just felt… tired.
…
Alix sat at the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, staring down at the floor like it might tell her something useful.
She hadn’t changed out of her clothes from the night before. The zipper on her jeans was still halfway undone. One earring dangled loosely in her hand.
Her phone sat face down on the nightstand. She hadn’t checked it since slipping out of Royce’s apartment at dawn — shoes in hand, hoodie zipped halfway up, barely making a sound as the door closed behind her.
She didn’t know if he woke up.
Didn’t care if he did.
That’s what she told herself, anyway.
Her makeup was smudged at the corners, but she hadn’t bothered to wash it off. She hadn’t even taken out her contacts. Everything just felt… heavy.
The kind of tired that didn’t come from sleep.
Across the room, Madi’s door was still closed. The apartment was silent.
Alix rubbed at her eyes, but didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in weeks — not really. She kept thinking she would. That it would break, eventually. That something inside her would cave in.
But it hadn’t. It just stayed there — stuck.
Like a rock in her throat.
How long can you keep pretending you’re okay when nothing about this feels like love anymore?
The thought came and went, unanswered.
She stood up slowly, peeled off her jeans, and padded toward the bathroom.
The mirror would be waiting — smeared and quiet and brutally honest.
But she’d deal with it.
She always did.
~~~~~~~~~~
The diner was almost empty — a low-lit spot off a service road that mostly saw night shift workers and drifters by this hour.
It smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long and fry grease that had settled into the wallpaper. Somewhere in the back, a radio played low — something jazzy and slow, crackling through old speakers.
Arianna sat in a booth by the window, stirring sugar into her tea even though she wasn’t sure she’d drink it. The laminate table was chipped in one corner, the sugar caddy missing half its packets.
Across from her sat Elijah, the soft-voiced poet she’d met at the last open mic— tall, warm-eyed, the kind of quiet that pulled truth out of people without ever asking for it.
They hadn’t meant to end up here. But the event had gone long, and the others had trickled off, and somehow she and Elijah had just… kept walking. Talking. Wandering until the streetlights thinned and the glow of the diner pulled them in.
Outside, the parking lot was still. Inside, everything felt suspended — like they had time to tell the truth.
"You ever feel like..." Arianna began, then stopped. Her fingers traced the lip of her cup. “Like the better your life gets, the worse you feel about it?”
Elijah tilted his head, not blinking. “Guilt?”
She nodded once. "Yeah. Like... I’m doing everything I said I would. Getting out. Making something. And some days I still feel like I should apologize for it."
"For leaving people behind?"
She nodded again. Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “Like Toni. I think about her more than I say. I look at what she’s stuck in and I—I hate that I get to have more. Even though I earned it. Even though I fought for it.”
Elijah’s spoon clinked gently against the side of his mug.
"You breaking cycles they didn’t even know they were trapped in," he said, his voice steady but soft. "That ain’t betrayal. That’s evolution.”
Arianna blinked, caught off-guard by how fast the tears threatened her eyes.
He didn’t say it like a platitude. He said it like a truth he knew from the inside out.
"I just—" she exhaled, steadying herself. "I remember when I thought survival was success. Like... just not drowning was enough. And now I’m somewhere new and... I keep wondering if the good stuff was really meant for me or if I’m borrowing it.”
Elijah leaned forward, his arms folded over the edge of the table.
“You not borrowing anything,” he said. “You’re cashing in on everything they said you couldn’t have.”
Arianna didn’t answer at first. She just looked down, her hand gripping the mug now like it tethered her to the moment.
She thought of Toni — still in that house with Deshawn, still covering bruises with jokes, still calling silence loyalty.
She thought of her old bedroom in Houma, the one with the crooked blinds and posters she’d left on the walls for someone else to forget.
She thought of Mike, too. Royce, even Romeo. And how hard it was to let go of people you love when you finally learn to save yourself.
She looked back at Elijah, tears drying before they ever fell.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one that got out.”
He shook his head gently. “You the first. Not the only. There's a difference.”
Arianna let that settle.
For the first time in a long time, she believed it might be true.
She leaned back in the booth, letting her shoulders drop, her body finally starting to unclench.
The tea was cold, but she drank it anyway.
Outside, the night kept moving. But inside that little pocket of light and linoleum, she felt a little less alone.
And for once, she wasn’t sorry about what she survived.
The party was already full by the time Royce arrived.nMusic bleeding from cheap speakers. Someone on the porch passing out shots. Inside, the house smelled like warm beer and cologne, LSU flags taped crooked to the walls, bodies moving shoulder to shoulder in celebration.
The win over Oregon State had come without drama — 23–7. Just enough to feel like control. Just enough to feel like something was working.
People slapped Royce on the back when he walked in.
“Big man,” someone called from the kitchen. “Y’all finna give Georgia the fucking business.”
He smiled, nodded, let it land without really holding it.
He moved through the house slowly, half-looking for Alix even though he already knew she wasn’t there. She hadn’t been on the field after the game. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t come up behind him in the crowd like she used to.
He’d scanned the student section once, out of habit, early in the second quarter. She was sitting alone then, a row up from everyone else, legs crossed, hoodie loose around her shoulders.
By the third, she was gone.
Now it was almost an hour since he’d texted her to say he was leaving his apartment, and the house pulsed with laughter and noise. Still no sign of her.
Royce pulled a drink from the cooler and leaned against the wall near the stairwell, pretending to check something on his phone.
…
She walked in just after ten.
Her hair was still damp near the ends — not wet, just freshly washed. She looked calm. Collected. Quiet in a way that made people instinctively make room for her.
Royce saw her before she saw him.
Or maybe she had seen him, and just didn’t stop.
She moved toward the kitchen like she wasn’t looking for anyone, said a soft hi to Madi and Simone, let herself drift into the rhythm of the party without pressing too hard against it.
Royce watched her for a while before walking over.
“You didn’t stay for the second half,” he said softly when he reached her.
Alix looked up from her drink. Her expression didn’t change.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
He hesitated. “Why not?”
“I wasn’t feeling it.”
Royce studied her face, tried to read it. “Everything okay?”
She nodded, too quickly. “I’m good.”
Her tone was even. Not cold — just done.
She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t asking anything from him.
That was what made it worse.
He didn’t ask what she’d been doing. Didn’t mention the guy he’d noticed walking in behind her as she entered, the way he was much too close to her, the way she’d adjusted her hair absentmindedly a few minutes later, like she was still shaking him off.
He didn’t ask because part of him already knew.
They stood next to each other for a while, talking with a few people they both halfway knew. Royce let his hand rest lightly on her lower back.
She didn’t move. Didn’t react.
But a few minutes later, without saying a word, she stepped forward to greet someone, and the space between them opened.
She didn’t come back to it.
Royce stood still, the laughter around him rising, the music shifting. He didn’t say anything.
He just finished his drink and stared at the wall for a long moment before setting the cup down gently and walking toward the back of the house.
…
The bathroom was dim and too warm — the kind of heat that clung to skin in old houses packed with too many people and not enough airflow.
Alix locked the door gently behind her and leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like she needed the grounding.
The mirror was speckled, the light overhead flickering in one corner.
She stared at herself without blinking.
Her makeup was still intact. Her hair had dried now, loose and falling around her shoulders the way she used to wear it for Royce — back before he stopped noticing things like that.
Her mouth felt dry.
She reached for the soap pump, washed her hands with mechanical care, then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed tight over her stomach.
She thought about the boy from the game. She didn’t know his name. Didn’t ask.
He’d leaned into her during the second quarter, complimented her smile, said he couldn’t believe she was there alone.
And in that moment — after weeks of being doubted, of being looked through, of being accused — something in her had snapped.
Fine.
Let it be true.
She hadn’t expected it to feel like anything. And it didn’t.
She didn’t feel powerful. Or wild. Or free.
She felt… hollow. Like she’d walked herself even further into the dark just to feel something Royce could have given her if he hadn’t been so afraid to trust her.
Her head thudded gently against the wall as she closed her eyes.
When did I stop being happy?
She couldn’t find the answer. All she knew was she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt wanted — not like an accessory, not like an obligation. Just wanted.
And not for how quiet she could stay.
She opened the bathroom door a few minutes later.
The hallway was quieter now, the party beginning to tip into that late-night haze where everyone either wound down or spun out.
A guy leaned against the wall just a few feet away, sipping something from a plastic cup, casual in a fitted long-sleeve and gold chain.
He looked up as she stepped out and offered a slow, unbothered smile.
“Everything alright?” he asked, like they knew each other. Like maybe they could.
Alix met his eyes. Hesitated.
She could already feel what he wanted from her — not in a creepy way, not even in a pushy way. Just an invitation.
She didn’t answer immediately.
A small part of her wanted to say yes. Not because she cared. But because she wanted to know what it would feel like to be chosen again. Even if just for a moment.
But her body was tired. Her heart was quieter now. The shame from earlier still sat just behind her teeth.
“I’m good,” she said softly, brushing past him without looking back.
…
They didn’t talk about leaving.
Royce found her near the back door, nursing a watered-down drink, watching people drift into the yard like they had nowhere else to be.
He nodded toward the exit. She gave a slight nod back.
And that was that.
They walked out into the warm, close air — neither touching, neither speaking — just moving in sync like people who had done this too many times to need directions.
The drive back was quiet. Royce’s hand rested lightly on the gearshift, the road humming under the tires.
Alix leaned her head against the window, eyes closed but not asleep.
He didn’t ask where she’d gone during the game. She didn’t ask what he’d done in Pensacola.
There were no more questions — just space.
Back at his apartment, the ritual unfolded with muscle memory.
She dropped her purse on the chair by the wall. He peeled off his hoodie, toeing off his shoes. They didn’t bother with music. Didn’t even turn the lights all the way on.
They touched each other like strangers — like two people who used to mean something, now clinging to the shape of what used to be.
Royce kissed her neck. Alix didn’t move.
They had sex quietly, without urgency. No foreplay. No laughter. No attempt to close the gap that stretched between them.
Just motion. Just warmth. Just noise to drown out the echo of what they’d already lost.
Afterward, Royce lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling fan.
Alix turned away from him, the sheet pulled halfway up her chest, her breath evening out in the stillness.
They didn’t touch.
No arms tangled.
No fingertips tracing skin.
No whispered I love yous.
Just silence.
Just two people lying next to each other in the dark, quietly disappearing.
…
The room was pale with morning light when Royce blinked awake — not sunlight exactly, but that soft gray glow that settled just before the sun came fully up.
The fan above him clicked faintly with each slow rotation. His mouth was dry. His body ached in the way it always did after games — but this was different. This ache sat deeper.
He reached across the bed without thinking.
His hand landed on cold sheets.
No warmth. No weight. Just emptiness.
He sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes, staring at the space beside him like it might offer an explanation.
But her things were gone. Her clothes. Her earrings. Even the scent of her — faint perfume, shampoo, something citrus — had faded from the room.
No note. No text. No goodbye.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.
Checked his phone.
Nothing.
He dropped it face down on the nightstand and let himself fall back onto the mattress, the quiet swallowing him whole.
In the kitchen, the hum of the fridge filled the air.
The apartment felt too still — no signs of life beyond him. He stood there shirtless, staring at nothing in particular.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Not the sex. Not the silence. Not even her leaving without a word.
It was how normal it had all become.
Like this was just how it ended now. Like this was the rhythm they’d slipped into without either of them saying it out loud.
And for the first time, Royce didn’t feel angry.
He just felt… tired.
…
Alix sat at the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, staring down at the floor like it might tell her something useful.
She hadn’t changed out of her clothes from the night before. The zipper on her jeans was still halfway undone. One earring dangled loosely in her hand.
Her phone sat face down on the nightstand. She hadn’t checked it since slipping out of Royce’s apartment at dawn — shoes in hand, hoodie zipped halfway up, barely making a sound as the door closed behind her.
She didn’t know if he woke up.
Didn’t care if he did.
That’s what she told herself, anyway.
Her makeup was smudged at the corners, but she hadn’t bothered to wash it off. She hadn’t even taken out her contacts. Everything just felt… heavy.
The kind of tired that didn’t come from sleep.
Across the room, Madi’s door was still closed. The apartment was silent.
Alix rubbed at her eyes, but didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in weeks — not really. She kept thinking she would. That it would break, eventually. That something inside her would cave in.
But it hadn’t. It just stayed there — stuck.
Like a rock in her throat.
How long can you keep pretending you’re okay when nothing about this feels like love anymore?
The thought came and went, unanswered.
She stood up slowly, peeled off her jeans, and padded toward the bathroom.
The mirror would be waiting — smeared and quiet and brutally honest.
But she’d deal with it.
She always did.
~~~~~~~~~~
The diner was almost empty — a low-lit spot off a service road that mostly saw night shift workers and drifters by this hour.
It smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long and fry grease that had settled into the wallpaper. Somewhere in the back, a radio played low — something jazzy and slow, crackling through old speakers.
Arianna sat in a booth by the window, stirring sugar into her tea even though she wasn’t sure she’d drink it. The laminate table was chipped in one corner, the sugar caddy missing half its packets.
Across from her sat Elijah, the soft-voiced poet she’d met at the last open mic— tall, warm-eyed, the kind of quiet that pulled truth out of people without ever asking for it.
They hadn’t meant to end up here. But the event had gone long, and the others had trickled off, and somehow she and Elijah had just… kept walking. Talking. Wandering until the streetlights thinned and the glow of the diner pulled them in.
Outside, the parking lot was still. Inside, everything felt suspended — like they had time to tell the truth.
"You ever feel like..." Arianna began, then stopped. Her fingers traced the lip of her cup. “Like the better your life gets, the worse you feel about it?”
Elijah tilted his head, not blinking. “Guilt?”
She nodded once. "Yeah. Like... I’m doing everything I said I would. Getting out. Making something. And some days I still feel like I should apologize for it."
"For leaving people behind?"
She nodded again. Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “Like Toni. I think about her more than I say. I look at what she’s stuck in and I—I hate that I get to have more. Even though I earned it. Even though I fought for it.”
Elijah’s spoon clinked gently against the side of his mug.
"You breaking cycles they didn’t even know they were trapped in," he said, his voice steady but soft. "That ain’t betrayal. That’s evolution.”
Arianna blinked, caught off-guard by how fast the tears threatened her eyes.
He didn’t say it like a platitude. He said it like a truth he knew from the inside out.
"I just—" she exhaled, steadying herself. "I remember when I thought survival was success. Like... just not drowning was enough. And now I’m somewhere new and... I keep wondering if the good stuff was really meant for me or if I’m borrowing it.”
Elijah leaned forward, his arms folded over the edge of the table.
“You not borrowing anything,” he said. “You’re cashing in on everything they said you couldn’t have.”
Arianna didn’t answer at first. She just looked down, her hand gripping the mug now like it tethered her to the moment.
She thought of Toni — still in that house with Deshawn, still covering bruises with jokes, still calling silence loyalty.
She thought of her old bedroom in Houma, the one with the crooked blinds and posters she’d left on the walls for someone else to forget.
She thought of Mike, too. Royce, even Romeo. And how hard it was to let go of people you love when you finally learn to save yourself.
She looked back at Elijah, tears drying before they ever fell.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one that got out.”
He shook his head gently. “You the first. Not the only. There's a difference.”
Arianna let that settle.
For the first time in a long time, she believed it might be true.
She leaned back in the booth, letting her shoulders drop, her body finally starting to unclench.
The tea was cold, but she drank it anyway.
Outside, the night kept moving. But inside that little pocket of light and linoleum, she felt a little less alone.
And for once, she wasn’t sorry about what she survived.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16892
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
No Masks
The sun was still undecided — just a pale spill of light cutting low over the Mississippi River. Fog hovered close to the water, curling around the rocks like it was reluctant to leave.
Royce ran with his head down and his breathing steady, the soles of his sneakers digging into the gravel path that hugged the levee. He’d done this loop a hundred times in high school, back when things were simple. Just a body moving through space, no cameras, no stat lines, no girls watching from the stands and slipping out before the fourth quarter.
He rounded the bend by the concrete overlook and slowed. There was someone up ahead, sitting cross-legged in the grass just above the slope.
Effie.
She looked like she belonged there. Hair tied up loose, an old hoodie draped off one shoulder, a camera slung across her chest. Her sneakers were kicked off, bare feet pressed into the dew-wet grass. She was watching the river like it was going to answer something.
Royce pulled one earbud out, slowed to a walk.
“You good?” he called, voice dry. “Don’t jump.”
Effie looked over her shoulder and smiled faintly. “I didn’t think the stereotype was that we couldn’t swim.”
Royce snorted. “Nah, that’s just what they say when we drown.”
Effie’s smile widened just a little. “Touché.”
He stood there for a second longer than he meant to.
Then, without thinking about it too hard, he stepped off the path and sat down a few feet from her, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Effie raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d stop.”
“I didn’t either,” he said. “Guess I’m tired of running just to feel like I’m not standing still.”
She nodded, not saying anything at first. Then: “Yeah. I get that.”
They sat like that for a while — not facing each other, just sharing the quiet, watching the river do what it always did: keep moving.
Royce glanced over. “You always up this early?”
Effie shrugged. “When I can’t sleep.”
“You got nightmares or just a busy brain?”
She plucked a piece of grass and twirled it between her fingers. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
Royce laughed under his breath. “Yeah.”
She looked at him, a little sideways. “You don’t seem like the can’t-sleep type.”
“I’m not,” he said. “Wasn’t anyway. Back in the day, I used to be able to fall asleep anywhere. That all stopped years ago.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Lately’s different.”
They were quiet again.
Then Royce asked, “You ever think about just leaving everything behind? Like — just disappearing?”
Effie didn’t pause. “I already did.”
He looked at her, but she didn’t elaborate.
Her eyes stayed on the water, steady and far away.
“I didn’t mean like skipping town for the weekend,” he said. “I mean… everything. Your name. Your life. All of it.”
“I know,” she said.
This time her voice had an edge — not sharp, not defensive. Just closed.
Royce nodded slowly. He didn’t press.
Instead, he leaned back on his palms and looked up at the pale sky.
“You ever get the urge to just start over somewhere people don’t expect anything from you?”
“All the time,” she said.
He exhaled through his nose. “I think people confuse pressure with some other shit. Meaning or something.”
Effie looked at him now. “You sound like someone who’s been carrying too much of both.”
Royce chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”
“You ever tell anybody that?”
He shook his head. “What’s the point? You tell people you’re tired and they think you’re weak. You say you’re overwhelmed and they say it’s what you asked for.”
Effie nodded. “They don’t get it.”
“No,” he said. “They don’t.”
He looked over at her again. She wasn’t giving him pity. She wasn’t feeding him advice. She was just listening.
And for some reason, that made him want to say more.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he picked up a pebble and flicked it toward the river, watched it skip once and vanish.
“Where’d you learn to take pictures?” he asked finally, nodding at her camera.
She smiled — not just with her mouth, but a little in her shoulders too.
“My sister gave me her old one when I was in middle school,” she said. “I used to fake being a nature girl just to have something to point it at. Now I mostly shoot people. Not like... posed stuff. Just real moments.”
Royce nodded. “That’s what most people want to see anyway. Real shit.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Everything else fades.”
The light was climbing higher now, warming the edges of the riverbank.
Royce stood slowly, dusting off the back of his shorts. “I should finish the run.”
Effie nodded. “You look better when you’re in motion.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment? You hitting on me?”
“Just an observation.”
Royce smirked. “Thanks, I guess.”
He jogged a few steps forward, then glanced back once.
Effie was still sitting there, still quiet, camera resting in her lap like it belonged to her in a different way than anything else did.
She didn’t wave. Didn’t say anything.
Just watched.
And for some reason, that stayed with him more than anything else would have.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air inside the design studio carried the faint scent of linen samples and brewed espresso — polished, curated, like everything else at Renee Marlow Interiors. The late morning light was soft through the tall windows, catching on brass light fixtures and high-gloss finish boards pinned to the walls.
Alix sat at her assigned table, back straight, earbuds in with no music playing. Her laptop screen glowed with notes from last week’s site visit — clean layouts, carefully worded bullet points, a few modest design suggestions she hadn’t been brave enough to send yet.
Across the office, her supervisor, Renee, leaned into a conversation with one of the senior designers. Alix tried not to eavesdrop. She failed.
“…no, she’s been sharp,” Renee was saying. “Good instincts. I’m pulling her in on the next one.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She was just thinking about stepping outside for coffee when Renee passed by and tapped the back of her chair lightly.
“You free Tuesday morning?” she asked.
Alix turned, surprised. “Yeah, I think so.”
“There’s a client consult for a master bath reno — small space, but they’re exacting. I’d like you to sit in. Help walk through samples. Take notes.”
Alix blinked. “Really?”
Renee nodded, already glancing toward her next conversation. “You’ve got a good eye. Don’t get in your own way.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Alix sat still for a moment, her chest rising slowly as the words settled.
She reached for her phone without thinking, the instinct too quick to catch. Her messages were already open by the time she realized who she was about to text.
Royce.
The thread from earlier that week was still there — short responses, half-hearted check-ins, the weight of what they hadn’t said hanging between every line.
She stared at the blinking cursor, thumb hovering.
Renee just asked me to assist on a client consult next week. It’s not huge, but it’s real.
Her finger stopped.
She didn’t hit send.
Something in her shifted.
Not anger. Not sadness.
Just… stillness.
The kind of stillness that happens when you realize you don’t feel the urge to share something good with someone — not because you’re hiding, but because you don’t think they’ll see it the way you need them to.
She backspaced the message.
Closed the thread.
Locked her phone and slid it into her bag.
He hadn’t done anything wrong today. There was no new fight.
But lately, even the good moments felt private — like they belonged to her alone.
And she wasn’t sure what that meant yet.
Only that it meant something.
The sun was still undecided — just a pale spill of light cutting low over the Mississippi River. Fog hovered close to the water, curling around the rocks like it was reluctant to leave.
Royce ran with his head down and his breathing steady, the soles of his sneakers digging into the gravel path that hugged the levee. He’d done this loop a hundred times in high school, back when things were simple. Just a body moving through space, no cameras, no stat lines, no girls watching from the stands and slipping out before the fourth quarter.
He rounded the bend by the concrete overlook and slowed. There was someone up ahead, sitting cross-legged in the grass just above the slope.
Effie.
She looked like she belonged there. Hair tied up loose, an old hoodie draped off one shoulder, a camera slung across her chest. Her sneakers were kicked off, bare feet pressed into the dew-wet grass. She was watching the river like it was going to answer something.
Royce pulled one earbud out, slowed to a walk.
“You good?” he called, voice dry. “Don’t jump.”
Effie looked over her shoulder and smiled faintly. “I didn’t think the stereotype was that we couldn’t swim.”
Royce snorted. “Nah, that’s just what they say when we drown.”
Effie’s smile widened just a little. “Touché.”
He stood there for a second longer than he meant to.
Then, without thinking about it too hard, he stepped off the path and sat down a few feet from her, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Effie raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d stop.”
“I didn’t either,” he said. “Guess I’m tired of running just to feel like I’m not standing still.”
She nodded, not saying anything at first. Then: “Yeah. I get that.”
They sat like that for a while — not facing each other, just sharing the quiet, watching the river do what it always did: keep moving.
Royce glanced over. “You always up this early?”
Effie shrugged. “When I can’t sleep.”
“You got nightmares or just a busy brain?”
She plucked a piece of grass and twirled it between her fingers. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
Royce laughed under his breath. “Yeah.”
She looked at him, a little sideways. “You don’t seem like the can’t-sleep type.”
“I’m not,” he said. “Wasn’t anyway. Back in the day, I used to be able to fall asleep anywhere. That all stopped years ago.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Lately’s different.”
They were quiet again.
Then Royce asked, “You ever think about just leaving everything behind? Like — just disappearing?”
Effie didn’t pause. “I already did.”
He looked at her, but she didn’t elaborate.
Her eyes stayed on the water, steady and far away.
“I didn’t mean like skipping town for the weekend,” he said. “I mean… everything. Your name. Your life. All of it.”
“I know,” she said.
This time her voice had an edge — not sharp, not defensive. Just closed.
Royce nodded slowly. He didn’t press.
Instead, he leaned back on his palms and looked up at the pale sky.
“You ever get the urge to just start over somewhere people don’t expect anything from you?”
“All the time,” she said.
He exhaled through his nose. “I think people confuse pressure with some other shit. Meaning or something.”
Effie looked at him now. “You sound like someone who’s been carrying too much of both.”
Royce chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”
“You ever tell anybody that?”
He shook his head. “What’s the point? You tell people you’re tired and they think you’re weak. You say you’re overwhelmed and they say it’s what you asked for.”
Effie nodded. “They don’t get it.”
“No,” he said. “They don’t.”
He looked over at her again. She wasn’t giving him pity. She wasn’t feeding him advice. She was just listening.
And for some reason, that made him want to say more.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he picked up a pebble and flicked it toward the river, watched it skip once and vanish.
“Where’d you learn to take pictures?” he asked finally, nodding at her camera.
She smiled — not just with her mouth, but a little in her shoulders too.
“My sister gave me her old one when I was in middle school,” she said. “I used to fake being a nature girl just to have something to point it at. Now I mostly shoot people. Not like... posed stuff. Just real moments.”
Royce nodded. “That’s what most people want to see anyway. Real shit.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Everything else fades.”
The light was climbing higher now, warming the edges of the riverbank.
Royce stood slowly, dusting off the back of his shorts. “I should finish the run.”
Effie nodded. “You look better when you’re in motion.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment? You hitting on me?”
“Just an observation.”
Royce smirked. “Thanks, I guess.”
He jogged a few steps forward, then glanced back once.
Effie was still sitting there, still quiet, camera resting in her lap like it belonged to her in a different way than anything else did.
She didn’t wave. Didn’t say anything.
Just watched.
And for some reason, that stayed with him more than anything else would have.
~~~~~~~~~~
The air inside the design studio carried the faint scent of linen samples and brewed espresso — polished, curated, like everything else at Renee Marlow Interiors. The late morning light was soft through the tall windows, catching on brass light fixtures and high-gloss finish boards pinned to the walls.
Alix sat at her assigned table, back straight, earbuds in with no music playing. Her laptop screen glowed with notes from last week’s site visit — clean layouts, carefully worded bullet points, a few modest design suggestions she hadn’t been brave enough to send yet.
Across the office, her supervisor, Renee, leaned into a conversation with one of the senior designers. Alix tried not to eavesdrop. She failed.
“…no, she’s been sharp,” Renee was saying. “Good instincts. I’m pulling her in on the next one.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She was just thinking about stepping outside for coffee when Renee passed by and tapped the back of her chair lightly.
“You free Tuesday morning?” she asked.
Alix turned, surprised. “Yeah, I think so.”
“There’s a client consult for a master bath reno — small space, but they’re exacting. I’d like you to sit in. Help walk through samples. Take notes.”
Alix blinked. “Really?”
Renee nodded, already glancing toward her next conversation. “You’ve got a good eye. Don’t get in your own way.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Alix sat still for a moment, her chest rising slowly as the words settled.
She reached for her phone without thinking, the instinct too quick to catch. Her messages were already open by the time she realized who she was about to text.
Royce.
The thread from earlier that week was still there — short responses, half-hearted check-ins, the weight of what they hadn’t said hanging between every line.
She stared at the blinking cursor, thumb hovering.
Renee just asked me to assist on a client consult next week. It’s not huge, but it’s real.
Her finger stopped.
She didn’t hit send.
Something in her shifted.
Not anger. Not sadness.
Just… stillness.
The kind of stillness that happens when you realize you don’t feel the urge to share something good with someone — not because you’re hiding, but because you don’t think they’ll see it the way you need them to.
She backspaced the message.
Closed the thread.
Locked her phone and slid it into her bag.
He hadn’t done anything wrong today. There was no new fight.
But lately, even the good moments felt private — like they belonged to her alone.
And she wasn’t sure what that meant yet.
Only that it meant something.
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16682
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
that's right Alix, hit that nigga jacory or whatever his name is (not calling another man Co)
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16892
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7888
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Because Royce has cheated on her with half of the campus so far