You’re All That’s Left
The house felt different this time.
Not unfamiliar—just warmer. Like it had finally caught up with the seasons. The heavy grief that used to sit in the corners had lightened, turned into something else. Not gone, but manageable. Bearable. The windows were open, letting in a soft late afternoon breeze that carried the smell of cornbread and something stewing low and slow on the stove.
Royce stepped through the door with a grocery bag in one hand, balancing a case of sparkling water against his hip. The old welcome mat still curled at the edges, and one of Julian’s tiny shoes was abandoned in the doorway like he’d just vanished mid-sprint.
Inside, Rana glanced up from the kitchen sink. “You remembered the oat milk?” she asked without turning.
Royce grinned and held up the bag. “One whole overpriced carton.”
“That’s what love looks like,” she called back.
Julian was waddling across the living room in slow, determined steps, hands out for balance and mouth sticky with what looked like fruit snacks. He stopped when he saw Royce, blinked once, then let out a gleeful scream that didn’t even sound like a word—just pure joy.
Royce dropped the bag on the counter and crouched low. “Aye! Come here, little man.”
Julian charged forward, half-walk, half-tumble, landing against Royce’s chest with a thud that made Rana yell, “Be gentle!” even as she smiled.
“He’s solid now,” Royce said, scooping him up. “That baby fat turned into toddler muscle.”
Rana came over, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He eats like it too. You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
Roni was already setting the table. She didn’t look up right away, her long braids tucked into a loose bun and her face set with quiet focus.
The food wasn’t fancy—rice and gravy, sweet peas, cornbread that still steamed when it was cut. But it filled the room the way food was supposed to. Royce hadn’t realized how much he missed that.
They were halfway through the meal when Roni put down her fork.
She didn’t look at him at first.
“Will you come to my school’s career day?”
The question hung in the air like a pin dropping in a glass room.
Rana didn’t move.
Julian babbled, oblivious, smearing cornbread into his tray.
Royce looked up slowly.
“I don’t really—” he started, but Roni cut in, her voice steady but sharp.
“Daddy’s in jail. Romeo and Reg are dead.”
Her eyes lifted to his now. Not angry. Just clear.
“You’re all that’s left, Ro.”
She didn’t say it with accusation. She said it like fact.
Like truth.
Royce sat back in his chair, his fork resting against his plate. His chest tightened—not from pressure, but from recognition. This wasn’t about public speaking or job titles.
This was about showing up.
Being seen.
Being the one who stayed.
He swallowed once, then nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll come.”
Roni didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.
She just picked her fork back up and kept eating.
Rana reached across the table, squeezed Royce’s wrist once. Her hand lingered.
“You’re doing alright,” she said softly.
Royce looked around the room. At the open window. At the half-eaten cornbread. At Julian giggling in his high chair.
It didn’t look like much.
But it looked like enough.
He exhaled.
Maybe for the first time all week.
~~~~~~~~~~
The open mic in Lafayette didn’t have a name worth remembering. Just a chalkboard sign out front that read Speak Your Truth, 7PM, and the scent of cinnamon and steam that curled out whenever the door opened.
Inside, the café was a soft collage of warm lights and thrifted furniture. College kids leaned into each other at mismatched tables. Someone was sketching in the corner. The mic sat on a small wooden stage, wrapped in its own spotlight like it had stories it couldn’t wait to hold.
Arianna signed her name near the bottom of the list.
Arianna Williams – Untitled.
No one asked what it was about. That was the thing with open mics—no one assumed anything. But she knew what it was.
Not a dedication.
Not a reckoning.
Just her.
She sat near the edge of the room, legs crossed, fingers drumming against her notebook until the host called her name. No preamble. Just a nod and a step up.
The mic was a little too high. She adjusted it quickly. Then stood still, steady.
She didn’t read from the page.
The words were already in her.
“I used to measure survival by silence.
How well I could sit still. How little I could need.
But quiet doesn’t mean healed,
And shrinking doesn’t mean whole.”
Someone near the front snapped, low and quick. She kept going.
“I bent myself into versions that fit—
Made myself easy to love and easier to leave.
Carried shame that wasn’t mine
Just to keep the peace.”
She paused, letting the silence do some of the lifting.
Then her eyes scanned the crowd—and landed on a familiar face in the back.
Mike.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
He stood with his hoodie half-zipped, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on hers. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave.
He just was there.
Her little brother.
Showing up.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry.
Just gave him a small nod from the mic.
A thank you. A see you. A you don’t have to say anything—I know.
Then she inhaled again.
“This isn’t about someone else.
Not a boy or a bruise or a breakdown.
It’s not about my cousin in the papers,
Or the grief that tried to re-name me.
It’s about what came after.
What survived.
What stayed.”
A long pause. Then the last lines:
“I didn’t write this to be brave.
I wrote it because I made it.”
The room didn’t erupt—it exhaled.
Snaps. Low mmm’s. Nods from people who had nothing to prove but everything to feel.
Arianna stepped back from the mic.
She didn’t linger. Didn’t wait for affirmation.
She just walked offstage, past the bar, past the host, all the way to where Mike stood.
He didn’t speak.
Just opened his arms.
She walked straight into them, arms looping around his waist, cheek pressed against his shoulder.
He squeezed her once. Quietly. Fully.
She didn’t need more.
She’d already said what mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~
The seminar room always felt colder when it was Effie’s turn.
Not because of the AC—it barely worked—but because critique days had a particular stillness to them. Everyone watched more than they spoke, afraid of revealing too much or too little about what they thought art was supposed to be.
Effie stood at the front with her prints laid across the ledge in a wide arc—ten images, all roughly the same size. She hadn’t mounted them. No frames. No captions. Just the matte surfaces catching dull light from the fluorescent tubes overhead.
The first photo was a bedroom painted a dusty pink, the kind that leaned toward beige in low light. A single sandal rested beneath the bed. The window was cracked open. Nothing else moved.
The second showed a desk with a cracked mirror above it—lip gloss still smudged at the corner, a bracelet looped over a drawer knob. The chair was missing.
Another: a bathroom counter with half-worn eyeliner, hair gel, a toothbrush turned inward like it didn’t want to be seen.
Each photo was dim, deliberately so. She’d underexposed them by choice, letting the shadows pool in corners and under furniture, letting absence do most of the talking.
The room stayed silent until Professor Min stepped forward, arms folded as she studied the arc of images.
“These are interiors?”
Effie nodded. “Spaces that used to belong to girls.”
“Girls who left?” someone asked from the back.
Effie turned. Her voice was quiet but certain. “Girls who are gone.”
That was when the murmurs started.
Another student raised a hand slowly. “Is it about death?”
Effie paused.
Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she wanted the words to land right.
“No,” she said. Then added: “It’s about what stays. And what tries to.”
She didn’t explain further.
She didn’t need to.
There was something in the air now—something heavier than theory or technique. A hush of understanding. These weren’t portraits of grief. They were traces of presence. Rooms that hadn’t yet figured out how to forget who once lived there.
Someone else asked about the lighting—why she hadn’t adjusted it post-edit. Why everything felt so heavy.
Effie shrugged. “Because it is heavy. I didn’t want to brighten something just to make it easier to look at.”
Professor Min nodded once, slowly. “You’re not offering clarity,” she said. “You’re offering witness.”
Effie’s eyes flicked to her professor, the slightest movement of her mouth the only acknowledgment.
When class ended, some students lingered to pack up slowly, watching her work a little longer before heading out. No one joked. No one scrolled their phones.
Effie stayed until the last person left, gathering her prints one by one.
As she slipped the final photo into her portfolio, she paused—looking down at the image of a dresser with chipped white paint and a lamp that had no bulb.
She didn’t say it out loud, but the thought was there:
You’re still here. Even if no one sees you.
Then she slid the folder closed, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked out—quietly, but without apology.
The silence followed her.
But this time, it wasn’t empty.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Don’t Say It
By Thursday morning, Royce’s name was everywhere.
Not just in the LSU blogs or the Baton Rouge papers—everywhere. ESPN ran a slow-motion cut of his second interception against Auburn: dropping from a bluff blitz into the hook zone, hips already turned before the quarterback’s front foot hit the ground. He’d read it two seconds ahead of everyone else. Made it look easy.
Against Tennessee, he did it again. Five tackles, two tackles for loss, another clinic in instinct and discipline. No gaudy celebrations. No screaming at the camera.
Just control. Precision. Violence on a timer.
Now his face was on studio panels, floated between terms like “Butkus front-runner” and “best linebacker in the country.” Some analysts dug into his past—Romeo’s death, the shooting, the rehab, the silence, the legal run-ins. Others kept it on the field. They drew arrows on telestrators. Phrases like “pro-ready,” “field general,” “rare instinctual talent” echoed through every reel.
Royce turned off his phone halfway through Get Up.
He sat at the kitchen table, chewing on a protein bar that tasted like sand and regret. The blinds were still drawn. He hadn’t answered any of the DMs piling in.
The knock came soft. Then a second, firmer one.
He didn’t move.
“Royce,” Billy’s voice said through the door. “I know you in there. Open up before I call Delpit and let him talk for forty-five uninterrupted minutes.”
Royce stood, slow, and cracked the door. “You’re early.”
“I’m always early when you trending,” Billy replied, stepping inside without invitation. He dropped a thick folder on the kitchen table—some media briefings, brand deck mockups, maybe an updated NIL pitch. Royce didn’t look.
“I don’t want it to get in my head,” he said, settling back into his chair. “That’s how it starts. They hype you up so they can tear you down.”
Billy leaned against the counter, arms folded. “So don’t flinch.”
Royce didn’t respond right away.
Outside, someone’s dog barked once. A leaf blower revved, coughed, stalled out.
“You say it like that shit easy,” Royce muttered.
“I don’t say it like it’s easy,” Billy said. “I say it like it’s necessary.”
Royce picked at the wrapper on his bar. “People love a comeback story until you fuck up. Then they get bored. Or mad.”
Billy nodded. “And they’ll try to find a crack. A bad quote. A dumb tweet. A late hit. Doesn’t matter.”
He crossed the room, tapping the folder.
“But you? You just keep moving like none of it makes or breaks you. You are the headline.”
Royce met his eyes now.
Billy’s voice dropped. “So don’t flinch.”
There was a pause—just long enough for the weight of the moment to land.
Royce looked down at his hands.
Taped fingers. Healing knuckle.
He wasn’t scared of pressure.
He was scared of forgetting who he was underneath it.
But this? This wasn’t about fear.
This was about choice.
He exhaled and pushed the folder aside.
“Put it in the bag,” he said.
Billy blinked. “What?”
“The media stuff. The deck. Whatever’s in there. I’ll look on the flight.”
A grin cracked the edge of Billy’s face. “Atta boy.”
Royce stood. Stretched his shoulder once. Then looked out the window, where the light had finally started to push through the windows.
Let them talk.
He’d move in silence.
And not flinch.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni didn’t plan the outfit.
Not really.
She was running late, hair still damp from the shower, laptop charger barely shoved into her tote. The blouse had been folded at the back of her drawer for months—unworn since the spring before last, when Deshawn had told her yellow wasn’t her color.
"Too loud," he’d said, like it wasn’t just about the shirt.
Back then, she’d laughed it off. Said it didn’t matter. But she’d changed anyway.
This morning, though, the cotton felt soft in her hands. A little faded, but still warm. She pulled it over her head without thinking too hard, tucked it into high-waisted jeans, and slid on her sandals. No makeup. A little gloss. No mirror check.
It felt like enough.
The classroom was bright—windows cracked just wide enough for the breeze to lift the edge of her notes. Professor Greene was already mid-lecture by the time Toni slipped into her seat, breath caught somewhere between a rush and a resolve. She kept her head down. Took notes.
After class, she found Keisha waiting under one of the live oaks outside, a cup of iced coffee in her hand and her curls piled high in a scarf. Keisha always looked like she belonged in the center of a frame. Toni had never tried to.
But Keisha clocked her immediately.
“Oop,” she said, circling her once like she was on a fashion runway. “Okay, sunflower realness. Yellow?”
Toni blinked. “Yeah?”
Keisha raised her brows. “You’ve never worn yellow to class. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
Toni gave a half-shrug, glancing down. “I’ve had it.”
Keisha sipped her coffee like she wasn’t fooled. “Well, I love it. You’re glowing.”
Toni rolled her eyes, smiling. “It’s just a shirt.”
Keisha grinned and bumped her shoulder. “Nah. It’s a statement. Quiet, but clear.”
They kept walking, their conversation drifting into updates about roommates, upcoming midterms, the ridiculous price of everything at the new smoothie cart. But if there’d been a camera trailing behind them, it wouldn’t have zoomed in on their words.
It would’ve caught the sunlight brushing against Toni’s shoulder.
The soft sway of yellow cotton in the breeze.
The way her hands didn’t fidget at her sleeves, the way her body didn’t fold in.
She didn’t think about Deshawn.
Didn’t mention him.
But something in her stance—quiet, rooted—said enough.
This wasn’t a declaration.
It wasn’t about being loud.
It was about showing up in her skin, as-is.
Soft yellow.
Nothing to prove.
And still, everything reclaimed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The rooftop strung itself together in lights and laughter—low bulbs suspended across beams, catching on wine glasses and gold hoops, the skyline of Baton Rouge pressed soft against the dusk. It was one of Alix’s coworkers’ birthdays—nothing huge, but enough for an RSVP group text, a curated playlist, and a friend-of-a-friend DJ tucked near the sliding door with a Bluetooth speaker and opinions on tempo.
Alix moved easily through the crowd, greeting coworkers with cheek kisses and quick laughs, shoulders relaxed. Co stayed close—not overbearing, not background. Just there. Present.
He kept one arm looped behind her chair while they sat, fingers resting loosely on the back rung. Not touching her—but just enough for people to read the language between them. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t shrink. She didn’t apologize for his presence.
It was one of the newer project consultants—Melissa—who spotted her mid-conversation, a glass of pinot in one hand, bright lipstick perfectly intact.
“Oh! Alix,” Melissa said, leaning in with a smile. “I finally got a peek at the hotel mockups.”
Alix blinked. “Oh… you did?”
“They’re stunning. Like—legitimately moving. You see the space, you know? And not just design-wise. Culturally. You’re threading history in without forcing nostalgia. I don’t know how you did that, but I showed them to my friend at Historic Preservation and she was speechless.”
Alix flushed before she could stop herself. “That’s… wow. Thank you.”
“I mean it,” Melissa said. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You made something special.”
Alix smiled tightly, shoulders twitching in a way that might’ve looked like pride to someone else—but Co knew better. He saw how she dipped her head slightly. How her fingers tensed around her glass. How she’d been thanked before and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Melissa gave a last nod, then disappeared toward the snack table. The hum of music returned, and someone in the corner shouted a joke too loud, setting off a ripple of laughter.
Co leaned in, voice close enough to thread through the moment but not overwhelm it.
“You’re allowed to be proud,” he said.
Alix gave him a look—half skeptical, half expectant.
“That doesn’t make you arrogant,” he added. “It makes you honest.”
She stared at him for a second too long. Not because she didn’t believe him.
But because it scared her how much she did.
Then, quiet and sure, she kissed him.
Not a thank you.
Not a performance.
Just connection. Deliberate. Light. Real.
When she pulled back, he was already smiling—but not wide. Just that soft, steady kind of smile that came from knowing something true and not needing to prove it.
She let her hand rest on his thigh now, finally grounding into the space she occupied—her coworker's party, her project, her moment.
The rooftop carried on—drinks refilled, beats shifted.
But Alix didn’t fade back into the crowd.
She stayed at the center of it.
Not loud.
Just luminous.
By Thursday morning, Royce’s name was everywhere.
Not just in the LSU blogs or the Baton Rouge papers—everywhere. ESPN ran a slow-motion cut of his second interception against Auburn: dropping from a bluff blitz into the hook zone, hips already turned before the quarterback’s front foot hit the ground. He’d read it two seconds ahead of everyone else. Made it look easy.
Against Tennessee, he did it again. Five tackles, two tackles for loss, another clinic in instinct and discipline. No gaudy celebrations. No screaming at the camera.
Just control. Precision. Violence on a timer.
Now his face was on studio panels, floated between terms like “Butkus front-runner” and “best linebacker in the country.” Some analysts dug into his past—Romeo’s death, the shooting, the rehab, the silence, the legal run-ins. Others kept it on the field. They drew arrows on telestrators. Phrases like “pro-ready,” “field general,” “rare instinctual talent” echoed through every reel.
Royce turned off his phone halfway through Get Up.
He sat at the kitchen table, chewing on a protein bar that tasted like sand and regret. The blinds were still drawn. He hadn’t answered any of the DMs piling in.
The knock came soft. Then a second, firmer one.
He didn’t move.
“Royce,” Billy’s voice said through the door. “I know you in there. Open up before I call Delpit and let him talk for forty-five uninterrupted minutes.”
Royce stood, slow, and cracked the door. “You’re early.”
“I’m always early when you trending,” Billy replied, stepping inside without invitation. He dropped a thick folder on the kitchen table—some media briefings, brand deck mockups, maybe an updated NIL pitch. Royce didn’t look.
“I don’t want it to get in my head,” he said, settling back into his chair. “That’s how it starts. They hype you up so they can tear you down.”
Billy leaned against the counter, arms folded. “So don’t flinch.”
Royce didn’t respond right away.
Outside, someone’s dog barked once. A leaf blower revved, coughed, stalled out.
“You say it like that shit easy,” Royce muttered.
“I don’t say it like it’s easy,” Billy said. “I say it like it’s necessary.”
Royce picked at the wrapper on his bar. “People love a comeback story until you fuck up. Then they get bored. Or mad.”
Billy nodded. “And they’ll try to find a crack. A bad quote. A dumb tweet. A late hit. Doesn’t matter.”
He crossed the room, tapping the folder.
“But you? You just keep moving like none of it makes or breaks you. You are the headline.”
Royce met his eyes now.
Billy’s voice dropped. “So don’t flinch.”
There was a pause—just long enough for the weight of the moment to land.
Royce looked down at his hands.
Taped fingers. Healing knuckle.
He wasn’t scared of pressure.
He was scared of forgetting who he was underneath it.
But this? This wasn’t about fear.
This was about choice.
He exhaled and pushed the folder aside.
“Put it in the bag,” he said.
Billy blinked. “What?”
“The media stuff. The deck. Whatever’s in there. I’ll look on the flight.”
A grin cracked the edge of Billy’s face. “Atta boy.”
Royce stood. Stretched his shoulder once. Then looked out the window, where the light had finally started to push through the windows.
Let them talk.
He’d move in silence.
And not flinch.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni didn’t plan the outfit.
Not really.
She was running late, hair still damp from the shower, laptop charger barely shoved into her tote. The blouse had been folded at the back of her drawer for months—unworn since the spring before last, when Deshawn had told her yellow wasn’t her color.
"Too loud," he’d said, like it wasn’t just about the shirt.
Back then, she’d laughed it off. Said it didn’t matter. But she’d changed anyway.
This morning, though, the cotton felt soft in her hands. A little faded, but still warm. She pulled it over her head without thinking too hard, tucked it into high-waisted jeans, and slid on her sandals. No makeup. A little gloss. No mirror check.
It felt like enough.
The classroom was bright—windows cracked just wide enough for the breeze to lift the edge of her notes. Professor Greene was already mid-lecture by the time Toni slipped into her seat, breath caught somewhere between a rush and a resolve. She kept her head down. Took notes.
After class, she found Keisha waiting under one of the live oaks outside, a cup of iced coffee in her hand and her curls piled high in a scarf. Keisha always looked like she belonged in the center of a frame. Toni had never tried to.
But Keisha clocked her immediately.
“Oop,” she said, circling her once like she was on a fashion runway. “Okay, sunflower realness. Yellow?”
Toni blinked. “Yeah?”
Keisha raised her brows. “You’ve never worn yellow to class. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
Toni gave a half-shrug, glancing down. “I’ve had it.”
Keisha sipped her coffee like she wasn’t fooled. “Well, I love it. You’re glowing.”
Toni rolled her eyes, smiling. “It’s just a shirt.”
Keisha grinned and bumped her shoulder. “Nah. It’s a statement. Quiet, but clear.”
They kept walking, their conversation drifting into updates about roommates, upcoming midterms, the ridiculous price of everything at the new smoothie cart. But if there’d been a camera trailing behind them, it wouldn’t have zoomed in on their words.
It would’ve caught the sunlight brushing against Toni’s shoulder.
The soft sway of yellow cotton in the breeze.
The way her hands didn’t fidget at her sleeves, the way her body didn’t fold in.
She didn’t think about Deshawn.
Didn’t mention him.
But something in her stance—quiet, rooted—said enough.
This wasn’t a declaration.
It wasn’t about being loud.
It was about showing up in her skin, as-is.
Soft yellow.
Nothing to prove.
And still, everything reclaimed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The rooftop strung itself together in lights and laughter—low bulbs suspended across beams, catching on wine glasses and gold hoops, the skyline of Baton Rouge pressed soft against the dusk. It was one of Alix’s coworkers’ birthdays—nothing huge, but enough for an RSVP group text, a curated playlist, and a friend-of-a-friend DJ tucked near the sliding door with a Bluetooth speaker and opinions on tempo.
Alix moved easily through the crowd, greeting coworkers with cheek kisses and quick laughs, shoulders relaxed. Co stayed close—not overbearing, not background. Just there. Present.
He kept one arm looped behind her chair while they sat, fingers resting loosely on the back rung. Not touching her—but just enough for people to read the language between them. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t shrink. She didn’t apologize for his presence.
It was one of the newer project consultants—Melissa—who spotted her mid-conversation, a glass of pinot in one hand, bright lipstick perfectly intact.
“Oh! Alix,” Melissa said, leaning in with a smile. “I finally got a peek at the hotel mockups.”
Alix blinked. “Oh… you did?”
“They’re stunning. Like—legitimately moving. You see the space, you know? And not just design-wise. Culturally. You’re threading history in without forcing nostalgia. I don’t know how you did that, but I showed them to my friend at Historic Preservation and she was speechless.”
Alix flushed before she could stop herself. “That’s… wow. Thank you.”
“I mean it,” Melissa said. “I’ve been doing this a long time. You made something special.”
Alix smiled tightly, shoulders twitching in a way that might’ve looked like pride to someone else—but Co knew better. He saw how she dipped her head slightly. How her fingers tensed around her glass. How she’d been thanked before and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Melissa gave a last nod, then disappeared toward the snack table. The hum of music returned, and someone in the corner shouted a joke too loud, setting off a ripple of laughter.
Co leaned in, voice close enough to thread through the moment but not overwhelm it.
“You’re allowed to be proud,” he said.
Alix gave him a look—half skeptical, half expectant.
“That doesn’t make you arrogant,” he added. “It makes you honest.”
She stared at him for a second too long. Not because she didn’t believe him.
But because it scared her how much she did.
Then, quiet and sure, she kissed him.
Not a thank you.
Not a performance.
Just connection. Deliberate. Light. Real.
When she pulled back, he was already smiling—but not wide. Just that soft, steady kind of smile that came from knowing something true and not needing to prove it.
She let her hand rest on his thigh now, finally grounding into the space she occupied—her coworker's party, her project, her moment.
The rooftop carried on—drinks refilled, beats shifted.
But Alix didn’t fade back into the crowd.
She stayed at the center of it.
Not loud.
Just luminous.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 6163
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Finally, we moving on 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
She already moved on. She just went get some one last time.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Fighting Tigers in the Union
Author's Note: My electricity kept going out when I was playing this game and some of the screenshots didn't upload.
Author's Note: My electricity kept going out when I was playing this game and some of the screenshots didn't upload.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 6163
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Took that last game a little personally, I won't lie 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Just be glad you don't have to face Royce.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Life Raft
The knock came just after midnight.
Three short raps, then nothing.
Royce glanced at the time on the microwave—12:07 a.m.—and frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. No games tomorrow. No post-practice hangouts. He moved toward the door slow, cautious by habit. But when he opened it, it was Effie.
She was leaning slightly to one side, arms folded across a dark denim jacket, curls pulled up but windblown, a faint flush across her cheeks. Her eyes were clear. Alert. But different.
Royce blinked. “You good?”
Effie nodded, then stepped past him into the apartment without waiting to be invited. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… didn’t feel like being out anymore.”
He closed the door behind her. The scent of bourbon and citrus followed—faint but distinct.
Royce watched her move toward the couch and lower herself gently onto the cushions, toeing off her sneakers. “You told me you don’t drink.”
“I don’t,” she said. “Not usually. It was just one.”
He stayed standing. “You straight?”
Effie tilted her head back, eyes on the ceiling. “It wasn’t a big night. Just some friends. Just… loud. And then not loud enough.”
Royce walked to the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. No judgment. Just habit. He handed it to her wordlessly and sat down beside her.
She took a sip. Then another.
They sat in the low hush of the room, TV off, just the hum of the fridge and the ticking clock over the oven like some faint metronome.
Effie turned toward him, her knees drawn up onto the couch.
“You don’t have to act weird,” she said. “I’m not wasted.”
“I ain’t acting weird.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“They say I do that all the time.”
That made her smile. Small. The kind of smile that slips out before you can tuck it back in.
“Why’d you really come?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Effie stared at him, long enough that the air shifted.
Then she leaned in and kissed him.
Soft. Slow. No urgency in it. No assumption. Just warmth, and the quiet suggestion of something honest, if they let it be.
Royce kissed her back.
For a moment.
Then he pulled away gently, his hand resting against her jaw like he was trying to hold something steady.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Effie didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She let his words settle like dust.
Then nodded.
“That’s why I came,” she said.
Royce furrowed his brow, unsure.
She leaned back, not away, just into herself. “Not to save you,” she said. “That’s where she failed.”
He knew who she was.
Alix.
Effie didn’t say the name. She didn’t need to.
“You have to want to save yourself,” she finished.
He sat with that. Let it sit in him.
Effie sipped her water again, her body calm, present, unbothered by the space that remained between them.
Royce watched her for a moment—this girl with wind in her hair and something steadier than faith in her eyes—and he realized he wasn’t scared of what she offered.
He was scared of not knowing if he deserved it.
Effie rested her head against the back of the couch and looked straight ahead.
Not at him. Not through him.
Just beside him.
They didn’t need to touch to feel close.
Not tonight.
Maybe not for a while.
And Royce, for once, was okay with that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni felt the first buzz in her back pocket on her way out of class.
She didn’t reach for it.
She was walking with Keisha, the sun slanting low across the quad, that gentle kind of late-afternoon heat softening the concrete beneath their sandals. Keisha was mid-rant about one of their professors assigning two chapters and a reflection due Sunday, “like it’s not homecoming week,” and Toni had nodded along, laughed in the right places, but her phone kept buzzing.
Again.
And again.
By the time she got to her apartment, there were six missed calls. Four texts. A voicemail.
All from Deshawn.
The texts weren’t violent. Not technically. Just sharp. Sharp enough to slice under her skin.
you ignoring me now?
don’t act new
real childish to ghost me in public
answer the phone
this how you move?
Then, the last one:
don’t embarrass me like that
Toni sat on the edge of her bed, phone in her lap, the message alert still pulsing like a tiny, digital heartbeat.
She stared at the screen.
Then pressed play.
Deshawn’s voice came through tinny but clear. Too loud in the small room.
“Toni, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but don’t embarrass me like that. Not after everything I’ve done for you. I don’t care who you think you are now—don’t act like I’m some stranger. Call me.”
The line clicked off with that flat mechanical finality. No goodbye.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t cry.
Just sat there with the phone glowing in her hand, the words lingering like smoke.
Don’t embarrass me.
Like his feelings were hers to manage.
Like silence was some sort of betrayal.
Like she owed him her attention just because he demanded it.
She didn’t block him.
She wasn’t ready for that yet—not because she wanted him back. But because blocking still felt like letting him take up space.
But she deleted the voicemail.
Not slowly.
Not defiantly.
Just… deliberately.
The screen cleared.
No messages.
No sound.
No trace.
Toni let the phone drop gently beside her on the bed. Then she lay back, arms stretched wide across the comforter, eyes on the ceiling.
And breathed.
Not a shaky inhale.
Not a gulp.
Just a real, deep breath.
For the first time all day.
~~~~~~~~~~
The conference room smelled like filtered air and too much coffee.
The walls were glass, the table wide and clean, the kind of space designed to feel neutral but heavy—like everything that happened in it mattered more. Alix stood at the head of the table, her laptop open, the first rendering glowing behind her on the mounted screen: a lobby soaked in warm light, wood and soft terracotta tones anchoring the open space, modern lines shaped around memory.
She’d practiced the pitch. Twice out loud. Once silently, pacing in her socks.
Now, she was in flats and her favorite blazer, the one that still had a fabric care tag she’d never cut. Her palms didn’t sweat. Her voice didn’t shake.
And when she spoke, she meant every word.
“This isn’t just a hotel,” Alix said, meeting the eyes of the room—three partners, a consultant, someone from marketing. “It’s a welcome. A story told in soft textures and history held with care. We’re not just designing for guests. We’re designing for memory. For return.”
She clicked through the renderings. The front desk, the corridor arches, the sitting area with stitched-together shadows meant to echo quilt patterns. None of it begged to be seen. It simply deserved to be.
When the lights came back on, no one clapped. They didn’t need to. There were nods. Scribbled notes. A thoughtful “That’s strong” from the partner with the sharpest glasses. The oldest one just said, “When can we start?”
Alix thanked them calmly, gathered her things, and walked out before her knees remembered how to tremble.
…
By the time the sun had dipped below the skyline, Alix was curled into Co’s side on her couch, legs tangled with his under a throw blanket that smelled like lavender and laundry soap. A pot of gumbo she’d made two days ago sat half-eaten on the coffee table. Neither of them had bothered to put it away yet.
The room was dim except for the soft flicker of the TV. She hadn’t said much since she got home. Just walked in, dropped her keys, and leaned into him like her body knew where it belonged.
Now, her head rested on his chest, the slow rhythm of his breath evening hers.
“I think I really did that,” she whispered.
Co glanced down, one hand rubbing slow circles along her back.
“You did,” he said. “And you will again.”
Alix smiled, small and almost shy.
Not because she doubted it.
But because something in her had finally started believing it, too.
They didn’t need to say anything else. The silence wasn’t empty—it was earned. Like exhale after a held breath. Like home.
Outside, the streetlights blinked on one by one, and Baton Rouge hushed itself into night.
Inside, Alix closed her eyes.
Not to retreat.
But to rest in what she’d built.
The knock came just after midnight.
Three short raps, then nothing.
Royce glanced at the time on the microwave—12:07 a.m.—and frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. No games tomorrow. No post-practice hangouts. He moved toward the door slow, cautious by habit. But when he opened it, it was Effie.
She was leaning slightly to one side, arms folded across a dark denim jacket, curls pulled up but windblown, a faint flush across her cheeks. Her eyes were clear. Alert. But different.
Royce blinked. “You good?”
Effie nodded, then stepped past him into the apartment without waiting to be invited. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… didn’t feel like being out anymore.”
He closed the door behind her. The scent of bourbon and citrus followed—faint but distinct.
Royce watched her move toward the couch and lower herself gently onto the cushions, toeing off her sneakers. “You told me you don’t drink.”
“I don’t,” she said. “Not usually. It was just one.”
He stayed standing. “You straight?”
Effie tilted her head back, eyes on the ceiling. “It wasn’t a big night. Just some friends. Just… loud. And then not loud enough.”
Royce walked to the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. No judgment. Just habit. He handed it to her wordlessly and sat down beside her.
She took a sip. Then another.
They sat in the low hush of the room, TV off, just the hum of the fridge and the ticking clock over the oven like some faint metronome.
Effie turned toward him, her knees drawn up onto the couch.
“You don’t have to act weird,” she said. “I’m not wasted.”
“I ain’t acting weird.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“They say I do that all the time.”
That made her smile. Small. The kind of smile that slips out before you can tuck it back in.
“Why’d you really come?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Effie stared at him, long enough that the air shifted.
Then she leaned in and kissed him.
Soft. Slow. No urgency in it. No assumption. Just warmth, and the quiet suggestion of something honest, if they let it be.
Royce kissed her back.
For a moment.
Then he pulled away gently, his hand resting against her jaw like he was trying to hold something steady.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Effie didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She let his words settle like dust.
Then nodded.
“That’s why I came,” she said.
Royce furrowed his brow, unsure.
She leaned back, not away, just into herself. “Not to save you,” she said. “That’s where she failed.”
He knew who she was.
Alix.
Effie didn’t say the name. She didn’t need to.
“You have to want to save yourself,” she finished.
He sat with that. Let it sit in him.
Effie sipped her water again, her body calm, present, unbothered by the space that remained between them.
Royce watched her for a moment—this girl with wind in her hair and something steadier than faith in her eyes—and he realized he wasn’t scared of what she offered.
He was scared of not knowing if he deserved it.
Effie rested her head against the back of the couch and looked straight ahead.
Not at him. Not through him.
Just beside him.
They didn’t need to touch to feel close.
Not tonight.
Maybe not for a while.
And Royce, for once, was okay with that.
~~~~~~~~~~
Toni felt the first buzz in her back pocket on her way out of class.
She didn’t reach for it.
She was walking with Keisha, the sun slanting low across the quad, that gentle kind of late-afternoon heat softening the concrete beneath their sandals. Keisha was mid-rant about one of their professors assigning two chapters and a reflection due Sunday, “like it’s not homecoming week,” and Toni had nodded along, laughed in the right places, but her phone kept buzzing.
Again.
And again.
By the time she got to her apartment, there were six missed calls. Four texts. A voicemail.
All from Deshawn.
The texts weren’t violent. Not technically. Just sharp. Sharp enough to slice under her skin.
you ignoring me now?
don’t act new
real childish to ghost me in public
answer the phone
this how you move?
Then, the last one:
don’t embarrass me like that
Toni sat on the edge of her bed, phone in her lap, the message alert still pulsing like a tiny, digital heartbeat.
She stared at the screen.
Then pressed play.
Deshawn’s voice came through tinny but clear. Too loud in the small room.
“Toni, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but don’t embarrass me like that. Not after everything I’ve done for you. I don’t care who you think you are now—don’t act like I’m some stranger. Call me.”
The line clicked off with that flat mechanical finality. No goodbye.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t cry.
Just sat there with the phone glowing in her hand, the words lingering like smoke.
Don’t embarrass me.
Like his feelings were hers to manage.
Like silence was some sort of betrayal.
Like she owed him her attention just because he demanded it.
She didn’t block him.
She wasn’t ready for that yet—not because she wanted him back. But because blocking still felt like letting him take up space.
But she deleted the voicemail.
Not slowly.
Not defiantly.
Just… deliberately.
The screen cleared.
No messages.
No sound.
No trace.
Toni let the phone drop gently beside her on the bed. Then she lay back, arms stretched wide across the comforter, eyes on the ceiling.
And breathed.
Not a shaky inhale.
Not a gulp.
Just a real, deep breath.
For the first time all day.
~~~~~~~~~~
The conference room smelled like filtered air and too much coffee.
The walls were glass, the table wide and clean, the kind of space designed to feel neutral but heavy—like everything that happened in it mattered more. Alix stood at the head of the table, her laptop open, the first rendering glowing behind her on the mounted screen: a lobby soaked in warm light, wood and soft terracotta tones anchoring the open space, modern lines shaped around memory.
She’d practiced the pitch. Twice out loud. Once silently, pacing in her socks.
Now, she was in flats and her favorite blazer, the one that still had a fabric care tag she’d never cut. Her palms didn’t sweat. Her voice didn’t shake.
And when she spoke, she meant every word.
“This isn’t just a hotel,” Alix said, meeting the eyes of the room—three partners, a consultant, someone from marketing. “It’s a welcome. A story told in soft textures and history held with care. We’re not just designing for guests. We’re designing for memory. For return.”
She clicked through the renderings. The front desk, the corridor arches, the sitting area with stitched-together shadows meant to echo quilt patterns. None of it begged to be seen. It simply deserved to be.
When the lights came back on, no one clapped. They didn’t need to. There were nods. Scribbled notes. A thoughtful “That’s strong” from the partner with the sharpest glasses. The oldest one just said, “When can we start?”
Alix thanked them calmly, gathered her things, and walked out before her knees remembered how to tremble.
…
By the time the sun had dipped below the skyline, Alix was curled into Co’s side on her couch, legs tangled with his under a throw blanket that smelled like lavender and laundry soap. A pot of gumbo she’d made two days ago sat half-eaten on the coffee table. Neither of them had bothered to put it away yet.
The room was dim except for the soft flicker of the TV. She hadn’t said much since she got home. Just walked in, dropped her keys, and leaned into him like her body knew where it belonged.
Now, her head rested on his chest, the slow rhythm of his breath evening hers.
“I think I really did that,” she whispered.
Co glanced down, one hand rubbing slow circles along her back.
“You did,” he said. “And you will again.”
Alix smiled, small and almost shy.
Not because she doubted it.
But because something in her had finally started believing it, too.
They didn’t need to say anything else. The silence wasn’t empty—it was earned. Like exhale after a held breath. Like home.
Outside, the streetlights blinked on one by one, and Baton Rouge hushed itself into night.
Inside, Alix closed her eyes.
Not to retreat.
But to rest in what she’d built.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Application Fee
The apartment was quiet—the kind of quiet that only settles in after 1 a.m., when even the walls seem to understand there’s nothing more to say. The fridge hummed faintly in the kitchen. Somewhere above, the neighbor’s dog gave a final shuffle and sighed against its kennel. The pipes, which usually clanged with some stubborn sense of their own importance, had gone still.
It was the hour when doubt felt louder and decisions felt heavier.
Arianna sat cross-legged on her bed, the laptop balanced on a pillow across her thighs. The blue light painted her face in soft, uncertain strokes, catching on the curve of her cheekbone, the rim of her glasses. Her room was dim, lit only by the screen and the faint glow of a salt lamp on the desk in the corner—warm, amber, trying to ground her.
A half-empty mug of peppermint tea rested on the nightstand beside a dog-eared journal and a capped pen. The tea had gone cold hours ago, but she hadn’t moved to warm it. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands, thumbs tucked through frayed holes like anchors, grounding her to the fabric, the moment, herself.
On the screen, Tulane University MFA in Creative Writing hovered in neat, serifed font. The application portal was open, clean and sterile in its design. Every section had been checked off: personal statement uploaded, writing sample finalized after two weeks of edits and one impulsive deletion, letters of recommendation already filed by two former professors and the poet she’d met during that workshop last fall. The hard part was done.
All that remained was the final page.
Submit Application.
The cursor blinked. Steady. Silent. A heartbeat in digital form.
Arianna stared at it, the glow of it bright against the dark, like a question she wasn’t sure she was allowed to answer.
Her bedroom held evidence of the version of herself she was slowly learning to believe in: a stack of slim poetry chapbooks lined her dresser—some marked up, some dog-eared, one gifted to her by a woman with ink-stained hands after a reading in New Orleans. Her push-pin board was a chaotic collage of sticky notes, scribbled deadlines, printouts of submission calls, and a postcard with a quote she loved too much to remove: “Tell your story before someone else does.”
Pinned just below that was the program flyer from the Lafayette open mic. The one where she hadn’t read about Royce. Or about grief. Or about the version of her that only ever existed in someone else’s orbit.
That night, she’d written something just for herself.
This application?
This was the same.
She reached for her phone without overthinking it, fingers hesitating only once before she typed.
Should I?
She stared at the message for a long beat, her thumb hovering over the screen. The question felt too light for what it carried.
But she sent it anyway.
The reply came two minutes later.
You already know
From Mike. Three words. Nothing extravagant. Not a push. Not a plea. Just belief—steady, quiet, unshaken. Like always.
Arianna let out a long breath. Not shaky. Not forced.
The kind that starts low in your belly and clears space behind your ribs.
She looked back at the screen. The blinking cursor was still there. Waiting.
So she did the only thing left to do.
She clicked.
The screen blinked once, then shifted—confirmation blooming in a pale green bar across the top:
Your application has been submitted.
She didn’t move.
Just sat there, eyes still on the page, the weight in her chest changing shape—not disappearing, but redistributing. Not pressure anymore. Possibility.
Her shoulders dropped slightly, tension unwinding itself from her spine like thread off a spool. No dramatic swell of music. No thunderclap or cinematic finish.
Just stillness.
And something softer beneath it: the quiet knowing that—for once—she hadn’t waited to be picked.
She’d chosen herself.
Arianna leaned back against the pillows, hoodie sleeves still looped around her thumbs, and closed her eyes. The salt lamp glowed beside her. The cursor had stopped blinking. The decision was made.
And the night held her gently in return.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie almost didn’t answer.
She stared at the screen while it buzzed quietly on her nightstand, the name Mom glowing against a pale background. Not Momma. Not Ma. Just flat and formal now, the way distance turns into default.
She hadn't spoken to her in weeks. Texts, maybe. Quick replies about insurance or mail. But a call?
She let it go to voicemail.
Then, after a beat, tapped “Call Back” before she could talk herself out of it.
The phone rang twice.
Her mother answered like she’d been holding her breath.
“Effie?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“How are you?”
Effie pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
Another pause. That familiar standoff—who’s going to ask first, who’s going to flinch.
“I got your photo,” her mom said eventually. “The one of the window.”
Effie knew the one she meant. An old burned-out room, cracked glass, the light slanting just right through the soot-streaked frame. She hadn’t sent it for approval. Just presence.
“I didn’t ask you to say anything about it,” Effie replied.
“I know.” Her mom’s voice was tight. Clipped. “But it… surprised me. That you’re still doing this.”
Effie didn’t answer.
Her mom exhaled. “You know, I still think about her. All the time.”
Effie’s jaw tightened.
“Paz didn’t tell me what she was going through,” her mom continued, like the words had been waiting somewhere in her throat for months. “But I could tell. She was already hurting. You just didn’t see it.”
Effie’s breath caught. Not a gasp. Not loud.
Just a sharp shift inward.
“No,” she said, voice low but unflinching. “I saw it.”
Silence.
“I just thought I had more time.”
The line was quiet except for her mother’s breathing.
Effie didn’t wait for a reply.
She hung up.
She sat still for a second, her phone still in her hand, thumb pressed against the side like she might call back, like she might explain—but she didn’t.
The tears came slow at first.
Not a flood.
Not a scream.
Just her body unlocking.
Effie leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let her forehead drop into her palms.
This time, she didn’t push it down.
Didn’t try to breathe through it.
Didn’t tell herself she had to be stronger than this.
She let it happen.
The sobs shook her shoulders. Her chest clenched. Her nose ran. She couldn’t catch her breath for a minute—but she didn’t try to stop herself.
Grief moved through her like a wave that had waited too long.
She cried until it emptied. Until her throat hurt and her hands were trembling and the blanket had slid halfway to the floor.
Then she curled into herself on the couch, one arm tucked under her, and breathed.
Deep. Uneven. Real.
It wasn’t peace.
But it was release.
The apartment was quiet—the kind of quiet that only settles in after 1 a.m., when even the walls seem to understand there’s nothing more to say. The fridge hummed faintly in the kitchen. Somewhere above, the neighbor’s dog gave a final shuffle and sighed against its kennel. The pipes, which usually clanged with some stubborn sense of their own importance, had gone still.
It was the hour when doubt felt louder and decisions felt heavier.
Arianna sat cross-legged on her bed, the laptop balanced on a pillow across her thighs. The blue light painted her face in soft, uncertain strokes, catching on the curve of her cheekbone, the rim of her glasses. Her room was dim, lit only by the screen and the faint glow of a salt lamp on the desk in the corner—warm, amber, trying to ground her.
A half-empty mug of peppermint tea rested on the nightstand beside a dog-eared journal and a capped pen. The tea had gone cold hours ago, but she hadn’t moved to warm it. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands, thumbs tucked through frayed holes like anchors, grounding her to the fabric, the moment, herself.
On the screen, Tulane University MFA in Creative Writing hovered in neat, serifed font. The application portal was open, clean and sterile in its design. Every section had been checked off: personal statement uploaded, writing sample finalized after two weeks of edits and one impulsive deletion, letters of recommendation already filed by two former professors and the poet she’d met during that workshop last fall. The hard part was done.
All that remained was the final page.
Submit Application.
The cursor blinked. Steady. Silent. A heartbeat in digital form.
Arianna stared at it, the glow of it bright against the dark, like a question she wasn’t sure she was allowed to answer.
Her bedroom held evidence of the version of herself she was slowly learning to believe in: a stack of slim poetry chapbooks lined her dresser—some marked up, some dog-eared, one gifted to her by a woman with ink-stained hands after a reading in New Orleans. Her push-pin board was a chaotic collage of sticky notes, scribbled deadlines, printouts of submission calls, and a postcard with a quote she loved too much to remove: “Tell your story before someone else does.”
Pinned just below that was the program flyer from the Lafayette open mic. The one where she hadn’t read about Royce. Or about grief. Or about the version of her that only ever existed in someone else’s orbit.
That night, she’d written something just for herself.
This application?
This was the same.
She reached for her phone without overthinking it, fingers hesitating only once before she typed.
Should I?
She stared at the message for a long beat, her thumb hovering over the screen. The question felt too light for what it carried.
But she sent it anyway.
The reply came two minutes later.
You already know
From Mike. Three words. Nothing extravagant. Not a push. Not a plea. Just belief—steady, quiet, unshaken. Like always.
Arianna let out a long breath. Not shaky. Not forced.
The kind that starts low in your belly and clears space behind your ribs.
She looked back at the screen. The blinking cursor was still there. Waiting.
So she did the only thing left to do.
She clicked.
The screen blinked once, then shifted—confirmation blooming in a pale green bar across the top:
Your application has been submitted.
She didn’t move.
Just sat there, eyes still on the page, the weight in her chest changing shape—not disappearing, but redistributing. Not pressure anymore. Possibility.
Her shoulders dropped slightly, tension unwinding itself from her spine like thread off a spool. No dramatic swell of music. No thunderclap or cinematic finish.
Just stillness.
And something softer beneath it: the quiet knowing that—for once—she hadn’t waited to be picked.
She’d chosen herself.
Arianna leaned back against the pillows, hoodie sleeves still looped around her thumbs, and closed her eyes. The salt lamp glowed beside her. The cursor had stopped blinking. The decision was made.
And the night held her gently in return.
~~~~~~~~~~
Effie almost didn’t answer.
She stared at the screen while it buzzed quietly on her nightstand, the name Mom glowing against a pale background. Not Momma. Not Ma. Just flat and formal now, the way distance turns into default.
She hadn't spoken to her in weeks. Texts, maybe. Quick replies about insurance or mail. But a call?
She let it go to voicemail.
Then, after a beat, tapped “Call Back” before she could talk herself out of it.
The phone rang twice.
Her mother answered like she’d been holding her breath.
“Effie?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“How are you?”
Effie pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
Another pause. That familiar standoff—who’s going to ask first, who’s going to flinch.
“I got your photo,” her mom said eventually. “The one of the window.”
Effie knew the one she meant. An old burned-out room, cracked glass, the light slanting just right through the soot-streaked frame. She hadn’t sent it for approval. Just presence.
“I didn’t ask you to say anything about it,” Effie replied.
“I know.” Her mom’s voice was tight. Clipped. “But it… surprised me. That you’re still doing this.”
Effie didn’t answer.
Her mom exhaled. “You know, I still think about her. All the time.”
Effie’s jaw tightened.
“Paz didn’t tell me what she was going through,” her mom continued, like the words had been waiting somewhere in her throat for months. “But I could tell. She was already hurting. You just didn’t see it.”
Effie’s breath caught. Not a gasp. Not loud.
Just a sharp shift inward.
“No,” she said, voice low but unflinching. “I saw it.”
Silence.
“I just thought I had more time.”
The line was quiet except for her mother’s breathing.
Effie didn’t wait for a reply.
She hung up.
She sat still for a second, her phone still in her hand, thumb pressed against the side like she might call back, like she might explain—but she didn’t.
The tears came slow at first.
Not a flood.
Not a scream.
Just her body unlocking.
Effie leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let her forehead drop into her palms.
This time, she didn’t push it down.
Didn’t try to breathe through it.
Didn’t tell herself she had to be stronger than this.
She let it happen.
The sobs shook her shoulders. Her chest clenched. Her nose ran. She couldn’t catch her breath for a minute—but she didn’t try to stop herself.
Grief moved through her like a wave that had waited too long.
She cried until it emptied. Until her throat hurt and her hands were trembling and the blanket had slid halfway to the floor.
Then she curled into herself on the couch, one arm tucked under her, and breathed.
Deep. Uneven. Real.
It wasn’t peace.
But it was release.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 13870
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47