Page 3 of Kill Feed

Xavier sinks back into the booth, a slice of half-folded pizza dangling from his hand. “Man, this whole pizza debate feels like our professor’s assignments.” Xavier chews around a mouthful, the grease glistening pungent under the neon sign above. “No matter what topping you pick, it’s never enough. Just like those endless tasks he piles on us.”

Lucas proceeds to hit him on the shoulder.

Xavier winces with a teasing smirk before fixing his gaze on me. “If third year doesn’t end soon, I’m dropping out. I mean it. I’ll go work at some mall photo studio and take baby portraits until my soul exits my body. Professor Liu is unhinged,” he continues, “Three shoots a week, two critiques, and now that stupid sensor-calibration assignment? For what?”

I lift my soda, taking a slow sip. “For the degree you said you were excited about.”

He levels me with a betrayed stare. “I was excited about the vibes. Not the labor. With all the workload and assignments, how am I supposed to work on my own shit?”

“What shit?” Lucas mutters before shoving another slice into his mouth like an animal.

“He’s working on a documentary, Lucas, geez,” Amani sighs, shaking her head. “You’re his best friend; how do you not know this?”

“Wait— how do you know this?” Lucas huffs as color drains from his face. She folds her arms over her chest, irritability and his lack of comprehension bouncing off her demeanor as she throws daggers at him. “Because I listen. You should try it some time.”

If jealousy needed a body, Lucas would volunteer his. Because fuck, I can sense the steam escaping his ears as he flicks his attention towards Xavier, who sits utterly oblivious to the situation.

“Xavier spoke about it earlier this week,” I add.

He squints at the guy who now seems to catch on.

“I’ve never heard you talk about shooting a documentary,” he says, lazily incredulous.

“He has,” I tell him, giving my head a small shake. “More than once.”

Lucas goes still for half a beat, like his brain is rebooting, then he pivots–literally–swinging one leg over Xavier’s lap.

“My bad,” Lucas says, tone bright and sinful. “Guess I wasn’t listening. Sooo… what’s it about?”

Xavier stiffens.

That little shift—shoulders inching up, the faint recoil—it’s microscopic, but it hits my radar instantly. Lucas’s leg gets nudged off with a shove that’s polite enough to pass as friendly but firm enough to say don’t.

My hand shoots up to my neck, rubbing over an old scar.

Xavier clears his throat. “I’m… keeping it on the low for now. Can’t risk spoiling it or have one of you steal my concept.” He says this with a subtle grin that doesn’t seem forced, so I settle my nerves.

Where I obsess over stills, Xavier worships motion.

He’s been buzzing about shooting a documentary since the start of the year, insisting some ‘jaw-dropping real-life story’ will catapult him into the film world’s upper atmosphere. Whether that theory is genius or pure fantasy? Only he has the delusion catalogue for that.

As for the actual subject of this so-called documentary, he’s been more than secretive about it.

That didn’t stop him from rambling about how his ‘investigation phase’ is so sensitive he can’t disclose anything yet. His words, not mine. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

“Oh please. I have no ambition to shoot my own documentary. I’ll leave that to the experts. I prefer being in front of the camera, not behind it,” Amani chimes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Besides, when I’m not taking over the world, I’m helping my dad run his bookstore.”

“At least your parents love you.” Lucas huffs out of complete left field, “My parents have moved on to full-on warfare. Dad told me yesterday that I don’t have real discipline and that I should pursue something else if I can’t handle the workload.”

Xavier perks up, savoring the chance to be unhelpful. “Like admin?”

Lucas freezes, throwing him a glare. “Say that again, and I’ll smear toppings on you.” Their bickering fills the booth gradually before overlapping, too loud for the tiny space. It’s the kind of chaos that would fatigue me anywhere else. But here, with them? It settles under my skin like warmth.

A distraction like white noise on a rainy night.

Amani’s laughter rings across the table, soft at first, then full-bodied when Lucas launches into his next melodramatic complaint.

I stay mostly quiet, listening to the people who, somehow, became my people. I don’t need to add anything. Just sitting here feels like enough. I’m normal. Just like the server taking orders, the man in the back swinging dough on his hand. Just like the girl pouring green, saturated soda into her cup at the far end of the pizzeria. I’m just like every other person in this joint.