Samuel – From Cafeteria to Outside
The second he stood up, the noise in the cafeteria seemed to shift.
Not louder—but sharper. Focused. Like someone had twisted a lens and all the blurry glances suddenly snapped into place. Eyes. Whispers. A chair squeaking as someone leaned for a better look. Footsteps slowing just enough to eavesdrop.
Samuel didn't wait to see who was watching.
He grabbed his bag, left the tray untouched, and pushed through the cafeteria doors before he could talk himself out of it.
The hallway wasn't any better.
Two kids by the lockers looked up and then down too fast. One of them smirked. A senior he didn't know passed by and gave him a little nod—too friendly to be real.
His shoulders felt too high, like they were trying to shield his neck from the weight of it all.
He kept moving.
Left at the vending machines. Past the half-broken trophy case. Through the side doors and into the light.
The change hit like a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Air. Space. Real sky.
He kept walking—past the picnic tables, out toward the lawn by the gym where the grass was uneven and the edge of the world felt a little farther away. When he reached the low wall by the bike racks, he dropped his bag and sat down hard, hands braced on either side of him.
His heartbeat was still thudding in his chest like it hadn't caught up to the fact that he was out.
Away.
Alone.
For now.
"Maybe you're just a coward."
The words echoed again, softer now—but deeper.
She'd meant to sting. But the truth was, he was already asking the question.
Am I?
Is that what this is? Always sitting at the back? Always slipping through when no one's watching?
Is that why I hated the video? Because it showed me? Because people saw me?
He dropped his head into his hands, fingers pressing into his temples.
He didn't want fame. He didn't want attention. He didn't want to be the next viral face with a voice people pretended to understand. He just wanted space. Peace. A life that didn't turn quiet moments into public ones.
Is it really that hard?
To just exist without the noise?
The air out here was better. Cleaner. It didn't come with stares or whispers or half-laughed questions behind a locker door. And yet—even now, away from it all, he could still hear her.
"Maybe you're just a coward."
He knew she was just saying things. Haley always said things—quick, sharp, defensive jabs to win the moment. Words meant to sting, not meant to last.
But that one had landed.
Because it didn't come from her.
Not really.
It came from something already in his chest, already in his head. Something he'd been wondering long before today.
Am I hiding?
Am I afraid of being seen?
Do I only feel safe in the background because it means no one expects anything?
He sat with it for a long beat, staring at the cracks in the concrete like they might give him an answer.
Haley hadn't exposed anything.
She'd just named it.
That was what made it worse
He stood slowly, almost gently. No slamming of doors. No muttered curses. Just the weight of it all shifting in his chest like a box packed too tight finally giving way.
He didn't want to be here.
Not for the forced smiles. Not for the hallway nods. Not for the version of him they thought they knew after thirty seconds of a viral clip.
He needed space. A break from the noise. A second to breathe and actually think—about what he wanted, about who he was when no one else was watching.
He stared out toward the edge of the field.
And then it struck him.
You know what? Screw it.
Back in his old life, when school got too much—when everything felt just a little too loud or a little too fake—he used to ditch the rest of the day. Take a walk. Disappear into the background of the world until it all felt human again.
Why not now?
No reason to stick around when just existing in it gave him a headache.
He gave a soft, bitter laugh to no one in particular.
"Let's call this a tradition."
He slung his bag over his shoulder, turned away from the school, and walked—off campus, off schedule, off script.
Just a boy skipping class.
And maybe—finally—getting a little quiet.
He cut across the back lawn toward the bike racks, steps lighter now, like the act of deciding had peeled something off his chest. No teachers shouting after him. No bells. No rules he felt like obeying.
His bike sat where he left it, leaning against the far rail like it had been waiting for an excuse too.
He swung a leg over the frame, kicked off, and let the motion carry him—past the gym, past the rows of parked cars, out toward the back service road that curved around the school.
He didn't have a destination.
That was the point.
He'd never really explored this side of town. Most days he stuck to a route—home, school, grocery store, repeat. Straight lines. Known corners.
But today?
Today felt like it needed a curve.
So he rode.
Past the fire station. Past a hardware store with a faded awning. Past a row of houses he'd never seen before, each with their own quiet little lives playing out behind drawn curtains and creaking porches.
The wind cut through his hoodie, but he didn't mind. It was better than the cafeteria air. Better than the pressure. Better than sitting still and letting other people write his story.
He didn't know where he was going.
But for the first time that day—maybe even all week—he wanted to find out.
He turned another corner, coasted past a stop sign, and felt it—like gravity, but sideways. A tug in his chest. A memory in motion.
He didn't plan it.
But as he passed the last stretch of road before the town began to thin, the thought hit him, sudden and soft:
The beach.
He hadn't been to the beach once in this life.
Forest trails, mountain air, the hush of pine trees—that was what this life had given him. And he was fine with that. It had its own kind of peace. But it wasn't this.
It wasn't what he remembered.
Because in his last life, the beach had been something else entirely. Something rare and precious.
It wasn't about swimming, or parties, or surfing. It was the calm. The rhythm. The gentle, endless repetition of the waves folding into the shore and pulling back like clockwork. The low chatter of people who came to rest, not perform. The way someone would turn over slowly on a towel—not because they were in a rush, but because they wanted an even tan and had nowhere else to be.
He used to sit for hours doing nothing. Just watching.
And something in him wanted that again today.
Maybe not the exact beach. Maybe not the same version of himself. But the feeling? He'd take that.
So he rode.
Out past the town limits, through the edge of traffic, until the smell of salt cut through the mountain air.
He didn't even think about the time. He just pedaled until the road opened up and the dunes appeared in the distance like a memory finally resurfacing.
And then—there it was.
The ocean.
Wide. Open. Moving like it didn't know how to stop.
It hit him all at once—the shimmer of sun on water, the sound of waves folding into the sand, the cry of gulls overhead. Salt in the air. Light everywhere.
It wasn't silent, but it was calm. Not still, but steady. The kind of noise that didn't ask anything of him. The kind that soothed, not strained.
Down by the waterline, a pair of women played with their kids, laughing as the children darted through the shallows. One of the toddlers shrieked as a wave nipped at their heels, and the sound carried up the shore like a breeze wrapped in joy.
Samuel stopped for a second at the edge of the dunes, just watching. Just taking it in.
People lying on towels. Others walking slowly, barefoot, like they had nowhere to be. A man tossing a frisbee lazily to his dog. A couple sharing headphones and a melted soda.
It was exactly like he remembered. And not at all.
But it was enough.
He stepped off the bike, wheeled it to the side, and let it rest against a weathered post. Then, grabbing his bag, he walked down toward the shore—quietly, like he didn't want to break whatever spell the place was under.
He didn't know how long he'd stay. Didn't care.
He was here.
And that was all he needed for now.
He turned his head toward the water again, let the breeze brush over his face, and stared at the horizon for a long, slow minute.
What do I want in this life?
He didn't have a clear answer yet.
But he was starting to figure out what he didn't want.
He didn't want to be quiet for someone else's comfort. Didn't want to stay in the background just because it was easier. Didn't want to be the guy who kept shrinking so other people wouldn't stare too long.
He wanted space.
People who got it.Moments that felt real.A place where he didn't have to explain why he didn't want to perform every damn second.
He closed his eyes, listening to the waves.
No plans.
No expectations.
Just a boy on a beach, letting the world be whatever it was going to be.
The sand was warm beneath him. The wind shifted now and then, cool enough to keep him from melting, soft enough to keep him still. His hoodie hood tugged gently at the back of his head as if tucking him in.
The sound of the ocean blurred at the edges.
And then, somewhere between the rhythm of the tide and the weight finally lifting off his chest, he fell asleep.
Right there in the sun.
Shoes off. Guard down.For once, not running from anything.
Just resting.
Samuel didn't wake up peacefully.
First a thud. Then sand on his leg. Then a kid's high-pitched laugh way too close.
His eyes snapped open as a neon blur ran past, dragging a plastic shovel. Another kid followed, tossing sand, tripping near him, not even noticing.
He groaned, sat up, and brushed sand off his hoodie. His neck and back protested.
But the sun was out. The waves kept rolling. And even after getting kicked out of a nap, the calm held.
He exhaled.
Reality was back—just lighter than before.
His peace, as brief as it was, had clearly expired.
He watched the kids disappear down the shoreline, their laughter fading behind the wind, then looked out across the beach—and spotted the harbor farther down. Masts swayed gently in the distance, glinting in the sun. Sleek white yachts bobbed in their slips, all polished decks and quiet luxury.
It wasn't the kind of place he normally wandered into. But maybe that was the point.
He stood, shook the last of the sand from his sleeves, and started walking toward the pier. Something about those boats—clean lines, calm water, the way they just waited—pulled at him.
Turtle pov
Turtle leaned against the kiosk, sunglasses low on his nose, eyes locked on a yacht brochure like it held the secrets of the universe.
"This is the one," he said, tapping a glossy photo of a sleek, three-deck monster with a rooftop bar and speakers the size of car engines. "That's Vinny's boat right there."
Johnny Drama hovered over his shoulder, skeptical. "You said that about the last three. What makes this one different?"
Turtle turned to him with a look. "Bro. This one's got three levels, a hot tub, and a speaker system that could wake dolphins. Vinny's only turning twenty-eight once. You don't rent a dinghy for a Chase birthday. You rent a floating legend."
Drama nodded solemnly. "We owe it to him. Guy's been carrying Hollywood on his back since Queens Boulevard."
The dock manager approached with a clipboard, already squinting like he'd seen this movie before. "You fellas looking for a charter or just sightseeing?"
Turtle didn't miss a beat. "Charter. Premium. The kind of boat that makes people say, 'Who the hell is on that thing?'"
Drama slid his sunglasses up. "And FYI, this isn't just a birthday cruise. We just locked in an ad spot with Victoria's Secret."
The dock guy blinked. "For real?"
"For real real," Turtle added, arms wide. "Bikinis. photoshoots. Maybe even a cameo if Vinny's feelin' generous. So yeah—we're gonna need top shelf."
As the manager flipped to a different clipboard page, Drama pulled out his phone. "I'm texting E. He needs to lock in catering. Sushi, charcuterie, gluten-free nonsense—whatever the L.A. girls are into."
Turtle made a face. "We're on a boat, Johnny. Half these people are gonna be drunk on rosé before we even hit open water. They're not checking labels."
Drama pointed his phone at him. "You say that, but the last time we skipped gluten-free, there was a meltdown. You remember the model who thought pita chips were a personal attack?"
Turtle rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and then she got drunk on champagne and danced to Shaggy like it was 2003. She'll be fine."
He chuckled to himself, but his gaze drifted lazily across the dock—and landed on a kid in a hoodie, wandering near the yachts.
The teen didn't look impressed. More like… thoughtful. Eyes moving from boat to boat, taking it all in like he was measuring something invisible. Something in the way he walked—slow, confident, with that quiet, grounded kind of ease—reminded Turtle of a young Vinny Chase. Not the looks. The vibe. Like the world didn't even register; he just hadn't decided what part of it he wanted yet.
Turtle squinted.
There was something familiar.
When the kid turned his head, Turtle saw his face—and that's when it clicked.
He'd seen him.
Last night. On his laptop. "Paradise." That raw, clean duet. Turtle had been half-asleep when he watched it, but the voice had stuck with him. And now the kid was here, right in front of him.
Turtle blinked, stepped forward. "Hey—aren't you that kid from the YouTube video? The duet thing? Paradise, right?""
Samuel Pov
A piano below deck. A bike strapped to the back for wherever you docked. A little studio setup—just a mic, a chair, a window. Music when the mood hit. Silence when it didn't.
A bow hanging above the bed—hand-carved, oiled smooth, the kind of thing you didn't buy but built. Arrows in a leather case tucked in a corner. Not for show. Not for sport. Just something quiet and steady that reminded you who you were when no one else was watching.
Books stacked where a minibar should be. A journal left open on a table, half-filled with lyrics, sketches, fragments of thoughts that didn't need to go anywhere.
A life not made for posting.
Just living.
He could see it—mornings with salt on his skin and no one asking questions. Nights lit by dock lights or stars. No promises. No noise.
Just a boat. A boy. A little sound. A little silence.
And the name?
He'd paint it on the side in dark, old lettering—Floki. Or maybe Ragnar.
Not for show. Not for anyone else to get.
Just a quiet reminder of something deeper. Of maps burned and lands found. Of wild hearts and chosen paths.
A ship that could cross oceans—or disappear from them.
His.
And then—
"Hey—aren't you that kid from the YouTube video? The duet thing? Paradise, right?"
When Samuel heard the words, he wanted to scream.
How the fuck is this happening?
How many people have seen that video?
His throat tightened like it was trying to lock the noise in, but the thought kept spinning, louder than the waves behind him. It was supposed to be small. A moment. Not a wildfire.
He turned toward the voices, ready to brush it off—and froze for a second.
One of them was shorter, swaggering like he'd never doubted a sentence he spoke in his life. The other was taller, broader, face set like a Moai statue, all angles and serious Hollywood tan.
He recognized them.
Somewhere in the blur of past and present, faces that stuck. Not A-list. Not strangers either. Just… background characters with gravity. Like they'd walked through the edge of his memory and stayed there.
He didn't dwell on it.
Didn't want to.
So he pushed the moment forward, hoping it would end as quickly as it started.
"…Yeah," he said, voice steady, casual. "That's me."
The taller one squinted, tilting his head. "Wait—who is this?"
Turtle turned to him, a little too excited. "That's the kid from the duet video. Paradise. I saw it last night—YouTube recommend or something. Man, it stuck. His voice? It's raw. Real."
Johnny Drama looked at Samuel again, slower this time. "Huh."
Then he stuck out a hand. "Johnny Drama."
Samuel shook it cautiously.
Turtle followed with his own handshake. "Turtle. Yeah, that's the name."
They stood there, clearly expecting something more.
Samuel didn't have it.
He still couldn't place them. Faces familiar in that weird TV-corner-of-your-eye way. Maybe something he'd scrolled past. Maybe background characters that just stuck.
He shrugged inwardly and gave a polite nod. "Cool. But I gotta go."
He turned slightly, but Turtle wasn't done.
"Hey—hold up. You wanna sing?"
Samuel paused.
Turtle's grin widened, reading the hesitation as something else. "C'mon, man. Vinny Chase's birthday party. We're putting something together on the yacht. Your song? It sounded real good. Still got time to sneak in some music on the boat."
Turtle watched him closely, like he was waiting for a reaction—and he got one.
That's when it clicked—Vinny Chase.
The name hit like a cymbal crash.
The unhinged show with the best cameos. The parties. The chaos. The weirdly emotional arcs buried under layers of Hollywood nonsense. He'd binged Entourage in his old life during a summer he barely remembered—lazy nights, headphones in, volume low so no one would hear the jokes he wasn't supposed to laugh at.
Turtle saw the shift in his face and lit up even more.
"Yeah, that Vinny. You a fan?" he said, leaning in with a knowing smirk. "Didn't think I'd drop that name and not get a reaction, huh?"
Samuel blinked.
But in his head, something buzzed.
Yeah, I know Vinny Chase.
Just not this Vinny.
"I told them—'You want me to sing?'"
The words came out slower than he expected. Not angry. Not confused. Just… honest.
"Sorry, but… that video? That was the first time anyone ever recorded my voice."
He looked between them—Turtle still smiling, Drama now squinting, trying to piece things together.
"It kinda made my life… difficult."
Drama's brow furrowed like he was trying to do the math. "How could that video make your life difficult?"
Samuel hesitated, then sighed.
He didn't owe them anything—but something about their faces, the way they weren't just random strangers but TV people, made it feel a little safer. Like maybe they'd get it. Or at least not dismiss it the way others had.
So he explained.
How it wasn't planned. How someone had filmed him secretly, uploaded it without asking, and suddenly, people started looking at him differently. How every hallway felt tighter. Every glance felt loaded.
"I hated the attention," he said, voice flat. "I still do."
Johnny blinked. "Dude… being famous is awesome."
He said it like it was obvious. Like he couldn't even imagine the opposite. Like he'd forgotten all the times the spotlight had burned him too.
I looked at him, not mad—just tired.
"I get it, man. But for me? Feeling like people make entire stories in their heads about someone they've only seen on a screen… it's weird."
I glanced down at the boards under my feet, then back at Johnny.
"It's like I'm supposed to live my life for them now. Like I owe them something just because they watched a clip."
I shrugged, but it felt heavier than that. "I didn't ask for any of it."
Turtle had gone quiet during my whole explanation, but now he stepped forward, arms crossed, voice a little lower—less hype, more real.
"You've got talent," he said, like it was just a fact. "You can run away from it. Hide from it. Pretend it's not there."
He looked at me straight, no grin this time.
"But that's not you."
He let that hang a beat, then added, "You gotta be every part of yourself, man. Otherwise… you're not really you. Not truly."
"C'mon, kid," he said, grinning like we'd been friends for years. "You wanna see proof of how cool it can be if you're famous and don't hide from your talents? I mean—look at me. Vikings Quest, baby!"
He struck a pose, thumbs to his chest. "Johann, keeper of the Northern Blade. Still gets me free drinks in half of Europe."
Then his tone shifted, just a little softer—almost sincere beneath all the bravado.
"Today's not just any day, kid. It's Vinny Chase's birthday. And we're not just throwing a party—we're making Hollywood history on water."
It sounded insane. But so did most of this day.
He gestured toward the marina, like the yachts were already calling my name. "Music, lights, legends… and maybe a shot for you to show people who you really are. You coming or what?"
I looked out at the water, then back at Johnny and Turtle—two guys who were technically fictional in another life and now apparently inviting me to chill on a yacht like that was normal.
Fake movie stars. A birthday yacht party. Music. No rules.
Fuck it.
Chilling on a yacht with a bunch of Hollywood lunatics? I could always bail before the actual party. Ride back before sunset. But if I said no to this? Yeah… I'd probably just end up staying inside for a week, overthinking everything until I forgot what sunlight felt like.
I glanced between them again, and shrugged like it wasn't that deep—even though it kind of was.
"Sure," I said. "I'll go with you."