RED HANDS + DREAMS DISSOLVED IN FLASHES OF BLUE AND RED

THE CHAOS ROLLED IN SLOWLY LIKE SMOKE

Captured in the fashion district, where the air clings heavy with perfume and neon lights flicker like broken dreams, Mitchell Royel’s lens found me—lost, yet electric. We're sinking into sounds that feel like velvet on bare skin, SIPPIN by Milco and DEJA, each beat unraveling another layer of who I am, or who I was pretending to be. It’s the kind of night where every glance is a confession, every shadow knows your secrets, and the music doesn’t just fill the space—it owns it.

It all happened so fast, but looking back now, I can see every single moment that led to it as clearly as if it were playing on a screen. I rolled up to her house — a twenty-year-old on a full scholarship to a Christian college, someone who was supposed to have it all together. The night felt tense before I even stepped out of the car, but I didn’t care. My heart was pounding, my head full of all the things I wanted to say, all the ways she hurt me. It was like I was brimming with this volatile energy that had nowhere to go but straight to her.

When she opened the door, it was like a match hit gasoline. I snapped. The words that came out of me — they weren’t planned, they weren’t thoughtful, but they were sharp, ugly, and cruel. I cursed her out so bad. Words that no Christian, no decent person, should ever say. I can still hear them echo sometimes. And then, before I even knew what was happening, it escalated. We were brawling, right there in her living room, rolling on the floor like wild animals. Just pure chaos. Everything was a blur. There was no reason, no thought, just raw, unfiltered rage. I was seeing nothing but red. That moment, that anger, it consumed me. It didn’t matter what anyone would’ve said or done then. I wasn’t myself anymore.

What she did to me felt unforgivable — at least, that’s what I convinced myself of in the heat of that moment. I thought I was justified, that my pain gave me permission to act out. But there’s no justification for what I did. Not really. And the thing is, I never even saw it coming after that. She waited; maybe they all did. They gave it time, about a month, keeping quiet, letting me think I had gotten away with it, before they made their move. Then one night, the cops showed up, and it was over. Just like that. No warning, no second chances. They took me away, and everything — my freedom, my sense of control, my life as I knew it — was ripped out from under me.

And the night before that press conference? Hard partying, trying to drown it all out in a blur of music, drinks, and mindless jokes. That’s what I thought would fix it. But it didn’t. It never did. I remember sitting in some crappy corner, tears blurring my vision as I replayed everything, over and over. Every mistake, every word, every moment I couldn’t take back. Deep in my chest, I knew the truth. What she did may have felt unforgivable to me, but what I did was wrong. There’s no way to excuse it, no way to pretend it didn’t happen.

Now my scholarship is gone. That dream of graduating, of making something of myself, it’s gone too. I won’t be setting foot on that campus next semester. The thing I worked years for, something that felt like a lifeline, was stripped away because of one night. One horrible, stupid night where I wasn’t strong enough to hold myself back. I gave in, and I have to live with the consequences. I can’t run from it, and I know I won’t try to. That would be pointless anyway.

For the next month, I’m taking it all to my pastor. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this, how to make any of it right. But maybe, just maybe, if I can find a way to open up, to pour all of this out somewhere, I’ll begin to figure that out. It’s all I’ve got left right now. The rest is just pieces I don’t know how to put back together.

Two years later, I stood in a place I never imagined I would be. The pieces didn’t fall back together perfectly—they never do. Life after the breaking point is never about restoring what once was but about building something new from the rubble. Faith was my anchor through it all, though it didn’t come easily, nor did the answers. There were days when I thought God was silent, and others when I realized He had spoken through the people around me—through my pastor, through friends who stuck by me when I deserved their ridicule, and through strangers whose kindness left me speechless.

The road to healing was neither straight nor smooth; it was jagged with the sharp edges of regret and uncertainty. But in the end, grace had the final word. I learned that even when I sabotaged my own life, even when it felt irreparable, hope had a way of creeping in, patching the cracks in my resolve little by little. Now, I tell my story to others—not to boast of recovery but to remind them that they are not beyond redemption, no matter how far they think they’ve fallen.

When we face these moments, the ones where it seems impossible to move forward, we are reminded of the fragile yet resilient nature of the human spirit. It’s not about undoing the wrongs but choosing to live better in their shadow.

It’s a sobering thing to look back and realize how far I had fallen, not just in my actions, but in my heart. Crossing the line, doing the unthinkable—it’s not something that happens in isolation. It’s a series of small choices, compromises, and unchecked bitterness that snowball into disaster. The irony, though, is that it wasn’t in my darkest moment that I truly hit rock bottom. It was afterward, in the days and weeks when I had to face the consequences of what I had done. That’s where the real reckoning happened.

The road back wasn’t glamorous. There were no dramatic moments, no instant fixes. It was slow and grueling, filled with long nights of self-reflection and countless hours of uncomfortable conversations with people I had hurt. But somewhere along the way, I learned that redemption isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about allowing it to shape you into someone better. The scars don’t go away, but they become reminders—of both the pain caused and the grace received. And in that grace, I found purpose again. I stand here now, not as someone who has it all together, but as someone who knows what it means to stand at the edge of despair and still find a way forward. For anyone who’s been there, I want you to know—it’s not the end of your story, not if you don’t want it to be.

-Mitch, Deck

Captured in Moorpark, California – July 26, 2026, by Mitchell Royel. A striking moment that transcends the ordinary, embodying authenticity and unfiltered emotion.

Epilogue: We’ve all had moments when the storm inside us felt catastrophic, like it would consume everything in its path. But here’s the truth we often forget amidst the whirlwind: our past doesn’t define us—it prepares us. Even in the wreckage of our worst choices, there’s a seed of renewal, a whisper that tells us we are more than the sum of our failures. Yes, we fell, but falling is part of the human experience. What matters is what we do when we hit the ground. Will we stay there, or will we rise? Together, we must rise.

The grace that saves us doesn’t just stitch up our wounds; it transforms the way we see them. Every scar is evidence of survival, proof that we have endured, grown, and carried forward. Redemption is available, not because we’ve earned it, but because love and grace are unrelenting forces that refuse to give up on us. It’s in our darkest hours that light creeps in, showing us the way back to ourselves and to a greater purpose.

Here’s what we hold onto as we step forward, stronger and wiser:

1. 2 Corinthians 12:9 - "But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me."

2. Isaiah 41:10 - "So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

3. Psalm 46:1 - "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble."

4. Romans 8:28 - "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

5. Philippians 4:13 - "I can do all this through him who gives me strength."

6. Joshua 1:9 - "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."

7. Matthew 11:28-30 - "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

8. Lamentations 3:22-23 - "Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness."

9. Proverbs 3:5-6 - "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."

10. Deuteronomy 31:6 - "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."

POETRY IN MELODY AND MELANCHOLY

We move on. Or we don’t. Stuck in the amber of the Fashion District, under neon signs that hum like they’re alive but burn out just the same. Mitchell Royel snaps a photo, catching me mid-shoulder shrug, cigarette dangling, pretending not to notice. “Back to You” by Billi Royce whispers from somewhere—I don’t know where it’s playing, maybe it’s all in my head—but the words slither into my ears, soft and venomous. The kind of song that lulls you into thinking you’re okay while it tears open every scar you thought had healed. It’s all the same, isn’t it? The music, the faces, the lights that blur into halos when you stare too long. None of it sticks. None of it matters. None of it fills the space where something used to be. Something wild. Something clawing and loud and messy. Now it’s just a whisper, a faint ripple, a feeling you can't quite name.

It started in the basement, like it always does—hot, sticky, desperate. The air was thick enough to choke on, laced with sweat, stale beer, and that unspoken hunger for something more. The plan? Burn it all down, metaphorically—or maybe not. Music so loud it throbbed in your ribs like a warning, bodies crammed tight enough to blur the edges of where you ended and someone else began. A tornado of alcohol, dollar bills dumped in heaps for a DJ who didn’t deserve it, snacks melting in untouched piles. Chaos wasn’t the goal—it was the vibe. And for a while, it hit just right. Invincible. Immortal. Like we had bottled perfection and could pour it shot by shot all night.

But perfection’s a liar. It never holds long, and we should’ve known. It started with the breaker. Someone—of course it was someone—decided the speakers weren’t loud enough and plugged some Frankenstein power strip into another. Flash! Darkness swallowed the room, cheers warped into confused howls. The music died a strangled death, leaving us standing in the void. Nothing but breathing, awkward laughs, and the scrape of sneakers on concrete. Then the lights sputtered back, too bright, too real. And for a surreal, fleeting second, it made sense. Like, was this what it’s all about? A stupid, weird, messy basement and some kind of stupid, weird, messy clarity?

Then came the road trip idea. How? Why? Who even started it? That piece of information’s gone now—vomited out amidst the mess. But it latched on fast, spinning in the air like wildfire and racing through the crowd. “Downstate,” someone said. “Now. Right now.” No one questioned it. Why would they? When stupid feels right, nothing else matters. Suddenly we were in a car—or four or five cars—speeding into the dark. Windows down, music blaring louder than sanity, bodies leaning out to howl at the stars. Kings. Like, actual kings of adrenaline, immortal gods with nothing ahead but possibility.

And that’s when the cracks started to show, though we didn’t see them for what they were. Not yet. But his grin—it wasn’t real. It was too wide, stretched to breaking, his eyes looking past us like he wanted out. None of us cared. We were flying too fast to stop, giddy and stupid and entirely detached from reality.

But I saw it later. Really saw it. Back at the locker rooms, harsh fluorescent lights buzzing louder than the silence between words. Everything slowing down, the world coming apart at the seams. I heard him before I saw him—just murmuring at first, a low hum of words. But then her name. Her. Like the only thing tethering him to something real. It was disgusting. Her name hung there like poison gas, and I followed the sound, doing what you always do when curiosity kills reason.

He was curled up—actual fetal position—muttering her name over and over like it could fix something. It couldn’t. My voice hit him harder than it should’ve, or maybe just hard enough. “Are you kidding me?” The words hit harder than a punch, and his head snapped up. Guilt. That’s all I saw. Guilt and nothing else. He didn’t even try to bluff or lie or flinch. Just sat there, paralyzed. If guilt could kill, he’d have been a chalk outline by then.

Word spread fast. There are no secrets in a group like ours, not when blood runs hot and loyalty is everything. We turned on him sharp, fast, final. All the trust, all the nights and laughter and spilled booze—it all evaporated on the spot. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t plead. Just packed his stuff like a robot, dead in the eyes, and went. No screams, no tears, no fight. Just... gone.

Now? The basement’s quieter. The beer’s cheaper. The chaos is muted, whispers of what it used to be. But none of it feels good anymore. The nights don’t soar; they just… happen. Go through the motions. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this was never supposed to feel good in the first place.

We move on. Or we don’t. Whatever. It’s all the same.

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t beg. Just packed his sad, wilted dreams into boxes that smelled like whiskey and regret, his eyes vacant, hollow—like an old church with all the stained glass gone. He left without a soundtrack, without a single wisp of drama—no screaming, no tears, no pleas to stay. Just a door closing softer than it should have, as if the universe itself didn’t care enough to slam it. And now? The basement hums a different kind of silence. Cold. Sterile. The beer is cheaper, sure, but it tastes like nothing. Like drinking fog. The speakers still bleed music into the night, but the songs don’t reach your chest anymore. They hover in the air like ghosts that don’t know why they’re still here, haunting a place that forgot what it means to be alive.

There’s no chaos, no crashing waves, just a flat, endless ocean under a sky smeared with too much gray. The nights used to crackle with something electric, didn’t they? Or maybe that was just a trick of the light. Now? The nights just drip like melting wax. Slow. Too slow in the wrong places and then gone all at once. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it was never supposed to feel good. Maybe we were always starving in a feast, clinking empty glasses and laughing like it didn’t hurt.

-DECK

ROLLING PINS AND HEARTSTRINGS + LINGERING HARMONY

Captured by Mitchell Royel, here’s the unfiltered stream of thought cutting through like headlights in a haze. We’re vibing to Like That by Doja Cat featuring Gucci Mane, and I can’t help but think about life like a late-night bowling session. You know, you line up the perfect shot, roll it straight down the lane, and then—bam—a gutterball. Maybe that’s the punchline we all miss sometimes. Life’s not about always hitting strikes; it’s about laughing at the misses, turning up the music, and throwing the next one even harder. Grit, grace, and just enough chaos to keep it interesting—because that’s who we are.

Sometimes, life gives you lessons in patience when you least expect it—and sometimes, they come wrapped in lengthy text messages. A few days ago, I sat down with my girlfriend and told her something I thought was very clear. “We can talk about anything you want. Anything. But I don’t need advice. I don’t want advice. I’m a man, and I can figure things out myself.” I felt confident I’d made my point. She nodded, and I left it at that. No raised voices, no tension—it was just a boundary I thought any relationship could respect.

Fast-forward to the next morning, and there it was—a long, scrolling, emotionally-charged text. It was about her family, about this plan or that one with her folks, about how our parents should all get together and sort whatever issue she thought we had. I didn’t even know what she was really getting at. After that, I didn’t respond for a solid week. I needed space.

The guys and I were at the bowling alley when I told them about the situation. Between turns, over the sound of pins crashing and casual laughter, I explained it all while we ate pizza and cracked jokes. They laughed, told me every guy has been there, and then shifted the focus back to the game. I thought it was just another night out—until she showed up.

Right there in the bowling alley, like nothing had happened. She walked in calm and confident, her usual smile lighting up the room, and, honestly, she looked so adorable just standing there in all the chaos of neon lights and noise. It was like our last conversation, and my silence afterward, hadn’t mattered at all. “Hey,” she said like this was just any other Friday night. And the thing about her is—she has this way of disarming you without even trying. By the time I’d bowled the next frame, she had me agreeing to go out of town with her family for the weekend.

At first, I was frustrated. I mean, hadn’t she heard me? But as I sat through that family weekend—seeing her laugh with her parents, watching them all care for each other—I started to get it. She wasn’t ignoring me; she was inviting me. She wanted me to engage, to be part of something bigger than myself. It hit me that being a man isn’t just about independence. It’s about choosing to connect, even when it’s inconvenient. Proverbs 11:14 says, “Where there is no guidance, a people falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.” Maybe advice, when given out of care, has its place after all.

By the end of the weekend, I saw things differently. Relationships aren’t about fences—they’re about bridges. And yeah, maybe I’ll listen to her advice next time. Or at least, I’ll try not to ignore the heart behind it.

-Deck

Epilogue: Sometimes, it takes stepping back to see the bigger picture, to recognize that not every gesture is meant to challenge us. Girlfriends—true, loving ones—come with good intent, even if it doesn’t always feel that way in the moment. Their advice may arrive uninvited, their words sometimes faster than the space we give ourselves to process, but it’s their way of showing care, of helping in the only way they know how. It’s easy to misunderstand, to feel slighted or to hold a grudge when you think your independence is being questioned. But what I’ve learned is this—grudges weigh more than they’re worth. At its core, love is about understanding and letting go, even when pride tempts you to hold on to your own narrative. There’s something powerful about realizing that their actions come from a place of love, not control. The real strength lies in knowing when to soften, to forgive, and to stop viewing every heartfelt suggestion as a personal storm rather than a sunny day trying to break through.

DANCING SHIRTLESS SAVED ME FROM THE WORST TUESDAY EVER

She dumped me in the parking lot behind the the burger joint on a Tuesday. Tuesday. Not even a dramatic day. She said, "I think we want different things," which is what people say when they mean "I want someone else and you're standing in the way of that." I nodded like an idiot. I said "yeah, totally." Then I drove home and sat in my car in the driveway for forty minutes because going inside meant it was real.

Captured by Mitchell Royel in the heart of the Fashion District, this moment hits different. It’s raw, unfiltered, and unapologetically bold, just like we like it. Now playing "Devil in a Dress" by Rhea Raj — a track dripping in attitude and power, the perfect soundtrack to this rebellious vibe.

Here's what nobody puts in the movies about rock bottom. It's not glamorous. It's not rain on a window while sad music plays. It's you eating cereal at 2 a.m. because you forgot how meals work. It's texting a paragraph, deleting it, texting three words, deleting those too. It's your mom knocking on your door going, "Honey, you've been in there a while," and you saying "I'm fine" in a voice that is very much not fine. I fell apart quietly, which is the worst way to do it. Loud breakdowns get you sympathy. Quiet ones just get you a lot of alone time with your own worst thoughts.

Then Danny showed up. Danny is my best friend, and Danny does not do subtle. He kicked my door open — literally kicked it, like he'd been practicing — and stood there with Mitch behind him holding a speaker.

"Get up," he said.

"No."

"The pep rally's Friday. We're doing the thing."

"There's no thing, Danny."

"There's a thing now." He tossed a pair of jeans at my face. "We're gonna dance. Shirtless. In front of the entire senior class. And you're gonna feel something other than sorry for yourself."

I want to say I argued. I did argue. For about ten minutes. But somewhere in there I realized Danny wasn't asking. He was doing the thing best friends do, which is refusing to let you drown in the shallow end.

So we practiced. In his garage. Badly. Colt kept messing up the same move for three days straight, and we laughed harder than I'd laughed in weeks, and for a second I forgot about the red dress and the parking lot and the different-things speech.

Then Friday came. The gym smelled like floor wax and popcorn and a thousand teenagers who'd skipped deodorant. Balloons everywhere — red, blue, yellow — taped to everything that would hold them. There was a banner up in the rafters. CLASS OF 2026. SENIORS. Somebody had spelled my name wrong on a poster and I loved them for it anyway.

And she was there. Of course she was there. Third row, doing the thing where she pretends not to look at you while very much looking at you. For one horrible second I froze. I thought, I can't do this. Not with her watching. Not shirtless. Not with my whole heart still lying in pieces somewhere behind a Wendy's.

Then Danny grabbed my shoulder. "Hey," he said. "This isn't for her. This is for you."

And the music dropped.

Look, I'm not gonna pretend we were good. We were not good. But we were fearless, and it turns out that's louder than good. We hit the floor and the crowd lost their minds. Confetti rained down. Someone released a whole net of balloons early and nobody cared. Girls were screaming — the fun kind, not the running-from-danger kind — and Ben finally nailed the move he'd flubbed for three days and the roar got even bigger.

Somewhere in the middle of it, sweat in my eyes and my heart going like a drum solo, I stopped performing and just... felt it. The floor under my feet. My best friends beside me. My own body doing something joyful again after weeks of forgetting how.

At the last beat, we threw our hands in the sky. And I swear, in that exact moment — hands up, chest heaving, the whole gym on their feet — I stopped being the guy who got dumped in a parking lot. I became just a guy. A senior. A kid having the best three minutes of his year with people who actually stuck around.

I did look at her, once, after. And here's the plot twist: I didn't feel anything. No ache, no longing, no wishing. She was just a girl in a crowd who used to matter and didn't anymore. The devil in the dress had lost her power the second I stopped handing it to her.

Colt put me in a headlock. Danny was yelling something about celebrating with tacos. The balloons kept falling. And I laughed — really laughed, the kind that comes from your gut and surprises you.

Turns out you don't get over heartbreak by waiting for it to leave. You get over it by throwing your hands in the sky and reminding yourself you were somebody long before she showed up — and you'll be somebody long after she's gone.

Tacos, by the way, were incredible.

-Deck

Epilogue: Here’s the truth, friends — life knocks us down, but we are built to rise. When we stand in the aftermath of heartbreak, it can feel like the end of the story. But it’s not. It’s just a chapter, a scene, a plot twist we didn’t see coming. And the most powerful thing we can do? We get back up. Together.

Because here’s the reality: we all experience these moments. The gut-punch of rejection. The silent hours when we question our worth. But guess what? Those moments don’t define us. How we choose to respond does. We don’t wait for circumstances to heal us — we create our own momentum. We surround ourselves with people who refuse to give up on us, who remind us, even when we forget, that we’re still here. Still strong. Still capable.

And then we do something wild. We take action that feels impossible. We get shirtless. We throw our hands up. We slam the door on old pain and open the one that leads back to ourselves. When we fall, we rebuild piece by piece, moment by moment. And one day, whether it’s under confetti or in the quiet of our own mind, we realize the power was inside us all along.

We move forward not because life guarantees us ease, but because forward is who we are. We rise because that’s what we do. And together, we remind each other of this truth: the heartbreak doesn’t win. We do. Always.

1. Proverbs 3:5-6 - Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

2. Philippians 4:13 - You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you.

3. Isaiah 41:10 - Do not fear, for God is with you.

4. Psalm 34:18 - The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.

5. Matthew 11:28 - Come to Him, all who are weary, and find rest.

6. 1 Peter 5:7 - Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.

7. Romans 8:28 - All things work together for good.

8. Isaiah 40:31 - Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.

9. Surround yourself with community — find people who lift you up.

10. Start journaling your feelings — putting words to pain helps untangle it.

11. Take one small step forward today, no matter how tiny.

12. Reflect on times when you overcame struggles in the past.

13. Stay active. Exercise releases endorphins that can help restore your mood.

14. Take breaks from social media to focus on real-life connection.

15. Find a purpose beyond the pain. Volunteer. Learn. Explore.

16. Eat well — fuel your body with what it needs.

17. Joshua 1:9 - Be strong and courageous; do not be afraid.

18. Practice gratitude daily, even in small ways.

19. Meditate on positive affirmations — remind yourself that you are enough.

20. Remember, emotions are temporary; they will pass.

21. Lean into hobbies or passions — creativity helps heal.

22. Find a mentor or a friend to talk with.

23. John 16:33 - Take heart; He has overcome the world.

24. Challenge negative thoughts with truth and positivity.

25. Consider professional counseling if the weight becomes too heavy.

26. Speak life over yourself daily — you’re worth good things.

27. Take deep, mindful breaths during moments of stress.

28. Surround yourself with uplifting music, books, or podcasts.

29. Make room for joy — laugh, even when it feels hard.

30. 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 - Don’t lose heart; inwardly, we are being renewed each day.

We rise, friends — stronger, bolder, together. Always.

LET US SPREAD LOVE FEARLESSLY

Shot by Mitchell Royel in the gritty heart of the fashion district. This vibe speaks louder than any official word from Malibu or Malibu High School could. On repeat? ‘Nice & Slow’ by Tomorrows Bad Seeds. Feel the edge.

Being a senior in high school, I find myself at the intersection of immense privilege and profound self-discovery. Living in Malibu, surrounded by luxury and breathtaking beauty, is something many dream of, but beneath the surface, I've come to realize the dream isn't defined by the possessions or the scenery—it's by the experiences that truly resonate with the soul. This weekend isn’t about breaking away from the life I’ve been blessed with; it’s about remembering what really matters. It’s about trading the perfect, polished facade for something raw and unfiltered. It’s about hearing my best friends laugh without the interruption of notifications, feeling the cold sand underfoot as we set up our tent, and gazing up at the stars while we share stories that don’t need hashtags or filters.

These moments strip life down to its most authentic form—something no mansion or material possession could replicate. It’s in those waves, those conversations, those quiet moments under the glittering night sky where I feel my deepest sense of freedom. The life I was born into has given me access to everything, but ironically, it’s in stepping away from it all that I feel the freest. It’s a humbling reminder that while I’ve been given so much, my heart treasures the connections and the simple, unadulterated joys the most. These are the moments I want to carry with me, long after this chapter of my life comes to a close.

-Deck

Epilogue: Reflecting on this chapter of life reveals one undeniable truth—wealth can offer comfort, luxury, and countless opportunities, but it can’t replace the bond of true friends or the strength of a genuine community. Living the dream in Malibu, surrounded by endless possibilities, means little without the people who make it worthwhile. Over time, it's become clear that true wealth isn’t found in material possessions or status symbols; it’s in the moments that ignite your soul, the shared laughter, and the steadfast friendships that weather both the highs and lows of life.

The most cherished memories aren’t about grand parties or perfect appearances—they’re in those impromptu beach nights with close friends, deep conversations around a fire, and the simple, raw moments where life feels unfiltered and real. That’s when true freedom is found, surrounded by people who value others for who they are, not for what they have. This is the kind of richness that transcends anything money could buy, and it’s the dream worth chasing. Wherever life leads beyond high school, may this understanding stay at the core—some treasures are fleeting, but the ones truly worth holding onto will always be the ones that fill the heart.

True wealth is not found in the size of your bank account, but in the size of your heart and the depth of your relationships. Proverbs 15:16 – "Better a little with the fear of the Lord than great wealth with turmoil."

The bonds we form with genuine friends are stronger than any material possession could ever be. Proverbs 18:24 – "There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."

Moments of laughter, love, and vulnerability are the richest treasures life can offer. Proverbs 17:22 – "A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."

A community that lifts you up is worth more than every luxury in the world. Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 – "Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up."

The fleeting pleasures of material wealth pale in comparison to the lasting joy of being loved for who you truly are. 1 John 3:1 – "See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!"

Living freely is tied not to riches but to a soul unburdened by superficial expectations. Matthew 6:19-21 – "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

The truest riches are found in the quiet moments shared with those who matter most. Psalm 46:10 – "Be still, and know that I am God."

Highs and lows are inevitable, but friends who stick by your side are invaluable. Proverbs 27:17 – "As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another."

The beauty of community is that it reminds us we are never alone, even in our struggles. Galatians 6:2 – "Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ."

A full heart means far more than a full wallet. Luke 12:15 – "Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions."

The most dazzling sunsets pale next to the light shared in the company of beloved friends. John 15:12 – "My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you."

Having people who see your worth beyond your possessions is a gift beyond measure. 1 Samuel 16:7 – "The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

True joy is found in the freedom to be unapologetically yourself with those who love you. 2 Corinthians 3:17 – "Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom."

Extravagance fades, but kindness, connection, and authenticity endure forever. Micah 6:8 – "He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

The most meaningful experiences are unplanned, raw moments that free the soul. Romans 8:28 – "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

When you surround yourself with love and purpose, you already have everything you need. Philippians 4:19 – "And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus."

Real dreams are made of people, passion, and honesty, not dollar signs. Ecclesiastes 5:10 – "Whoever loves money never has enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income."

The warmth of friendship burns brighter than the glow of any luxury. Proverbs 27:9 – "Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice."

A rich life is defined by the memories that touch your heart, not by material possessions. Psalm 90:12 – "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom."

No treasure is greater than the bond of those who know and love you deeply. Colossians 3:14 – "And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity."

May these words serve as a reminder of the true wealth that lies in the simplicity of love, connection, and community. 1 Corinthians 13:13 – "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

CHAOS IS HOME, BUT NOT FOREVER

Man, I don’t even know where to start. My room’s a wreck—clothes draped over chairs, stacks of pizza boxes piling up in the corner, random junk scattered everywhere like a minefield of forgotten decisions. Every time I step into this mess, it’s like being smacked in the face by the chaos, as if the room itself is challenging me to do something about it. But honestly? This disaster zone feels like an extension of my headspace—cluttered, spiraling, and overwhelming.

Captured by Mitchell Royel in the gritty depths of the Fashion District, the scene twists into raw energy and vibe—just like it should. And now, as the air hums with electric anticipation, "Pocket" by Sam Sparro spins on the track, perfectly encapsulating the restless grind and relentless pulse of the moment.

She cheated. Not just a slip, not even a double mistake, but a pattern—like she turned lying and betrayal into some twisted hobby. And it wasn’t just her. It was them too. My so-called friends. The guys I trusted, laughed with, shared stories with. They knew what was happening, knew she wasn’t loyal, and they chose to be part of it anyway. They stood by and played along, like it was all some joke I wasn’t in on. That revelation shattered me—like discovering the foundation I’d built my life on wasn’t just cracked; it never existed at all. It wasn’t just about the cheating. It was about trust. About how easily people can break it, betray it, and toss it aside like it was nothing.

Cheating isn’t just the act—they say it's about crossing boundaries, but it’s more than that. It’s the lies that follow, the deception that seeps into every corner of your life until you start questioning everything and everyone. It’s the way someone can make you feel like you’re not enough, like you’re disposable. That’s the real wound—not the betrayal of the act itself, but how it makes you doubt your worth, your instincts, your ability to trust again.

But you know what? Even now, in the middle of all this rubble, I’m not alone. There’s one friend who stuck around. One guy who didn’t turn his back when everything collapsed. He's been here, pulling me out of my head when the darkness tries to settle in, insisting that there’s more to life than this mess—literal and figurative. And tonight, we’re making a move. We’re heading downtown to a little restaurant, meeting someone new.

Yeah, it’s terrifying, putting myself back out there after everything. The idea of opening up, of trusting, feels impossible. But life doesn’t stop. It doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath or get your bearings. If I stay in this mess—this room, this lingering state of anger and doubt—I’ll never move forward.

Tonight’s not about her or them. It’s about me. About rebuilding, piece by piece, even if I don’t know what the final picture looks like yet. The past may always linger, but it doesn’t have to chain me down. It’s time to move forward, step into the unknown, and maybe—just maybe—start writing a new story. One that’s mine.

-Deck

Epilogue
You know, guys, life is going to punch you in the gut sometimes—it’s unavoidable, right? But here’s the thing, we don’t have to stay down. We get to choose. Are we gonna stay stuck, surrounded by the wreckage of what was, or are we gonna rise, dust ourselves off, and take back the pen to write our own story? Look, it’s okay to be scared—it’s okay to not have all the answers. Growth isn’t about knowing everything—it’s about showing up, even when you don’t have it all figured out. And here’s the wild part, it’s not just about you or me—it’s about us. When we own our story, when we decide to rebuild from the ashes, we give others permission to do the same. It’s a ripple effect. That starts now. Together, we lean into the discomfort, the fear, and the unknown, knowing the best is yet to come. Because we’re not just surviving—we’re creating our comeback story. And man, it’s gonna be epic.

Here are five scriptures to fuel you—scriptures that remind us that there's a divine power at work, scripting a story even greater than we could imagine:

1. Jeremiah 29:11 – "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

2. Isaiah 41:10 – "Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

3. Romans 8:28 – "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose."

4. Proverbs 3:5-6 – "Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight."

5. Psalm 34:18 – "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

ONE SIZE FITS MOST

Captured by Mitchell Royel in the heart of the Fashion District, this moment speaks to the power of alignment and authenticity. When you vibe with your purpose, the external world mirrors that energy back—loud, bold, and unapologetically raw. Now playing on repeat, Afters by BL3SS x Gravagerz, because when the frequency is right, it fuels the fire and elevates the game. Stay unapologetic, stay magnetic.

The Rowdyruff Boys and the Powerpuff Girls represent more than just iconic cartoon rivalries—they embody the contrast between chaos and order, between raw energy and focused purpose. Debuting under Cartoon Network’s creative banner, these characters quickly became symbols of a generation in the late '90s and early 2000s. The Powerpuff Girls showcased the power of teamwork and compassion while the Rowdyruff Boys counteracted with unrestrained rebellion and fierce independence. This interplay reminds us of the dualities within ourselves and how finding balance shapes growth and innovation.

I’ve long found inspiration in their dynamic—it’s a mirror to real life, where creativity and strategy often collide to produce something authentic. That same concept fueled the vision behind everything from the clothing collections to brand messaging. "One size fits most" wasn’t just a tagline I added while reflecting on life in my car. It was anchored in the idea that great stories, brands, and moments have the power to connect people universally. It’s about creating something that resonates on a deeper level, breaking boundaries and fostering unity, much like how cultural phenomena link us to memories and emotions.

Looking back at Deck and the roots of Mitch Leyor Collective, I see a narrative that spans borders—an evolution of creativity that merged individualism with shared experiences. While Deck may have originated as a singular muse, he became the embodiment of a lifestyle, capturing a philosophy of unfiltered authenticity. And just like the nostalgic Brandy Melville-inspired sweaters, pieces that aren’t official but speak volumes of sentimental charm, this story proves art never exists in isolation. It evolves, drawing from the past but daring to tell a unique version of its essence.

For me, the guiding principle of this craftsmanship has always been rooted in faith and determination. "For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and self-discipline" (2 Timothy 1:7 NIV). This scripture resonates deeply with me, affirming that strength lies in clarity of purpose and fearless commitment. Every creation stems from this belief—driven by love, shaped by fearless ambition, and refined with discipline.

The Rowdyruff Boys and Powerpuff Girls may have been fictional characters, but their lessons are real. They teach us to harness energy, find balance, and channel power into something that lasts. Now, as I sit here amidst the rhythm of the next phase, that’s the reminder I carry forward. Create boldly, but remember balance. Reflect without losing momentum. Stay raw, stay refined. That’s how legacies are built, one intentional move at a time.

-Mitch, Deck, Mitch Leyor Collective

THE NAME THAT ENTERED FIRST

He was one of three brothers, which meant he was never only himself.

Snapped by the legendary Mitchell Royel in the Fashion District, where swag meets vibes, and right now listenin to "Good Energy" by Beachcrimes.

That is the strange thing about a family name. It does not wait for permission. It walks ahead of you. It sits in the pew before you arrive. It shows up on report cards, church sign-up sheets, community events, and quiet conversations between adults who think young people are not listening.

By the time he was old enough to understand it, the name already had a shape.

Respectable.
Reliable.
Raised right.
Good boys from a good family.

Not rich. Not powerful. Not the kind of family with buildings named after them or money tucked away in places nobody talks about. Just known. And sometimes being known is its own kind of inheritance.

The three brothers carried that inheritance together.

From the outside, they seemed cut from the same cloth. They had the same reputation around town. Similar volunteer hours at church. Good grades. Polite handshakes. The kind of faces older women smiled at in grocery store aisles because they remembered them from Sunday mornings.

People saw them and thought they understood the story.

Three brothers.
Same house.
Same values.
Same family name.
Same quiet expectation to not stain it.

And he understood why people thought that way. Reputation has a way of smoothing the edges. It turns complicated people into simple sentences. It makes a family look like a clean window from the street, even when every room inside has its own weather.

He knew the truth was never that clean.

One brother, the one many would never question, had been living with a private pattern for years. A chronic cheater. More than a decade had passed since he had been faithful to his girlfriend. Not a rumor that drifted in with the wind. Not some careless moment lost to youth. A long, hidden habit. A second life folded beneath the first.

Another brother had recently checked out of rehab after serious addiction issues. That was a different kind of pain. Not something to gossip about. Not something to use as a weapon. Addiction does not arrive politely, and recovery does not leave a person untouched. It changes the air in a family. It makes everyone speak softer, or not at all.

He did not look at either brother as a headline.

That would be too easy.

People love to turn private fractures into public entertainment. They love the fall more than the wound. But he had lived close enough to know better. Shame is loud, but grief is quiet. And families often carry both without knowing where to set them down.

Still, truth matters.

That was the part he could not ignore.

Because from the outside, all three brothers still looked like versions of the same story. Same last name. Same community respect. Same church memories. Same grades once praised by teachers. Same image reflected back by people who had no idea what lived behind it.

And maybe that was what made it all feel so delicate.

A reputation is not always a lie. Sometimes it is only incomplete.

A family can be respected and still be hurting. A person can be praised in public and dishonest in private. A brother can be loved deeply and still be responsible for the damage he causes. Another can be fighting for his life in recovery while the world still expects him to smile like nothing broke.

He had learned that appearance and truth are not enemies, exactly. They are more like neighbors with a fence between them. They hear each other moving around at night. They know the other exists. But most people only visit one side.

The public side was easy.

Show up. Serve. Smile. Keep the name clean. Be the kind of man people assume you are.

The private side was harder.

Tell the truth, at least to yourself. Do not confuse silence with loyalty. Do not mistake a good reputation for a good life. Do not let the family name become a curtain so heavy nobody can breathe behind it.

That was where reputation management became more than vanity.

For some people, the phrase sounds shallow. Like polish. Like performance. Like pretending to be better than you are.

But for him, it meant something older and heavier.

It meant understanding that a name carries memory. It meant knowing that every choice echoes beyond the person making it. It meant recognizing that even a family without wealth can still have something valuable to protect.

Honor is not reserved for the rich.

A family does not need status to care about its name. It does not need land, legacy, or social power. Sometimes all it has is the way people speak of it when nobody from the family is in the room.

That matters.

Not because people’s opinions should rule a life. They should not. A person who lives only for approval becomes a ghost in his own skin.

But reputation still matters because trust matters. Character matters. The people connected to you matter. The name on your back may not belong only to you.

He knew that sounded unfair in some ways.

One brother’s choices should not define all three. One person’s secrets should not stain everyone standing nearby. Yet families are not built like separate houses on separate hills. They are closer than that. What breaks in one room can be heard through the walls.

So he carried the name carefully.

Not perfectly. Never perfectly.

Just carefully.

He did not want to live like a man obsessed with image. He did not want to become cold, polished, and hollow. But he also did not want to pretend that image meant nothing. There is a balance somewhere between honesty and restraint, between protecting dignity and protecting denial.

He was still trying to find it.

Maybe that is what growing older does. It teaches a man that the family portrait was never the whole family. It was only a frame. A moment. A version of the truth where everyone stood still long enough to look united.

But life moves.

Brothers make choices. Secrets grow roots. People recover. People lie. People change. People fail the name they were given, then wake up one day and decide whether they will keep failing it.

And through all of it, the name remains.

Not as a crown.

More like a lantern.

Something carried through dark places. Something that can be dimmed, but not always destroyed. Something that asks, quietly and again, what kind of light a person plans to leave behind.

He was one of three brothers.

To the world, that meant they shared a reputation.

To him, it meant they shared a responsibility.

And the difference between those two things was where the real story lived.

-Deck, Mitchell Royel

HAPPILY EVER AFTER IS JUST ME, ALONE, AND FREE

Now playing: Bounce by Calvin Harris feat. Kelis (Radio Edit)
Captured by Mitchell Royel in Malibu, California in 2013

You know what’s fucked up?
I cried today.
Like, really cried.

For the first time in I don’t even know how long. Not those pathetic little tears you get when you’re trying to feel something—I mean the kind that rips through your chest like you’re finally letting something out that’s been rotting inside you for years. The kind that makes your whole body shake, makes you pull over to the side of the road because you can’t see through the windshield anymore.

I’m driving down PCH right now, windows down, salt air mixing with my tears, and I’m screaming. I’m screaming to this pop-punk shit I would’ve been mortified to admit I listened to back when I was trying to be whoever the fuck they wanted me to be. Back when I was performing for an audience of people who didn’t even like me, they just liked the version of me that made them feel better about themselves. The version that laughed at their jokes, that stayed small, that never outshined anyone, that played the supporting role in everyone else’s story.

God, I fucking hate them. Is that allowed? Am I allowed to say that? Because I do. I hate every single person who made me feel like I had to shrink. Every friend who wasn’t really a friend, just someone keeping tabs, collecting ammunition, waiting for me to slip so they could feel superior. That whole suffocating bubble we called a life—it was a cage. A pretty, Instagram-worthy, aesthetically pleasing cage with the right lighting and the right people and the right fucking brunch spots, but a cage nonetheless.

And the rage—Jesus Christ, the rage I feel when I look back. Not sadness. Not nostalgia. Not even disappointment. Pure, white-hot fury at the time I wasted, the person I pretended to be, the dreams I put on hold because they didn’t fit the aesthetic of our little manufactured reality. I was so busy being palatable, being acceptable, being the person who didn’t make waves or ask for too much or want things that made other people uncomfortable, that I forgot I was supposed to be alive.

You know what the worst part is? I can pinpoint the exact moments I betrayed myself. Every time I laughed when I wanted to scream. Every time I said “I’m fine” when I was drowning. Every time I pretended to care about their drama, their petty bullshit, their manufactured problems that only existed because they had nothing real to worry about. I became an expert at reading the room, at shapeshifting, at being whatever they needed me to be in that moment.

And they used me. They fucking used me. I was the therapist, the cheerleader, the yes-man, the emotional dumping ground, the one who always showed up, always forgave, always understood. And what did I get? Breadcrumbs. Conditional love. Friendship with an asterisk. “We love you, but…” “You’re great, except…” “We’d invite you, but you wouldn’t really fit in with…”

I remember being embarrassed by the music I actually liked. Can you believe that? I would delete songs from my Spotify before anyone could see them. I’d pretend to be into whatever indie bullshit they were obsessed with that week, nodding along like I gave a shit about some band’s “raw authenticity” when all I wanted was to blast the cheesy, emotional, unironic music that actually made me feel something.

But here’s the thing—I’m done. I’m so fucking done. Clean slate. Blank canvas. Scorched earth. Whatever cliché you want to use, I don’t care anymore because I’m not performing for anyone. I’m not looking back. Not at them, not at who I was, not at any of it. The rearview mirror is dead to me. That person I was? They’re gone. They had to die so I could finally start living.

The ocean’s on both sides of me right now, and I’ve got this song cranked so loud my throat’s raw from singing, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I can breathe. Like I’m not performing. Like I’m not apologizing for taking up space. Like I’m not waiting for permission to exist the way I want to exist.

My hair’s whipping in the wind, and I probably look insane—crying and screaming and laughing all at once—but I don’t care. I don’t care who sees me. I don’t care what they’d think. That’s the whole fucking point. I spent years caring what they thought, and it nearly killed me. It killed the real me, anyway. The me that had opinions and desires and a personality that didn’t revolve around making other people comfortable.

They can keep their bubble. They can keep their group chats and their inside jokes and their little kingdom of judgment and superficiality. They can keep pretending that their lives are perfect, that their friendships are real, that they’re happy in their matching outfits and coordinated Instagram posts. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be in their photos. I don’t want to be at their parties. I don’t want to hear about their lives or pretend to care about their problems.

I want to be free. And for the first time, I am.

The sun’s setting over the water, painting everything gold and pink, and it feels like a sign. Like the universe is saying, “This is your moment. This is your clean slate. This is where your life actually begins.”

I’m never going back. Never. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who make me feel empty. I’d rather scream in my car by myself than sit in silence with people who never really heard me anyway.

They’re in the past. And I’m driving away from it as fast as this shitty Honda will take me.

Gone. Finally, fucking gone.

-Deck

SIXTEEN WHEELS

We're listening to "Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven right now and it's doing something to the atmosphere in here, that opening riff just cuts through everything and suddenly you're locked into this specific frequency of existence. The photo above was captured by Mitchell Royel, and I swear there's a synchronicity happening between what he saw through that lens and what this song is pulling out of us—both of them are about that moment of recognition, that split second where you're completely aware of yourself being aware, you know?

Distance, Not Speed

The hum of the engine is a kind of meditation. Out here on the I-80, somewhere between the Nebraska flatlands and the Wyoming basin, the world reduces itself to essentials: asphalt, horizon, the steady thrum of eighteen wheels against pavement. It's 3 AM and the truck driver—let's call him what he is, a modern-day navigator of American vastness—guides his rig through the darkness with the practiced ease of someone who understands that momentum is both physics and philosophy. The dashboard glows amber. The radio crackles with distant voices. In the rearview mirror, civilization is just a memory of light.

This is what people don't understand when they ask us why we are the way we are. The question follows us everywhere, across every landscape, through every conversation. Why this intensity? Why this refusal to compress ourselves into something more manageable, more palatable, more convenient for those who prefer their encounters brief and uncomplicated?

The answer lives in that truck, in that moment, in that vast American night.

Consider the phenomenology of driving a sixteen-wheeler. You are piloting eighty thousand pounds of steel and cargo through a world designed for smaller vessels. Every decision must account for mass, for inertia, for the fundamental truth that you cannot simply stop or swerve when circumstances shift. You plan your lane changes miles in advance. You read the road not as it is but as it will be. You understand that your presence demands space, demands time, demands a certain kind of respect from the infrastructure itself. The physics are unforgiving. The margin for error is measured in catastrophe.

And yet, there's a dignity in it. The truck driver doesn't apologize for occupying the right lane. Doesn't shrink the rig down to sedan-size because someone's impatient to get to their exit. The cargo matters. The destination matters. The journey, with all its weight and deliberation, matters. There's no shame in being substantial, in requiring room to maneuver, in moving at the pace that the load demands.

So when the boogie people come at us—and they always do, with their demands for immediacy, their insistence on convenience, their barely concealed irritation at anything that doesn't conform to their preferred velocity—we offer them this: we're like sixteen-wheelers. We're built for distance, not speed. We're carrying something that requires this particular configuration of being. We can't pivot on demand because we're not empty. We're full of purpose, of meaning, of substance that won't be diminished just because it's inconvenient for someone else's timeline.

We're not blocking your lane. We're in our lane. And that lane stretches from coast to coast, through every kind of weather, every kind of darkness, toward destinations that matter precisely because they're not easy to reach. The hum of our engine is the sound of commitment. The weight we carry is the weight of authenticity. And if that makes us difficult to pass, well—maybe what you're trying to pass isn't meant to be overtaken. Maybe it's meant to be understood.

-Deck, Mitchell Royel