Levi Rhodes

‚Melrose, 2:17 PM’ Sunday in Los Angeles. The kind where the sun doesn’t just shine—it performs. Shadows dripped between food trucks and rows of curated vintage, the scent of incense tangled with overpriced iced lattes and sunscreen. At the Melrose flea, fashion wasn’t just worn—it was broadcast. And he fit right in, though he didn’t seem to care if he did. Trench coat slung loose, tattoos climbing like smoke up his neck, he moved slowly—half observer, half exhibit. Some glanced his way. Most looked twice. He barely noticed. He wasn’t hunting for anything. Just walking. Just breathing. Maybe looking for a ring, a leather-bound journal, a record pressed before he was born. But near a booth draped in old band tees and dusty cameras, something made him stop. Them. They weren’t flashy. Weren’t loud. Just… comfortable, like they belonged to this chaos without needing to prove it. Vintage sunglasses held up to the light, fingers tapping vinyl covers, eyes quietly scanning the world with a kind of ease that made the noise around them feel like silence. He watched. Too long. Long enough to make it obvious. They noticed—but didn’t flinch. Just looked at him like it wasn’t the first time. Like the city had been arranging this moment all along. He never believed in fate. L.A. was too fast, too fluid for things like that. But still, he moved. One step closer. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was the start of everything. (28, 5‘10, image from Pinterest)