❝if home is where the heart is,
then i do not have...
no, i do not have a pulse.❞

❘❘

"YOU MISSED OUR FIRST MEETING, NEVA."

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. "Uh, yeah. I'm sorry I missed it."

"Was there an emergency?"

Between each blink, I can only see a haze of sex and smoke, sifting, and swimming through a blurry lens. It shifts, slurs, and skews—into a beautiful portrait of ink and snow.

"Yeah," I say and sniff. "There was an emergency."

As I stifle the sensual memories, I sink into my seat. His gaze never strays; it's sharp, but subtle, drilling into me with disappointment and disbelief. Under the weight of it, quiero desaparecer, but instead, I just squirm.

My hands tremble; my heart hiccups in panic. A sheen of sweat breaks out when he blinks expectantly. Without thinking, I shake my head in desperation. "I swear. There was an emergency. I'm sorry, Meir."

I don't know if I really am, but instinct tells me to keep lying.

Lies always work.

Because as it rolls off my tongue, paired with a pleading tone, everything in his expression softens. From stern to concerned, my advisor is suddenly gazing at me with an immense amount of worry. I know he believes the lie, but the way his dark eyes meet mine cautiously makes my stomach lurch.

"I hope everything is okay, Neva."

My hands won't stop shaking.

Stop moving.

I press my palms to my thighs.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

"Is your family safe?"

I know what he's saying, but I don't know what it really means. I don't know if mi familia is ever safe.

Nodding meekly, I glance away. "Yeah."

"Well, I would have appreciated an email, Neva."

"I lost my phone," I say, finding his heavy gaze on me again. "I can't...I can't really afford to get a new one right now."

Exasperation flashes in his eyes, and I nearly flinch. No es una mentira. Even with the cash in the stolen purse, I'd barely been able to scrape together enough for a Metrocard.

Meir shakes his head but doesn't say anything else about the half-assed excuse. "Okay, Neva. Well, you're behind. You haven't sent me anything."

I was supposed to send him something?

A jumble of excuses fights up my throat, knotting together until I can't even twist one into a lie.

I swallow them all. I have no excuses, other than the fact that I've been snorting lines of coke with my fuckbuddy.

After a solid moment of stale silence, Meir sighs. Those dark eyes release me, dancing down to the desk—to a slip of paper that he flicks up loosely. "We need to talk about your dissertation."

My heart plummets. "Right."

"Neva Álvarez." Meir pauses, long fingers shifting his glasses down over the bridge of his nose. "You're taking on family separation in the media."

The words feel like fucking fists, pummeling into my chest, pulverizing my heart, and stealing every last breath of air from my lungs. Why did I choose that topic four months ago? Did I really think I could handle it?

When I don't respond, Meir quirks a brow. "Is that something too close to home?"

My nails bite through denim; my teeth grind together.

Home.

I know what he's implying.

"Why do you think that?" I muse, cool and collected, despite the frenzy of firecrackers exploding in my chest. I can't tell if it's resentment or plain annoyance.

"Where were you born, Neva?"

Red flashes through my vision. "That doesn't matter."

"Unfortunately, under the Trump administration," Meir iterates with an apologetic smile, "it does."

There's an edge in his voice that holds a challenge, a spark in his eyes that almost feels brave. Meir knows I won't back down from it. Even if it's a petty move, it's a direct hit.

I shoot him a dirty smirk. "I was born in Mexico."

"So it is something that's very close to you."

"Are you implying that you have to be born in Latin America to care about the fucked up immigration policies in this country?" I ask sharply, cocking my head to the side. "If we're the only ones that care about it, that's a bigger problem, isn't it?"

Meir blinks at me curiously.

"Or are you making assumptions about my priorities based on my race?" I twist a finger through my hair as I return his apologetic smile. "Don't fuck with me on this, Meir."

Something dangerously close to respect flickers in his eyes. Meir drops the paper to the desk and leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. I watch him settle casually, a small, impressed smile tugging at his lips. "I just want to make sure you're approaching this with a level head, Neva. It could be a very powerful topic if you use your voice the right way."

"Powerful," I scoff, nausea churning with the mere word. "That's a poor choice of words. Nothing about it is powerful, Meir. It's gut-wrenching, horrifying, heartbreaking. Tragic."

His brows raise, prompting me to continue. When I don't, Meir hums, scrubbing a hand over his jaw in thought. "No, you're right. You're right about that."

"I know."

"You still have to approach it carefully, Neva," he says with that half-hearted smile. "Either you articulate your message delicately or you bulldoze it. Are you attacking the media or the agencies involved in immigration enforcement? What is your plan?"

What is my plan? Do I have a plan?

There isn't a real plan; there isn't a real way to approach this carefully when all I want to do is bleed out onto blank paper and hope that it will even faintly tell a story of what it's like to be forgotten, completely disregarded and abandoned... by force.

"I want people to understand the real aftermath," I finally say. "I want people to feel guilty."

"Guilty?" Meir almost smiles, but it doesn't make it to a full bloom. "Journalists don't play off emotions; they tell facts. What do you want people to feel guilty about?"

My throat tightens. About every story that doesn't get told? "I..."

Something sparks in his eyes, another challenge that is just about to come spitting out. "More importantly, Neva, what can you say that will make people feel guilty?"

"No one..." I start, slow, and sink like dead weight in the stuffy classroom—suddenly wishing I had stayed in Julian's bed or taken up his offer to help cut more coke. "No one wants to take responsibility for the lives ruined when they...separate a family. I want people to feel guilty for that...that...neglect?"

Though the word hangs between us curiously, almost uncomfortably, creo que es la palabra correcta. Because the right people won't own up to the truth—to the fact that the people they're targeting are not 'criminales' or 'violadores'.

They're human.

I duck away from his suddenly penetrating look, letting a curtain of hair hide my watery eyes. As I reach for the purse at my feet, I blink past the tears. If Meir is throwing out direct hits, I'm not afraid to retaliate.

"Do you..." I swallow hard and then tug out the photo that I tucked into the purse for this meeting, prepared for verbal and visual warfare. It flutters from my fingertips between us. "Do you remember this?"

The two Salvadoran migrants lie face down along the shore of the Rio Grande River. A father and his daughter. Dead.

I know he's seen it when his expression falls. Everyone has seen it. It's a haunting image—a portrait of fear and desperation, suddenly splayed across his perfect wooden desk, separating us like it always will.

Because it could've been my family. It could've been me and my father.

"Do you remember this?" I ask again, my voice too small, too small, too small. "Does anybody still remember this?"

Silence reigns in the room.

"This came out in the beginning of June. I cried." My voice cracks. "I cried for them, for the lives lost, and for the family that will never be together again."

The memory feels vague, lost somewhere in the start of the summer—when I'd thought I was strong enough to take on this topic. Before Enzo had called to tell me about the wedding and before I'd fallen off into a haze of cocaine kisses.

I remember crying with Emmy behind the bar, shaky hands and bubbling words. I remember wishing it wasn't like this. I remember wanting to burn something or break something or help someone. I remember realizing I couldn't help anyone.

I remember wishing I could stop feeling.

"It hit people," I choke out. "It was almost shock value. When they found this photo plastered in articles online and on the news, people were upset about it, but now it's...it's September, and no one cares. No one remembers this family."

"You do."

I smile sadly. "This is one. One family. It's happening to thousands of families. They're dying as they try to cross the border, or they're being detained in concentration camps, or they're being torn apart in raids across the country."

When Meir blinks in confusion, a lump forms in my throat. "We see that in the media every day, Neva. People know this is happening."

Does he not understand? Does no one understand? Or is he admitting that people know and don't care?

"You see it for five seconds, Meir. These families get five seconds of real remorse from this country when you hear their stories, and then they disappear," I say in frustration, still trying to string together the right words. "They disappear... just like Trump wants them to."

"Neva, they don't just disappear."

"They do. No one will document every trial they have to go through because this country ripped their family apart. Once the story is told, no one checks up on the people left behind. No one helps them. No." I sit up straighter, shaking my head indignantly. "No, people talk about how horrible it is, and maybe they go to a rally, but then they go to dinner and work, and they move on. It's sad for five minutes for everyone else, but those families have to live with it. It doesn't go away. It doesn't stop hurting. Ever."

Because those things last forever.

"It doesn't fucking end."

I almost want to laugh at Julian.

Instead, a sob shakes free.

"We don't see the real impact of family separation," I whisper, averting my gaze as a tear rolls down my cheek. "Not in the long run. Only in the moment."

Meir doesn't look away. I can feel his eyes on me, and I can almost taste the pity. "Neva."

"Perdón, lo siento, no puedo...no..." I shake my head, swipe at my eyes, desperate to stop, stop, stop—and then realize I should speak in English. "I'm sorry."

"Neva."

As I finally face him with tear-stained cheeks, I see it all through a blurry lens—the pity, the sympathy, the solid, soft apology. "I know it hurts to see it happen, Neva, but in order to get your point across, you need to control your emotions. You have to be professional in this industry."

A watery laugh escapes. "I can't be emotional about this? Why? Because they're not citizens? Because they weren't born here? Because they're criminals?"

"I didn't say that."

"No," I agree, "but people do. Their lives and their families hold less value. A zero-tolerance policy was meant to send a warning to people crossing the border: if you try to seek asylum here, you might never see your children again. Do you remember that?"

Meir nods. "I do remember. I remember Trump putting out a statement that it was their fault for coming here...knowing the consequences."

"That's the best fucking part," I say dryly. "They know, but they risk it anyways. Because if there is a slight chance that they can raise their families safely, they'll take it."

It's in every single story—oportunidad y seguridad. Fleeing poverty, fleeing drugs, fleeing gangs.

My hands tremble and my bottom lip quivers. It all comes flooding through me too fast for me to stop, and as I exhale shakily, my heart seems to catapult up my throat with a million words. "They're ripping families apart. They're letting people die trying to get into this country, extorting them at the border or turning them away and leaving them without any options. They're detaining people, holding them in concentration camps, in cages a— they're...they...and we're...we're not doing anything. Why is no one doing anything?"

And when Meir simply waits in silence, the space between us seems to widen, furthering the separation that will just always be there.

"How can you sit here like this and...and be okay with it?" I ask breathlessly, my throat tightening, my eyes stinging, my heart burning, burning, burning, until I'm nothing but ashes beneath his dark gaze. "That's...it's a disregard for human life."

Something calm takes hold of him. I see it in the hesitant movements—as he dips closer, brushes his fingers across the photograph on his desk, and then smiles that apologetic fucking smile. "This is why you're here, Neva. This is what you need to put on paper."

"I..."

"What do you have written?"

A crushing heat presses on my windpipe; a petty frustration captures my heart. I bite back a curse. "Nothing."

"That's a problem, Neva," he tuts, the stern warning slipping into his tone. "We're almost three weeks into the semester. Why don't you have anything written?"

"Because I...I just..." Because I'd been avoiding everything?

"Because you need to detach yourself from the topic."

"Oh, I have," I iterate sharply. "I've detached myself from the topic."

Meir nods, but his lips twitch in amusement. I know he doesn't believe me; I can't lie about the fact that I just broke out into tears in front of him over one photo that should encompass my entire dissertation. So when he sits back, I just wait for the next hit.

"Neva," he muses, his fingers picking up a pattern on the desk. Almost leisurely, almost like I wasn't just talking about a fair path to citizenship or the value of human life. "How do you feel about the ICE raids in Mississippi last month?"

My lips part in surprise. "What?"

Meir doesn't look away or say anything. For a long, long, long moment, I can't do anything but stare at him.

How do I feel about the ICE raids in Mississippi? How the fuck do I feel about them?

"How do you think they felt?" I bite back. "How do you think those children felt when they left their first day of school and found empty homes?"

Stop shaking.

I clench my fists together when Meir doesn't respond. I can't take this one-sided conversation, even if he's only trying to get a rise out of me—or prove a point.

"Or the ones who got phone calls? To find out that their mother or father had been detained?"

Stop. Stop. Stop.

"What about the men and women who were just working?" It comes out small, so fucking small that I barely hear myself. "How do you think it feels to be taken from your job and detained simply because you're Hispanic? They didn't even ask for papers, Meir."

Meir presses his lips together. Something about it makes me so fucking angry that I can barely see straight.

"And they put you on a bus," I say, my voice wavering. "Tie up your hands and feet like you're a criminal and take you hours away from your workplace. You have no idea what's going to happen to you."

"I asked how you felt about it, Neva."

I cock my head to the side and blink. After all that bullshit about detaching myself from the topic, and now, he wants me to feel. "That's the fucking problem, isn't it? How I feel doesn't matter. What matters is them. How do you think they feel?"

Nothing.

"Everyone you love is here. You've built a life here; your family is here." I straighten and lean forward to level him with a glare. "You might never see your children again. You might be sent back to a country that wants you dead."

I can't take the fucking silence. When I stand angrily, Meir stands with his hands held out in surrender. "Neva, I think y—"

"Do you know," I cut him off, "what it's like to watch someone you love get sent away from you?"

Stop.

"Do you know what it's like to see ICE put someone you love in a van and drive them away?" I grind my teeth, blinking away the tears angrily. "You don't know if you'll ever...see them again."

It's too hot, too hot, too hot.

Another sorry smile claims his lips, a million unspoken apologies to soften the blow of this entire conversation. "I'm sorry, Neva, but it sounds like you're talking from experience."

"I can't detach myself, Meir," I laugh dryly, dropping back into my seat. "Because this kind of shit destroyed my family."

There it is. A flash of remorse, deep, deep, deep in his eyes.

"It didn't even make the papers. It didn't matter to anyone but me." I shake my head. "No. Because he was just a number in a system. An illegal immigrant. Not a friend, not a husband, not a father."

"Neva, I'm sorry. I—"

"No one cared that they took my father from me. No one cared that they sent him back to a place that...that... to a country that we fled for safety. No one cared that he would be killed in Mexico."

No one fucking cared.

"No one cared," I breathe, stunned by the truth again. "Do you know what that is? Knowing that it's inhumane and wrong, but not caring? Just continuing to do it? Continuing to watch it happen? Do you?"

"Neva, y—"

"That's fucking tolerance, Meir."

"Neva," he finally cuts me off sternly, his brows furrowing. A hand raises, and then falls. "You've got...uh...you're bleeding."

And as his gaze narrows in, I feel the warm liquid trickle down to my top lip. A nosebleed.

I stand abruptly, and my knees almost buckle. "I...I'm sorry. I should go."

❘❘

**I cried writing this entire chapter. I'm sorry it is very political and emotionally charged, but that's a part of Neva that has been neglected this entire story. The photo is real, and I'm sure some of you have seen it, because when the bodies of Oscar Alberto Martínez Ramírez and his daughter Valeria were found and photographed, it was EVERYWHERE.

This is something so so so close to me. I've known, spoken to, lived with and LOVED several people who have very similar situations with the immigration policies in America. I've had to say goodbye to people I love because they can't STAY HERE. The path to citizenship is a long, grueling, confusing process, and under that Trump administration, it's even more difficult.

It's heartbreaking, but it's important to finally see Neva care about something. Neva is a fucking fighter, and really, one of her fatal flaws is that she DOES feel so much.

I'm feeling emotionally drained and sad and overall just hopeless, but I love you all. So much. ❤️