❝say what you have to say. try not to cry. this is just not what you wanted
at this point in your life.❞

❘❘

"IT'S NOVEMBER, NEVA."

It's fucking November. Why can't I remember anything about October?

October is just this big fucking blur of smoke and sex, intertwined into some destructive pattern of feeling. Where did I lose los días, las horas, los minutos, los segundos? When did everything start bleeding together into a catastrophic collision of chasing city lights and cocaine crashes?

It's an unstoppable reel beneath my eyelids, but none of it connects—a slew of deliriously dizzy colors in clubs and temptingly tattooed skin and cold bathroom tiles and crying and cursing and crumbling and coming down, down, down.

I nod solemnly, blinking back las memorias and averting my gaze. "Yeah. It's... November 7th. Our meeting. I remembered."

Barely.

"I'm glad to see you here." A sliver of genuine concern taints his words, and as that sinks in, vuelvo a asentir. "Is everything okay, Neva?"

It's that unspoken question, that heavy, heartbreaking preocupación that's been hanging in the air since I stepped in—since his gaze fell to the bruise across my cheek.

"Sí, sí, sí." I wave him off with a breathless laugh, somewhat forced and awkward. With a dry throat and a pounding headache, la mentira rolls with the unsettling sickness simmering in my stomach. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Neva, if you need help, I—"

"I said I'm okay," I snap.

Silence chases the sharp response; it stews and festers into a stifling tension, thick and tangible.

When Meir presses his lips together, I straighten. Agitation floods through me, churning, turning, burning, almost begging for him to pick a fight, but then our eyes lock, and everything vanishes. A ripple of pain strikes me cold, replacing the impulsive anger with something else.

Una ansia.

Butterflies clog my throat. A little flustered and frustrated, I tuck my hair back behind my ears with warm cheeks. In a softer voice, I reassure him, "I'm fine."

"Okay." Though his tone suggests a surrender, a challenge gleams in his eyes. "But just remember, your mental health and your safety is what's most important."

Safety. Quiero gritar o llorar, but I just nod blankly.

"Alright, Neva, then let's talk about your dissertation."

Nerves creep up. Trembling fingers drop into my lap. A shaky sigh escapes, defeat dimming the gnawing ache inside of me. "Yeah. Okay."

Meir offers me a patient smile. "You never sent me an email to check in. Do you have anything to show me?"

I swallow hard.

There's some half-written paper lost somewhere on Dropbox, branded onto a thumb drive, just laid out in the notes on my phone, but it's this vulnerably broken thing that I can't even begin to pull apart and polish... or expose.

Because Julian didn't come back to the apartment that first night, or that second night, or that third night. I spent every night alone, plagued by gruesome nightmares of babies being torn from arms or wombs, of a dead stranger and her child, of a little girl in a pretty pink bow growing up without a mother, and every fucking night, I woke in a cold sweat, gasping, shaking, crying.

So I wound up huddled into the corner of Julian's bed in the dark, wasting time and tears, counting minutes from midnight to the sunrise, unraveling into a million fucking pieces. I bled out onto paper, words and wishes bared into a blurry confession of what... what won't stop fucking hurting.

That's not hard-hitting journalism. That's not the story I want to tell.

"I have something," I admit, my voice cracking. "I do. I just... I can't show it to you."

Always professional, always composed, always fucking calm, Meir cocks his head to the side an inch. Curiously. "Why?"

"Because it's too close to... home." Under the dim lights, under the hazy heat, under his heavy stare, that regurgitated truth feels pathetic. "It's mine. My story."

I don't think I'm ready to share it... or stop... forgetting it.

"On family separation," he iterates.

"My family separation."

"There's nothing wrong with that." Meir folds his hands on top of the desk. "That's okay."

I force a weak smile. "Maybe, but I don't want to... tell that story."

It isn't a real story. It's something flimsy and fragile, a lost lullaby compared to the tragedies of the thousands turned away, denied, sent back to Central America after risking everything to make it to the border. It's nothing compared to the thousands extorted, raped, killed, tossed aside in the deserts of Mexico as some nameless, faceless casualty of a border crisis.

Thousands of people never get to live this fucking dream.

"If you wrote it down somewhere, there must be a part of you that wants to tell that story, Neva."

I hate how right he is. Always. My bottom lip wobbles, but I shake away that incessant need to cry. "I don't know how it happened," I whisper, a lump gathering in the back of my throat. I blink away the stinging sensation in frustration. No. "I don't know how to focus on one thing. I wanted to focus on family separation in the media, but the more I research and think and write, the more it... hurts. I just... there are so many things wrong, Meir."

There are so many people.

"How can I tell one story," I ask breathlessly, "when there are thousands?"

Because that's the problem. It's never a single story; it's never a single family. It's hundreds of thousands of men and women and children—their stories.

"A powerful story is universal, Neva." Meir meets my gaze with this strange surge of encouragement. "That's your foundation. It doesn't matter if you only tell one story because that story will be essential in the bigger picture. A broader spectrum."

I know he's right, but it hurts. It hurts to know that I can't tell each and every story, that I can't help each and every person, that I can't—

"All it takes is one story." Torn from my thoughts, I blink at Meir. "One story can pave the way for that conversation. That change. It can help build momentum against that tolerance, the inhumanity of US immigration policies, the disregard for human life, the reality of a border crisis and those who are affected by it. There's a universal story to tell here, Neva, about the damage inflicted on the families separated, whether it's in their home country, or in the US, or at the border."

A universal story.

Because I'm not the only one. I'm not alone.

Somewhere in this world, in this country, in this city, because of some fucked up immigration policy, some other girl lost her father too. Some other little girl, scared and helpless, cried and screamed and begged a stranger not to take her father away from her.

"From what I understand," Meir drawls, tearing me back to the moment, "you have first-hand experience in this. Why not use that?"

"Because it ruined my life."

That soft, shaky statement stilts the conversation, echoing in the space between us. It seems quiet, too quiet, almost unsure, but in that moment, even if it's for that one fucking moment, I've never been more sure of anything.

"I thought we could be safe here," I say, and it's still too fucking quiet. I want to scream. "I never believed that an entire country would want to get rid of me."

Meir draws a sharp breath. "No one wants to get rid of you."

"Sometimes, it feels like it."

"Neva, that's—"

"I came to the United States when I was twelve." It comes tumbling up my throat, a confession, breathlessly unraveling into a bittersweet memory. "I crossed the border with my brother. Enzo was only fifteen."

Even saying his name twists the knot in my stomach. Biting back a wave of nausea, I steer my gaze to the ceiling to hide the disgust, the acidic aftertaste of guilt. Where is Enzo? What is he doing? Is he okay?

There was a time when we always kept each other safe.

"I remember how fucking proud Enzo was," I laugh dryly. "We came on La Bestia, and... Enzo paid someone to... to..." The words trail off with some detached amazement. "Fuck, we... we survived. No gangs, no theft, no rape, no murder. We made it. That fucking American Dream."

Everything inside of me chills with the long-forgotten memories, trenched beneath the sun-soaked afternoons in the Florida heat, thunderstorms and hot sand and palm trees and happy smiles.

"You know, it was before the border crisis in 2014."

"A flood of unaccompanied children at the border." Meir heaves a sigh, mustering up a weak smile. "I remember."

My heart stalls for a second. "We fucking did it. Enzo and I came to the United States alone. That was the first family separation."

Meir nods, but I can see it in his eyes—that shimmer of pity.

I grind my teeth together. "We came at the worst time. Right in the middle of the recession. 2008. I don't know if mis padres knew it. They followed after us, but there was a long time when I didn't... I mean, we didn't know if they would make it alive."

That pity softens, a silent nod urging me forward.

"I guess no one ever knows if they'll make it alive. There's that risk, but there's always a bigger risk." That knot tightens in my stomach. "All mi papá told Enzo and I was that we weren't safe anymore. We needed to leave Mexico."

We knew. Fuck, we knew what was happening, so we left. Without them.

A bitter smile curls at my lips. "So we came to America. For safety."

"Was i—"

"Gangs," I choke out. "It wa—"

A faint vibration cuts me off.

Panic attacks at high voltage. My pulse spikes, my heart jumps, my head reels. All the words in my throat jumble into an electric current, a saturated storm, suddenly buzzing, crackling, sizzling, stinging, bile rising too quick, too quick, too quick. No, no, no. I can't. In slow-motion, detached and dreading the impact, I watch myself slide the phone from my pocket to look at the dimly lit screen.

I barely see his name. I can only see him, a sheen of sweat and dirt complimenting a proud fucking smile, painted against a desert sunset, reeling me in for a hug... fifteen years old, alone, keeping me close, keeping me safe...

My fucking brother.

"Don't lie, hermanita."

I reject the call.

When I glance up through wet lashes, it's a fluorescent nightmare beyond a watery veil. Lights skew the entire room, blurring white-hot specks, clouding my vision, and I hear myself, I hear myself mumble an excuse. Those hot tears finally break; they spill over my cheeks, but everything is already tilting into a dangerous descent, down stairs and through hallways and into the cold afternoon.

Barely fucking breathing.

I cough, I crash, I collapse against a brick wall under a crippling heat. A sob rips through my chest, and as I fold my hands over my face to hide the frantic, bubbling cries, my knees buckle.

Why does it still hurt? Is it that fucked up fate of family separation that hurts? After everything?

I haven't seen Enzo in years.

My phone vibrates again. Slumping to the sidewalk in defeat, I accept the call. "What?"

"Jesus, Neva, wh—"

"What do you fucking want from me?" I cry, blinking back more fucking tears. I press a hand to my sweaty forehead as I choke on something too thick, too fast, too much. "What could you possibly want from me right now? I don't understand why you won't leave me the fuck alone."

Silence.

I've never felt silence like this. It's not thick, heavy, tense, a stewing, simmering strain. It's empty and cold—a silence between strangers.

Maybe we are strangers.

"Enzo, I can't." I can't talk to him; I can't even think about him. "I just can't."

Another long, painful silence.

My eyes flutter closed, and suddenly, I only want him beside me. Mi hermano would know what to do. Siempre. "Enzo... I..."

"Neva," he breathes, soft and caring and loving and so fucking brotherly that I want to kill him. "Hermanita, ¿estás bien?"

For half a heartbeat, I only hear that soft, soft, soft worry, a raspy concern laced in his faint voice, closing thousands of miles between New York and Florida. I miss him.

But then rage blinds me, and a slew of violent Spanish unravels in my throat, rolling off my tongue into something so fucking raw and angry that I don't even know what I'm saying. I don't even know if they're words.

When my vision clears, I'm staggering on my feet, raking a hand through my hair in frustration. "You bastard," I hiss. "Estás un pinche pendejo. ¿No parezco estar bien?"

I have never been okay, and I don't know if I ever will be okay.

"Ne—"

"No, no estoy bien. I hope that helps you sleep at night, mano."

And as I hang up on my brother again, it hurts. I can't force back the heat or the heartache or the helplessness. I know it will be another sleepless night, tossing and turning, haunted by those vivid visions of us. Victorious.

Why does he even care if I'm okay? Those days of keeping each other safe are gone, and in that fleeting moment, fierce and fractured, I know that those days of loving each other are gone too.

A little lightheaded, still reeling with something aggressive and sad that I can't even grasp, I clutch my phone the entire ride into Ridgewood.

Enzo doesn't call back.

No one is home.

Suddenly, I'm all alone again. Hollow. Left behind in an empty carcass of an apartment, rooms abandoned with doors left open. A quiet kind of misery carries me to Rio's room. As I saunter in silently, I scan the disheveled space through a blurry lens, sharpening in desperation to search for something to stifle it, anything to stop it, for a trace of for a trace of plastic or snow or—

My gaze flits to his desk and stills—on a little orange bottle of pills.

Something. Anything.

Stop.

Groggily, I trudge forward to snatch it. I don't even look at the label as I twist the cap and tip the bottle. Pale blue pills sift in my palm, and something about the shade makes me dizzy, but I don't care. Anything will help. Anything will make this feeling better.

In the first few moments, it doesn't. I don't feel anything.

It's not like the rush of smoking or snorting cocaine, an instant high, a breathless ascent into euphoria. No, this feels more like swimming or sinking, a dizzy descent into a lightheaded lull, silent and sleepy.

I curl into Julian's bed alone. Groggy with guilt, hazy and hopeless, the sensations leave me with something confusing and sad and dead, feeling like a feather lost in an abyss of white ceilings and blue sheets. My eyes close, but in the darkness, there are only shards of sun and smiles—all those foggy words, faint and faded, lips moving, hair flipping, eyes sparkling... a victorious grin in the heart of a Texas desert.

Enzo.

Reeling me in for a hug, promising that we'll be okay, that we'll see mamá and papá soon, that we'll be happy here.

We'll be happy and free and warm and safe.

❘❘

**My brothers and I kind of hate each other, but I still miss them sometimes. It's a shitty feeling. If you can stay close with your siblings, do it. Obviously, Neva has her reasons, but it's still hard to cut someone out of your life like that.

This is just ONE story. This is... something close to me, but this is NOT REPRESENTATIVE of how every single person comes to the US border. Yes, there was a surge of unaccompanied children in 2014, and it was deemed a border crisis, but there are so so so so many ways that men and women and children cross the border, whether they are being smuggled by coyotes, crossing the Rio Grande, surrendering to Border Patrol, and so much more.

OKAY. La Bestia. The Beast. Millions of migrants ride these freight trains through Mexico. They are dangerous. So fucking dangerous. There are no passenger cars. Essentially, you'll pay a bribe to get on at a train terminal, but you'll have to ride atop the train cars (without anything to hold onto)or between them. Many people fall asleep, fall off, or... are pushed, if they don't (or can't) pay certain gangs for 'protection'. Beyond that, like Neva says, there are risks of theft, kidnapping, rape, murder. It's real. Families make this journey.

There's so much more about this journey, but just THINK ABOUT THIS FOR NOW. They were CHILDREN.

I hope you all enjoyed hearing more about Neva and her past. That girl is a closed book, but it's happening. I love you all. Besos. ❤️