❝we will not go out in silence,
and we will not go quietly.❞

❘❘

"THANKS FOR MEETING WITH ME."

"Of course," he says, nodding professionally, almost as if I didn't blow him off for three months. "I know our communication has been sporadic, Neva."

"I'm sorry." La disculpa tumbles out tightly, strained and forced, but lit with some quiet guilt. "I know."

I owe him so much fucking more than showing up in a small, dimly lit café in the trenches of Bushwick, hanging on the edge of leftover high, shaking, sweating, squirming, sniffing, just fucking unraveling.

But I don't have anything else to give right now.

"Neva."

Averting my watery gaze, I bite back a cry. "I know. I know."

"I'm sorry. I had to report you as a student at-risk, Neva." He heaves a sigh, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips. It's another tight, silently strained effort. Guilty. "I didn't believe you'd pass, but honestly, I... I wasn't even sure if you were okay."

I smile weakly. "Siempre. I'm always okay, Meir."

Meir leans forward, and I stiffen, a mangled mess of nerves fluttering through my chest. "The last time I saw you... you..."

"Yeah." I wince, forcing a shaky laugh. "Yeah, I know. It was... it..."

"I'm only asking because I care, Neva," he soothes, fingers tapping against the tiny table, lentamente, lentamente... lentamente... "Was there some sort of domestic abuse? A boyfriend?"

I almost want to laugh. If only Julian Rivera were alive to hear someone consider him my fucking boyfriend. I reach for my coffee with another trembling smile. "Sí. Something like that."

Worry flashes in his eyes, oscuro y violento, and for a half a heartbeat, it's blinding. Alguien siempre está preocupado por mí. A trace of irritation clinches my heart, but I grind my teeth together patiently to take the brunt force of that concern. "Are you safe now?"

"Yeah, I'm safe," I lie with a meek nod. "I'm okay."

Something softens in his expression. As Meir sets his coffee down and levels me with a gentle look, I want to just curl into myself and cry. "Neva, did you get a restraining order? Were you living with him? Do you have a place to live? Do y—"

"This semester has been rough," I cut him off in a whisper, nails digging into my coffee cup. "I spent some time living in my car, and I... I spent a lot of time drinking." I swallow hard, but peer up at him timidly. "I'm... I'm struggling with cocaine."

Meir nods in understanding. "I suspected there was substance abuse."

My heart sinks. Could everyone tell?  "You knew?"

"I suspected it," he says again, leaning back in his seat. My knee bounces beneath the table nervously, and as I gnaw on my bottom lip, I try to steady. "I've known you for several years, Neva. I can tell."

"Oh."

With another curt nod, Meir glances away. "Have you thought about rehab?"

I blink. "Rehab?"

"Yes." His brows raise. "Rehab."

My heart lurches violently. A wave of nausea crashes over my head, and I sputter for something tangible, para las palabras, para el aire. "I... I didn't... no, I don't need rehab. I can't go to rehab. I just can't. I..."

"Neva, Neva, Neva." It's a soothing assault, my name raining from somewhere above, in the soft, hazy light and the warmth, the warmth spilling from the ceiling. "Calm down. It's okay."

Tears prick at my eyes. "No, I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"My mamá was detained," I choke out. "In Florida."

Meir straightens, and when his eyes flash, I blink, blink, blink through a veil of still, silent tears, and I... I find him leaning closer, an urgency in the sharp movement. "Is everything okay?"

"No." My chest tightens in dread. "No, nothing is okay! I'm a fucking mess, and my family is a fucking mess, and if I don't do something, I'm... I'm going to lose them." All those hazy fucking lights skew, seared with something frantic and fierce. "I'll lose my mamá and... and I—"

"Is your brother okay?" Meir asks, an edge in his voice. "Is he in the country? In Florida?"

And the idea of losing my fucking brother suddenly hits me in one violent blow. Something... in my chest... breaks, and it's like every volatile thing within me collides, shattering into a million pieces. It's ice, fracturing, piercing, ripping through skin and muscle and bone and— and—

I collapse with a sob. "No puedo... I can't lose... there's..."

"Okay, Neva." Warmth envelopes my hand. "Breathe. Just breathe. I think you... you're having a panic attack."

Screwing my eyes shut, I try to focus on each jagged breath tearing through me, short and shallow and sharp. I inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, honing in on the way my shoulders and chest soften.

"Yeah," I finally sigh. "My brother is in the country. I'll... I'm going to see him, to... stay with him."

A hollow silence chases the words, stranding us in an icy ocean, surrounded by the soft sound of rainfall and faint conversation.

"Neva." Meir releases my wrist gently, and my grip tightens on the coffee. "I can write a report, and maybe you can... defer for a semester, if that—"

"No, I... I can't. They withdrew me from my classes." I peer down at my white knuckles as a lump of guilt gathers in my throat. "I was on academic probation, and after I... I missed too many..."

"Neva."

I wince, letting that stern disappointment sink into my skin. Just like mamá. "I know. I know, but it... it just happened so fast, and I..."

It was too fucking fast, like whiplash, striking me cold, hot, so fucking cold, as I tore through too many restless nights of smoke and sex and snow and too many mornings of nausea and pain and anxiety, falling asleep on wooden floors and waking up on bathroom tiles.

"Your dissertation," Meir murmurs. "You're abandoning it."

I think I abandoned it before I even started it.

"Yeah." I pause. "I guess so."

"You shouldn't." As Meir dips forward, planting both elbows on the table, his voice lowers. "Neva, when I met you three years ago, this is what you wanted to do. You wanted to write. I know you wanted to write this story."

Maybe. Maybe three years ago, I could tackle this with a vengeance, when I still felt so fucking angry and betrayed, abandoned, ready to tear the fucking world down, but now... I'm just tired. Everything moves in slow motion, and it moves without me, leaving me behind, and I'm so fucking sad, exhausted, burned out and wasting time with a million fucking mistakes.

Hace tres años, I was... una persona diferente; hace seis meses, I was a different person. I don't know if I'll ever find that person again, or if maybe I was meant to fall and crash and become this—a shell of that person, empty and edging into an eternal crash.

Self-destruction. Siempre.

"That was a long time ago, Meir," I exhale shakily, holding his gaze. "I'm so tired of... of fighting and... feeling like shit about everything. I just don't want to lose my family. That's... that's all I care about right now."

"I know." Hesitantly, Meir glances away with a thoughtful expression. "I just don't want you to lose this. It... it was important to you at one point."

I nod. "I know, but I... I spent this semester avoiding it, just wishing I could stop thinking about those experiences, wishing I could stop... feeling those experiences, and I— I can't do that to myself."

Necesito seguir adelante. Un nuevo comienzo.

"But remember, Neva," he pleads. "Remember why you wanted to do it... why you wanted to tell these stories."

No puedo recordar. I can't remember why it mattered, or why I thought it would... change something. Anything.

No one cares. No one will care if my mamá gets deported. Only Enzo and me.

Because in the end, family separation will always be fleeting in the media. It's only eternal for those who have to live with it.

Algunas cosas son para siempre.

"In April," Meir continues cautiously, "you came to me. You came to me, and you asked me to be your advisor because you needed to do this. You told me that it was important, not just to you, but to everyone."

And if I close my eyes and breathe slow, if I sink into my seat, if I surrender to the warmth caressing my palm, if I dig, dig, dig deep, so fucking deep into the cold catacombs, I can find ese momento. I can remember the crisp chill in the air, caught in the midst of spring, watching the city blossom and bloom from a foggy window. I can remember sitting in this fucking café, staring up at him and... admitting that I didn't want to do it, but I needed to.

What happened to me?

Did I really think I could make an impact on anything?

"I'm sorry, Meir." I sniff, shifting to the edge of my seat. "Thank you for being here and for understanding. Thank you for taking that chance with me last spring, but I'm... I'm not strong enough to do this."

Maybe I thought I was.

"Maybe not now," he says firmly, straightening. "I do believe you need to think about rehab if you're struggling with addiction, and you should take care of your family. I agree, but you are strong enough to do this. All of it. You will be. You're not alone, Neva."

And fuck, my bottom lip trembles. "I know. I'm not alone."

With a gentle smile, Meir reaches for my hand and squeezes. Something rips through my chest, wrenching my heart up my throat recklessly.

"Meir, I—"

"You're not alone. Because this isn't just your story, Neva," Meir says softly, so fucking softly. "It's more than that, and you know it. You know it's happening across the country, and you know that someone might need you to tell the story that they can't. You know that someone might need to remember that they're not alone."

A million emotions clog my throat. I nod silently, committing the words to memory, desperate to remember why I needed to tell a single story, a single fucking story, when there are thousands that are never exposed.

Would it change anything?

Maybe someone would read it. Maybe they wouldn't make the same mistakes I did. Maybe they wouldn't be cold; maybe they would be soft and warm and... loving. Maybe they would move forward instead of running in place, stuck in a standstill, sinking, drowning, reliving the moments and the memories that hurt too much.

Maybe someone will move on. Maybe someone will find that fucking nuevo comienzo that papá wanted, that mamá wanted, that mi hermano wanted, that nuestra familia wanted, that... I... want.

❘❘

**AND IT IS 2AM, so I have NO NOTES. NOTHING. Maybe I will later.