❝you don't recover from a night like this, a victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless.❞

❘❘

EL SOL SALE LENTAMENTE. Every ray of light is crisp against my skin, washing over the city with a cold, cold, cold calculation. Eventualmente, I stop counting steps, blocks, buildings; I start sinking into shivers, wrapping my arms around myself in misery.

My phone is descargado.

My head hurts, my eyes sting, my body aches.

I feel like shit.

The branches tremble in the breeze, and as I come to a stop, my gaze lingers on the skeletal frame withering in the winter weather. A pair of shoes sways.

Those shoes hang so fucking innocently in front of the apartment.

Someone lets me into the front hallway on their way out. As I skate past him to catch the door, the air stills. It's an icy trail, his gaze trailing up my bare legs, my torn dress, my tangled hair. Fuck.

I close my eyes.

"Hey, are you... are you okay?"

Quiero llorar.

But I swallow that pathetic sob, drained, just done crying. Nodding silently, I peer up to give him a weak smile. Estoy bien. Estaré bien. Siempre estaré bien.

As the door slams shut between us, darkness swallows me. In the dim, damp hallway, it's hard to remember the appeal of this apartment. Dirt stains the tiles, leaves scatter with each slight movement, and as my fingers brush along the top of a mattress propped against the wall, it feels like being condemned to an eternal surrender. All things abandoned, stuck inside a hollow hallway, left withering in an unwritten narrative. Is this where it ends? Does it always end right where it began?

What story does that tell?

Disoriented, I force myself forward. My palms brush the walls to stay standing. Each step groans beneath my feet slowly. The stale chill stings my eyes. Bile crawls up my throat. A scent of something cooking—something burning—hits me.

It's a million sensations of touch and taste and smell and... and it doesn't mean anything because I feel nothing. Empty.

I'm not even there. I'm stuck drowning somewhere in pits of misery, carving myself into my body until I can't decipher if things are real or a nightmare. My fingers curl into fists. Numbly, I rap my knuckles against the door, and the echo is harsh and winding, strands of impact ringing between my ears.

It hurts.

Wincing, I close my eyes and listen to the muffled curse, to the shuffling, to the feet thudding across wooden floors, closer, closer, closer—

The door swings open.

My heart stutters.

Surprise flashes in her eyes, fleeting, but fierce.

With damp hair framing her face, frizzy curls caressing her cheeks, she cocks a hip, raises a brow, stares me down with an unwavering amount of exasperation. "Neva."

Fuck. This was such a mistake. My bottom lip wobbles, but before I can mumble something weak and whirl around, her gaze drifts down my body. Suddenly self-conscious, uncomfortable, I clutch at my shoulders. "I..."

Worry tilts her lips into a frown. "What... Neva..."

"I don't... I don't have..."

Her brows crease as she takes in the damage—the skinned knees, the shaking hands, the shivering bitch who couldn't pay her rent. "Neva, what happened? What's wrong?"

A burning sensation rolls through me. No, no, no. Swiping at my eyes frantically, I try to stay steady, try to compose myself, try to not look like I'm ready to die. "I... can I... can I stay here?" I say quietly, desperately, pathetically. My gaze falls to the floor in shame. "I... I don't have anywhere else to go."

No tengo a nadie más.

Hesitantly, Rachel nods. "Yeah."

Another wave of tears attack when she steps back to let me in. "Thank you."

Rachel closes the door and turns to face me. Tucking a lock of wet hair behind her ear, she meets my gaze. Uncertainty flits across her face. "What happened?"

I think it's her voice, so soft and so fucking concerned. I think it snaps something inside of me.

Because suddenly I'm sobbing again, my shoulders shaking and my heart throbbing and my head spinning, and everything— everything is... crumbling. "I... he has my car, and I don't want to go up there alone. I can't be alone, and no one— none of my friends... all my friends hate me, and I—"

"What did that asshole do to you?"

"It wasn't him, it was me, it was me, it was me," I cry in frustration. It's my fault. It's always my fault. Rachel surges forward, gathering me into her arms protectively, and as my knees buckle, I cling to her for something. Anything. "It's me, it's me, Rachel!"

Lost in my blurry vision, Rachel tries to shush me. Her fingers sweep across my wet cheeks, her hands drag down my arms, her lips part in disbelief. We move messily, hastily, words fumbling free, twisting into an impossibly fast tempo.

"Fuck, you're so cold."

"You're cold."

"Here, take a bath. Just take a bath, okay?"

"Get warm."

It sounds so simple.

In slow motion, swimming through a sleepy film, I strip away my clothes. Desperate to find something, something, something.

Desperate to find warmth. I need to be warm.

When I sink into the tub, there's a long moment of stinging pain. My skin burns in the lukewarm water, but it feels real—like ice and fire, colliding and clashing, fighting for some power over me. Tears roll down my cheeks, and as my body convulses in on itself, stomach churning and turning, every memory of last night is still there.

It all really... happened.

This long, hazy blur filters through the steam in the bathroom, flickering, fleeting, fearless moments of drinking and dancing and descending. A reckless night unraveling, starting with Julian, shifting with Enzo, and ending with him.

When he left me alone.

But somehow, it's still there. It isn't really over. It's never over. These memories don't end. These sensations don't stop. These feelings are real, and I don't want them.

Sniffling, I pull my legs into my chest. When will it end?

When will I stop feeling like I'm breaking?

Everything hurts. Each cry feels like a stroke of pain, each heave of breath feels like a gasp of fire, each sob feels like a ripple of pain. Inside of me, nothing makes sense, and everything just... fucking... hurts...

A timid knock on the door tilts the room around me. "Neva?"

I'm Neva. Cold.

I blink and blink and blink. "I'm... I'm okay."

Siempre estaré bien.

I stand, shaky legs and weak knees, whimpering when my vision dims. As I stumble out of the shower to wrap a towel around myself, Rachel knocks on the door again. Aggravation claws through my chest, red and raw and ugly. "I said I was okay."

But then I wrench the door open... and everything softens at the sight of her hazy green eyes, still lit with worry.

My heart sinks. "I'm sorry," I mumble with a scowl. "I'm sorry I was always such a bitch."

I'm sorry I'm still such a bitch.

Faint amusement flutters into a smile. "We all have our moments." As she shifts on her feet timidly, Rachel nudges a handful of clothes toward me. "I brought you some clothes. Change into them, and then you can get some sleep."

It sounds so fucking simple.

Somehow, Rachel makes everything sound easy. As if my entire world isn't tangled into knots, my heart caught somewhere in the middle, rubbed raw with rope burns, being crushed.

Get warm, get dressed, sleep.

Normal things that... don't feel normal anymore.

I toss and turn on the couch for hours, desperate to find a way to escape the feelings—a gnawing in the pit of my stomach, a scratch in my throat, a pounding in my skull.

Sheets of light trickle through the room delicately, blanketing icy skin with a sheen of warmth. I shiver, wincing away from it with a whimper. It's too cold, it's too hot, it's too much. "No puedo... no..."

The curtains close quietly. "I'm sorry," Rachel mutters. "Do you need anything?"

My stomach lurches.

I need something. I need it.

"Do you want some tea? Some food?"

I think I nod.

And somehow, Rachel and I settle into a gentle routine, an intricately interwoven stretch of time, of space, of comfort. Gingerly, she passes me steaming cups of tea and a plate of toast and eggs and bacon, afraid I'm on the verge of shattering. In every little glance, I feel it—that fear of being too close to the impending explosion.

It almost makes me want to laugh, or cry, or scream, but instead, I answer questions quietly, always, always, always in one word or less.

A nod, a shiver, a shake of my head.

It's like wading through nausea, but only swimming deeper and deeper into a vast ocean... never reaching the shore. Never finding a way to stay still, to stop moving, to catch a moment of silence.

Because I'll find myself wretching over the couch, yanking at my hair, choking on bile, teeming with anxiety and fear and paranoia and hatred... as I clutch my fucking phone.

"I charged it for you," Rachel said, handing me the cracked phone when I first sat down. "Is there anyone you can call?"

I nearly threw that fucking phone across the room. I'd already tried to call, but... but no one cared.

So I spend the night waiting for them, for Julian or Anto or Emmy to call me back. I wait for Enzo to call me back.

But no one ever does.

Maybe I finally pushed away every single person that loved me.

Maybe I'm meant to be alone.

Maybe I'm meant to be this, curled up into a ball, spiraling with sobs, wishing everything would stop. Wishing I could stop feeling like this. Wishing I could stop being this.

Someone pries my fingers from fists, envelops me in a hug, soothingly strokes my hair. Stuck in a sheen of sweat, crying and crashing, there's this surreal, fucked up moment when I think... I think it's papá, and I think that I'm waking up from a fucking nightmare.

"It's okay, Neva. It's okay."

Rachel.

I cling to her, sobbing something incoherent, fumbling with words and feelings and memories. None of them exist separately; they all just live and die together.

"I know," she lulls. "I know it feels like shit."

My nails twist into her shirt when she tries to pull away. "How... how do you know?"

Detangling us, Rachel inches back to give me a sad, slow smile. "I've had my fair share of this."

Some distant memory stirs my heart. "Really?"

"Cocaine is fucking beautiful, Neva," she says. "But it ruins you. It will always ruin you."

"You can't ruin something that's already destroyed." I avert my gaze numbly. "I tried heroin."

Her breath hitches. "Heroin?"

"I tried heroin, and I... it..." A watery veil skews the entire apartment into muted shadows and shapes. "I... I let him..."

"What?"

"I let him. I let him... I couldn't..."

"Neva." Warm palms catch my arms to still me. "What? What... happened?"

"I don't know if I said no," I choke out, rambling off into something shaky. "I... I didn't want it, but I couldn't stop it. I let him."

Rachel cups my cheek to still me, but I can't stop moving. I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't stop. "Neva, I don't understand. Did Rio or... or Julian... did they hurt you?"

A bittersweet smile tugs at my lips. "I hurt myself. I always hurt myself."

It's not cocaine or heroin, it's not Vance or Jesse, it's not Rio or Julian. It's me. Siempre. And something about that surrender feels so fucking euphoric in some fucked up way.

I don't know what she says next, if she says anything at all. I stop listening; I stop answering. I stop really seeing her. Things aren't tangible. Every thought trails off into something self-destructive, fluttering into a free fall, fumbling through my fingertips.

Everything bleeds together... until nothing is separated. There is no real separation. There never fucking was.

Darkness seeps into the apartment, a shroud of shadows cast across wooden floors and cold skin. Faintly, the colors blur, a brush of danger, a chaste kiss of death—a soft, soft, soft assault of red and blue lights.

And suddenly, all I know is that blurry smear of red, white, and blue, dim beneath eyelids, saturating grey curtains, swimming beyond a sheet of foggy glass.

I try to swallow it... to make it go away.

I hear the knocking, I hear the hustle, I hear the footsteps, faint and forced, climbing stairs, I hear the yelling.

And then Rachel is beside me, squeezing into push away the veil of grey fabric. A warm glow caresses her cheeks, dimming and brightening in a hazy warning, those colors, those colors, those fucking colors.

"Oh shit, Neva."

For a second, when my fingertips graze icy glass, tracing silhouettes out in the cold, I know that this is how it ends.

"What..." I blink groggily. "What is going on?"

There are only silhouettes, towering across the street, looming over flashing lights, and they're cut like a skyline, cars and vans, blocking off the entire street, storming through the shadows—

ICE

—military armored, here to kill us, terrorism in those crystallized white letters, glinting in the shards of light—

ICE

—a crash, a slam of metal on brick, a door swinging open and smacking the side of the building.

Next door.

"Rachel... what..."

They're heavily armed, guns wielding, statues of completely calculated chaos, and something that makes my blood run cold, and a masterpiece of fumbling figures, then, twisting into the fading light, struggling, writhing, thrashing, just fighting to—

"Fuck," Rachel breathes. "That's Rio. That's Rio, Neva."

My heart stops.

Blinking rapidly, I shake my head. "No, no, no..."

—no, the lights are too quick, and my breathing is too quick, and the sidewalk is glittering under those fucking colors, and there's an inked flag, rippling, rippling, rippling, a Puerto Rican flag across his forearm, a—

"Fuck."

—and there are too many muffled voices, hissing and barking and shouting, sharp, sharp, sharp—

"It's firearms," Rachel hisses, tugging at my arm. "They're talking about firearms."

—and the shadows melt into each, a car door opening like a mouth to hell, and someone is shoved into a backseat, and there's this fierce outburst of strangled Spanish, and I—

I wrench myself away from the window.

No, no, no. A wild panic clenches around my heart. I can't breathe. I can't...

"What are you—"

"I need to... I need..."

I need to call Julian. Ahora.

Staggering away from Rachel, I fumble for my phone. In one, two, three taps, his name floods the screen, and... "Julian... I... I need to..."

As I press the phone to my ear, Rachel blinks at me in disbelief. "Neva, you—"

"I have to!"

Her lips press together. "Whatever."

I wait, wait, wait, one ring after another, until I get his voicemail. My pulse spikes. What the fuck? Is Julian gone too? Arrested? Firearms? What...

No, that can't be...

For a long time, Rachel and I sit in the simmering silence of colors, and I don't know anything. I don't know where to go or what to do or who I should...

My phone vibrates. Hastily, I stand and answer without looking. "Fuck, Julian, th—"

"Neva, ¿estás bien?"

I blink in surprise. "Emmy?"

"Tell me you're not staying at Julian's."

"I'm not," I say quietly. "Julian left town, so I wa—"

Emmy cuts me off with a curse. "They arrested that other guy, the one who robbed the bar. Rio."

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I know."

"How did you know?"

"I saw it an hour ago."

"Stay the fuck away from them," she hisses frantically, and the sliver of panic in her voice is blinding. "They're investigating their entire operation after they found that footage of Rio in the bar."

Footage? Operation? Rio?

I'm shaking my head, shifting on my heels, trying to piece together everything that she's saying. "Emmy, what... what is going on?"

"Fuck, you haven't heard. They found him in the bar yesterday morning." Her voice cracks. "Not breathing."

I freeze, an icy fear capturing my heart. "What? Who?"

"It was something about fentanyl. A bad batch of fucking heroin or something. I—"

"Emmy."

"Jesse," she says breathlessly. "Jesse is dead."

❘❘

**In Queens, this happened this week. There was an armored ICE vehicle that rolled through Ridgewood, and it confused and scared a lot of people. Agents walking around in ICE jackets, men with guns, all the scary shit. But it's been reported that it was part of a federal investigation for a firearms suspect... I have no comment for that, but here's to using as much real life in this story as possible. 🙈 

ANYWAYS. JESSE IS DEAD. 🔪

...and shameless plug, but if you haven't checked out After the Party (MY NANO PROJECT), DO IT. I need someone to get hyped with me. 😩😩