Yet. We see he got bad choices in women.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
I said it already and I’ll say it again. From the river to the sea.
Neighborhood.
"You looking good, blood," Fat Stacks said, his voice carrying that familiar bravado. "Shit, you doing better than some niggas outside.”
Trey's eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening. The years inside had hardened him, stripped away whatever tenderness was there. His orange jumpsuit hung loose on his frame, but the definition in his arms spoke of endless push-ups in his cell.
"I know we ain’t jumped through all them loopholes for this here meeting for you to check up on me," Trey glanced at the clock on the wall. "I’m not supposed to be associating with known gang members, blood.”
Fat Stacks shifted, his eyes darting to the nearest guard before leaning closer. "I was hoping you could some ear hustling for me in there.”
"About what?" Trey's face remained impassive, but his fingers drummed against the table.
"A lot more than ear hustling, actually. I was hoping, you know, you can maybe connect with the Woods or the Southsiders, see if they got a connect that’s open to doing business our way.”
Trey snorted. "Oh, so it is true.”
“Depends,” Fat Stacks quickly replied, not fully ready to show his decks even though in all reality, he already had.
“You and Dro,” Trey cleared his throat, “Niggas ain’t dumb, they know y’all ain’t really been fucking with each for a minute and now you come in here, asking for a connect when Dro done had the same connect for the past ten years.”
“I’m making a move, no doubt about that,” Fat Stacks admitted. If he was going to make a move, he’d need product and perhaps more importantly, support from the inside.
However low Trey’s rank was when he first got locked up, it did little to stop his rise from within the walls for Lancaster. His short-tempered, small mindedness that had stopped his advances in the street had made him indispensable in a mostly Crip dormitory when he first moved in. Within a month, it was livable for other Bloods. Within a year, they ran the unit.
Trey was always going to be a key part in Fat Stacks’ plans and while the latter knew he could count on the former’s support should push come to shove, he also knew that Trey was liable to lit the entire plan on fire should it not be presented carefully and meticulously. Trey wasn’t a covert operation kind of guy, one of the many reasons he had found himself within those walls for the past five years.
“I’m trying to get to that chili brother,” Fat Stacks continued, “On some real shit, you shouldn’t have had to put in as much work as you did to make this shit copasetic for our set in there. We ain’t got no money, we ain’t got no paper, we ain’t got no respect.”
“The last time you was rambling like that, I ended up in jail, blood,” Trey’s eyes remained harsh but a smile played at the corner of his lips, “Shit, at least they can’t lock me up again, right?”
“If you ain’t with it, you ain’t with it, I ain’t going to politic the situation like that,” Fat Stacks sucked his teeth.
“Don’t get in your feelings, nigga,” Trey scoffed, “I’ll put the word out, going to cost you though.”
“I know,” Fat Stacks nodded, “I expect them niggas to tax me. Small cost for liberation.”
“I’m talking about me, nigga,” Trey fired back, leaning in, “Don’t worry, I don’t need no more money. I know you’ve been sending money to Charlene, making sure she’s straight, but I don’t know, something ain't right with her lately. Letters coming less frequent. Visits stopped last month.”
“Before you ask, I don’t know,” Fat Stacks held his hands up, “You know that lady don’t fuck with me. I drop her package off in the mail, nigga, just to avoid her taking my goddamn head off.”
“You need to make it your business then,” Trey was adamant, “A small price to pay for liberation, right?”
…
"Y'all know the rules," Quincy announced, his voice smooth despite the slight tremor in his hands. "Don’t be wilding out, and nobody leaves till morning. Can't have y'all walking out there attracting attention."
One of the women in Debra’s living room, rail-thin with scabs dotting her arms, handed over a small baggie. "This good enough? That's Hillcrest shit so you know it’s good.”
Quincy examined it with an appraiser's eye before nodding. "We straight, Tammy. Get comfortable."
These "sessions" had become Quincy's side hustle since moving out of Loraine’s and shacking up with Debra, two crackheads in a pod. While the house was rapidly deteriorating following Angela’s exodus, it still had four walls, intact windows and doors that provided a safe heaven for recreational activities away from the prying eyes of Johnny and stick-up kids. At a cost, of course.
…
"You sure you don't want to come? It's gonna be lit," Ronnie said, his easy smile reaching her eyes as they approached Angela's dorm. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that confident stance that had quickly made him popular among Howard’s co-eds.
Angela adjusted her backpack strap, shaking her head. "Nah, I got plans with my roommate tonight. I can’t keep dodging her forever.”
"Come on, Ang. I feel like you’ve been avoiding me," his eyes twinkled with that playful challenge she'd grown used to, “I’m going to take all these rejects personal at some point.”
"We literally just hung out," she laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly.
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "We were studying at the library, I wouldn’t exactly call that a fun time.”
"Still counts." She pulled her key card from her pocket. "I'll catch the next one, I promise."
"Aight, but when you sitting in your room bored as hell scrolling through Instagram seeing all the fun we having, don't text me," he teased, already backing away.
"Trust me, I won't," she called after him, watching him hurry across the quad to where a small group was waiting.
Inside her room, Angela tossed her backpack onto her desk chair and kicked off her shoes. The lie about her roommate had been easy—Kylie was almost never there on weekends, always at her boyfriend's apartment off-campus. The empty room felt both like a relief and an accusation.
She changed into her sweats, the soft Howard logo already faded from too many washes, and climbed onto her bed, propping pillows against the wall. Her laptop whirred to life, the Netflix homepage already waiting. She scrolled aimlessly through the options before settling on a comedy special she'd already watched twice.
From her nightstand drawer, she pulled out a bag of spicy potato chips and a Snickers bar. The familiar burn of the chips was comforting as she settled in, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest.
Twenty minutes in, she wasn't even listening to the jokes anymore. Her eyes kept drifting to her phone, sitting face-down beside her. The homesickness hit her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. She'd been fighting it all week—the feeling that she was playing dress-up at this university, that she didn't belong here among the pressed khakis and trust funds, far from the unified Black experience she was expecting.
With a sigh, she reached for her phone, knowing exactly who she wanted to call but hesitating. Vic would be busy. Probably with the team, or studying, or at some party like the one she'd just turned down. They'd been playing phone tag for days, their schedules never quite aligning.
…
"Shit, I forgot to lock it," Jessica whispered against Vic's neck, fumbling behind him to click the deadbolt into place.
Gloria was gone for the weekend—something about a cousin's wedding in Arizona— and Andrea almost always slept at Stefan’s but the walls in these dorms were notoriously thin. The last thing they needed was some drunk freshman wandering in looking for the bathroom.
Vic's phone buzzed in his back pocket as Jessica pushed him toward her bed, her fingers already working at his belt. He ignored it, letting her small hands guide him down onto the unmade sheets. His mind was foggy from the shots they'd done at the party, just enough to quiet the voice in his head that kept trying to remind him of something important.
"You sure you're good?" he asked, his voice husky as he pulled back to look at her.
Jessica rolled her eyes, tugging her crop top over her head. "I wouldn't have brought you back here if I wasn't."
She climbed on top of him, her weight settling comfortably as she leaned down to kiss him. There was something intoxicating about her confidence, the way she took what she wanted without hesitation, gave in to her indulgence without a care. It was so different from—
His phone buzzed again, longer this time. A call, not a text.
"Come on," Jessica murmured, her lips trailing down his neck as her hips rocked against him.
He ignored it. Whatever it was could wait. Right now, with Jessica's perfume clouding his senses and her hands exploring his body, nothing else seemed important. He flipped her onto her back, earning a surprised giggle that quickly turned into something more heated as he pushed her legs apart.
His phone, abandoned on the floor with his jeans, lit up with Angela's face for several seconds before going dark again.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn sat with his long legs tucked awkwardly under the new oak table, a far cry from the wobbly dining table at Village Green, their previous apartment. His mother, Loraine, hovered nearby, spatula in hand.
"Here you go," she said, sliding another golden-brown waffle onto his stack without asking if he wanted seconds. "I know they’re giving you a lot of food up there but I know it ain’t good food.
Keshawn smiled slightly. "It’s not that bad actually.”
"Ain't that bad isn't the same as good," Loraine countered, drizzling more syrup over his plate. She moved with purpose around the kitchen, her dark skin glowing in the morning light. "If they’re going to run you into the ground with all of those practices, you need to keep your nutrition right as well.”
His father, Elijah, sat across from him, methodically cutting his own breakfast into precise squares, eyes focused on his plate. The silence between father and son stretched like a familiar, uncomfortable blanket.
"The team nutritionist has us on meal plans," Keshawn offered, trying to ease his mother's concerns while glancing at his father. "Coaching staff wants me playing at two-hundred which I don’t know, I think I’ll lose my bounce or something.”
Loraine paused, studying her son with pride mixed with lingering worry. "You know your body best so don’t just go for whatever they’re going for.”
Keshawn shifted in his seat, always a bit uncomfortable being the center of attention, even at home. The new house in Leimert Park represented something he was still processing—a fresh start after everything his family had been through. The hardwood floors didn't creak like the apartment's, and the walls didn't carry the neighbors' arguments. It was also a reminder of the decisions he had made, a subtle reassurance he had made the right one and, if needed, the perfect kick in the ass to keep going as it was a lease after all; courtesy of the good folks at Champion of Westwood, the official NIL collective of the University of California - Los Angeles.
Reaching into his pocket, Keshawn pulled out a folded stack of bills—crisp hundreds that still felt strange between his fingers. He slid them across the table toward his mother.
"What's this?" Loraine asked, eyeing the money while wiping her hands on her apron.
"Just a little something," Keshawn mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. "I got my first payment from the school and I figured you could use it for groceries or whatever."
Loraine's eyes widened as she counted the bills. "Six hundred dollars? Baby, this is too much."
"It's not," Keshawn insisted, his voice growing firmer. "You guys did everything for me. I'm just trying to help out now that I can."
His mother's expression softened, a mix of gratitude and amusement crossing her face. "You know you could've just wired this to me, right? I don’t want you walking around here with that much cash on you.”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I, uh... don't really know how to do all that yet."
"What?" Loraine laughed, the sound filling the kitchen. "They’re giving you guys all this money and didn’t even teach you that? Don’t you worry, I’m going to find you a financial literacy course.”
"I just haven't set it up," Keshawn mumbled, ears burning. "They do have us sit down with like advisors and things like that.”
Elijah's fork clinked sharply against his plate. The sound cut through the light moment between mother and son, drawing both their attention.
"You should be putting that into your savings account that I set up for you all those years ago," Elijah said, his voice low but authoritative. He hadn't looked up from his plate. "Not handing out cash like you’re Nino Brown or something.”
The kitchen temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Keshawn felt his shoulders tense.
"I was just trying to help out, Dad.”
"The only way you can help me is by going to school and taking care of your business," Elijah cut in, finally looking up, his eyes challenging. "I've provided for this family for twenty six years. What makes you think I need your help all of a sudden?”
Loraine's hand came to rest on Keshawn's shoulder. "Eli, he's just trying to—"
"I know what he's trying to do," Elijah said, cutting her off too. "But he’s a little boy trying to play a man’s role.”
Keshawn stared at his half-eaten waffle, suddenly not hungry. The money that had felt like such a simple gesture now lay between them like a loaded weapon.
"I’m sorry, Dad," Keshawn said quietly, meeting his father's gaze. "But I got this opportunity, because of you guys, and I wanted to help. That's what you always taught me, right? Family takes care of family."
Something flickered across Elijah's face—pride wrestling with wounded dignity.
"I understand,” he softened, “Just know your place is all.”
…
The melody pulsed through the dimly lit studio, Gayle's voice weaving through the bass like smoke through a crowded room. DJ Cosmo—Lamont—leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, head nodding in rhythm as the final notes of their track faded.
"Damn, girl," he said, opening his eyes and spinning toward her in his producer's chair. "That's the one. That's the motherfucking one right there."
Gayle grinned, removing her headphones and shaking out her hair. The satisfaction of finally breaking through after weeks of creative drought felt electric in her veins.
"I almost forgot I was that bitch," she replied, her confidence radiating as she strutted from the booth into the control room.
The cozy studio space—tucked away in a converted warehouse in Culver City—had become their sanctuary over the past few months. What had started as casual sessions had evolved into something neither of them had anticipated: a genuine musical connection.
Lamont rewound the track, adjusting levels on his mixing board. "Your pen is getting a lot better." He shook his head in admiration. "You pretty much wrote the whole song.”
"You wrote the hook though," Gayle corrected him, dropping onto the leather couch against the wall. "And that’s the most important part.”
She pulled her phone from her back pocket, checking the time. It was nearly midnight—another session that had stretched hours longer than planned. A text from Keshawn sat unanswered from three hours ago: "You free tonight?"
Gayle hesitated, her thumb hovering over the screen before she set the phone aside. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks and whatever was happening between her and Keshawn—that undefined, unspoken thing—had taken a backseat. He had his thing — college, basketball — now she was finally finding hers.
"You hungry?" Lamont asked, saving their session with practiced keystrokes. "I know this spot on Fairfax that stays open till two."
Gayle paused, suddenly remembering meeting Tanya and their kids — Lamont Jr. and Layla. It was one thing to be with a married man in a studio at this hour of the night but going out, together, to grab a bite? It felt a touch over the line of appropriate intimacy.
"I don't know," Gayle said, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "I feel like I’m going to fall asleep at any point.”
"You sure? We just laid down something special tonight. Feels like we should celebrate a little."
"I mean..." she hesitated, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "What kind of food they got at this spot?"
"Come on, now," Lamont grinned, already reaching for his jacket. "You know I ain’t taking you to not bullshit spot, right?”
"We did kill it tonight," she admitted, a smile breaking across her face.
"That's what I'm saying!" Lamont's enthusiasm was infectious. "Plus, I got some ideas about where we take this next. There's this producer from Atlanta I want you to meet—he's in town next week."
The promise of connections, of momentum, hung in the air between them. Gayle stood up, stretching her arms overhead. What was the harm, really? They were collaborators, artists working together. If she was one of her male counterparts, they wouldn’t have given it a second though.
"Alright, let's do it," she decided, grabbing her purse. "But you’re paying, you know that, right?”
Lamont held up his hands in mock surrender. "Come on now, I wasn’t raised by wolves.”
…
Most students had retreated to their dorms or the library at this hour, but Angela found herself restless, wandering without purpose. Her phone vibrated in her pocket—Vic's FaceTime call lighting up her screen. She hesitated before answering, plastering on a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Hey, you," she said, her voice deliberately upbeat as Vic's face filled her screen.
"Wassup, baby girl?" Vic's confident grin beamed back at her. "Where you at? Looks dark."
Angela adjusted her angle so the campus lights behind her were more visible. "Hanging out with some girls from BSU.”
"You took that whole shit over yet?”
"I’m just a member and a contributor," she replied with a forced laugh. "For now."
Angela shifted her weight, angling the camera to hide the emptiness surrounding her. The truth was Howard had been nothing like she'd imagined. The classes challenged her intellectually, but socially, she felt adrift. The other students seemed to have formed their cliques within days, leaving her on the outside looking in.
Someone called Vic's name from off-camera, and he glanced over his shoulder. "Hold up," he told whoever it was before turning back to Angela. "I gotta go, baby. Uncle Q is over here tonight trying to cheat niggas in spades, you know how that nigga is. I'll hit you up tomorrow, aight?"
"Yeah, tomorrow," Angela echoed, her smile frozen in place.
"Love you," Vic said, already half-distracted.
"Love you too."
The screen went dark, and Angela stood motionless in the empty courtyard, her phone clutched in her hand. The carefully constructed facade she'd maintained crumbled all at once. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, catching the glow of the distant campus lights as they fell.
She sank onto a nearby bench, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Howard—the mecca, the pinnacle of Black excellence—was meant to feel like home, like belonging. Instead, she felt more alone than she ever had in Los Angeles.
Neighborhood.
T-minus two updates until someone punching dick in Angela
Neighborhood.
Nadia's hands trembled as she adjusted her keffiyeh, the black and white checkered fabric a stark contrast against her sun-kissed skin. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the campus grounds, where hundreds of bodies pressed together in a sea of signs and flags. Her roommates cornered here at all sides—Judy with her megaphone at the ready, Tamara documenting everything on her phone, and Chloe clutching a handmade sign that read "CEASEFIRE NOW" in bold red letters.
"You okay?" Tamara whispered, noticing Nadia's unsteady breathing.
"Yeah," Nadia lied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She wasn't okay. Her family would disown her if he knew she was here.
Across the invisible battle line, the counter-protesters waved Israeli flags, their chants clashing with the rhythm of Nadia's group. The police formed a human barrier between the two sides, their riot gear glinting in the sunlight, faces hidden behind visors that reflected back distorted versions of the protesters.
"They're moving closer," Chloe said, her voice tight with anxiety.
Nadia stood straighter, shoulders back, chin up—the posture her mother had taught her before she died. The posture of someone who refused to be intimidated. She'd spent too many years being the quiet girl, the one who commuted to class and went straight home, the one who avoided conflict at all costs. But the images from Gaza had changed something fundamental inside her.
"Let them," Nadia replied, surprising herself with the steadiness in her voice. "We're not going anywhere."
"Heads up," Judy hissed, nudging Nadia. "LAPD is here."
…
Keshawn and Stefan rounded the corner of the Royce Hall colonnade, both of them drenched in sweat from the workout they were returning from. The late afternoon sun painted the brick buildings gold, a perfect California day with palm trees swaying against a cloudless blue sky.
"Man, I'm telling you," Stefan was saying, mindlessly scrolling through his phone as they continued walking, "Gloria is with whatever, believe me. You really not taking advantage of the opportunity that’s in front of you, cuz.”
Keshawn shrugged, adjusting his gym bag. “I don’t even know what that means.”
"Yeah, you do, nigga," Stefan scoffed. "The type of bitch to do your work for you, pick up food for you, shit, probably even let you put it in her ass.”
They were halfway towards their apartments when they heard it—the sound of chants and counter-chants. As they approached Dodd Hall, they saw the mass of protesters, police in riot gear, and news vans parked along the perimeter.
Stefan rolled his eyes dramatically. "These niggas back at it again?”
Keshawn slowed his pace, taking in the scene. "What's going on?"
"Some Middle East shit," Stefan said with a dismissive wave. "Pro-Palestine on one side, pro-Israel on the other. Same shit, different day." He placed his phone in his pocket. "Look at all these white folks wasting a perfect seventy-five-degree day arguing about something happening halfway across the world but you got niggas killing each other down the block and they don’t give a fuck."
But Keshawn wasn't listening anymore. His eyes had locked onto a figure in the crowd—a woman in a black and white keffiyeh who had momentarily pulled the fabric down to take a sip from her water bottle. Even from this distance, he recognized her.
“Nigga, fuck is you doing?” Stefan asked, noticing Keshawn’s slowed pace which eventually came to a stop.
“You’re not interested?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders, “I don’t know, isn’t this like part of the college experience?”
“If you’re some dirty-feet white girl, yeah,” Stefan teased, “I’m trying to fuck on something bruh, I don’t know what you on right now.”
“I’ll catch you up later,” Keshawn dapped him up.
“Boy, you something else,” Stefan shook his head, “Don’t do nothing Tommy wouldn’t do, alright?”
Keshawn continued to meander around the protest, never letting Nadia out of his sight for more than a few seconds out of curiosity. Their interactions, even if you could call them that, had been brief so seeing here out there, like this, felt weirdly intimate for Keshawn despite the hundreds of spectators. Her eyes never reached Keshawn’s, instead, they remained fixated on the counter protestors and the police, who seemed to mirror their every step.
They continued their match towards the School of Law, Keshawn following them as well along with a few other seemingly neutral onlookers, which helped Keshawn feel better about what he was doing. Truth be told, he didn’t have a dog in the fight, never bothering to familiarize himself with the nuance of their conflict.
The chants grew louder, the two sides moving toward each other like opposing weather fronts. Keshawn felt the tension in the air crackling like static electricity. A police officer raised a bullhorn, his words garbled and distorted as they echoed across campus.
"This is your final warning! Disperse immediately or we will use force!"
Keshawn's heart rate quickened. He'd seen protests on TV, but being in the middle of one was entirely different—the noise, the heat of bodies, the unpredictable energy. He kept his eyes on Nadia, who stood her ground even as some protesters around her began to back away.
Then it happened so fast.
Someone threw something—a water bottle or maybe a rock—and it arced through the air toward the police line. A moment of suspended breath, and then chaos erupted. The police surged forward, shields up, batons out.
The first pop-pop-pop of rubber bullets made Keshawn flinch. People screamed, the crowd suddenly transforming from organized protest to panicked mob. Bodies pushed against him from all sides as protesters scattered.
"Move back!" someone yelled near him. "They're shooting!"
Another volley of rubber bullets cut through the air. Keshawn watched in horror as a young man dropped to his knees, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers. Keshawn's eyes darted frantically, searching for Nadia in the chaos. He spotted her a few yards away, her keffiyeh half-unwrapped, trying to press herself against a wall as the crowd surged. She was trapped, people rushing past her, some falling, others trampling over the fallen in their panic to escape.
Without thinking, Keshawn pushed against the flow of bodies, his height giving him an advantage as he forced his way toward her. A rubber bullet whizzed past his ear, so close he felt the displacement of air.
She didn't see him coming. Her eyes were wide with fear as she tried to make herself smaller against the wall, but the stampede was pushing closer. Someone knocked into her, and she stumbled forward, right into the path of the fleeing crowd.
Keshawn lunged forward as he extended his long arm and grabbed her wrist. The force of his momentum swung her around and into his chest, his back now to the wall, shielding her from the crush of bodies.
He held her tightly against him, one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders while the other hand cradled the back of her head. Her face pressed into his chest, her breath hot and rapid against his shirt. The chaos swirled around them like a violent storm—shouts, screams, the thud of boots on pavement, more pop-pop-pops of rubber bullets.
Nadia's body trembled against his, but she didn't resist as he began to move them along the wall, using his body as a shield. A rubber bullet struck the brick inches from his head, sending dust and fragments flying. Keshawn instinctively ducked, pulling Nadia down with him.
He scanned their surroundings, looking for an escape route. The main paths were clogged with fleeing protesters and advancing police. But to their right was a narrow service alley between buildings—easily missed if you didn't know the campus well.
They had to move against the flow of panicked students, Keshawn using his height and strength to create a path, his body absorbing the impacts of those rushing past. The relative quiet of the alley hit them like a physical force after the deafening chaos of the protest. Nadia stumbled, and Keshawn steadied her, still not letting go.
"Keep going," he said, glancing over his shoulder. No one had followed them into the alley, but the sounds of the protest—now morphing into a riot—echoed between the buildings.
They emerged on the other side into a small courtyard with a fountain, empty now except for scattered backpacks and water bottles abandoned by fleeing students. Keshawn's pace didn't slow as he led them across the courtyard and down another path that would take them toward the botanical gardens—away from the center of campus, away from the violence.
Nadia didn't move for a moment. Then slowly, she lifted her face.
“Keshawn?” she asked, recognizing dawning in her eyes amidst the chaos. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with adrenaline, a streak of dirt across one cheek. The keffiyeh hung loosely around her neck now, partially unwound.
He wasn’t sure what to say so he didn’t say anything.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, looking through the alley from where she could still see signs of the ongoing conflict.
"I was walking by and saw the whole shit go down,” he said between hurried breaths, “I don’t know, I just saw you and it looked like…”
“Fuck,” she muttered, “Did you see my friends?”
“I don’t know,” he stammered, “It was all pretty crazy.”
Nadia stared at him, her expression hardening as the initial shock wore off. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she took a step back from him.
"You had no fucking right," her voice was now vibrating with anger.
Keshawn blinked, confusion washing over his face. "I was just trying to help, they were about to run you over.”
"I didn't ask for your help," Nadia snapped, her voice continuing to rise. She reached up and rewrapped the keffiyeh around her neck with trembling fingers, her movements sharp and deliberate. "My friends are still back there. My roommates. Did you even think about that?"
"I just saw you were in trouble and—"
"You had no fucking right," she cut him off, her eyes flashing. "No right to decide for me. To pull me away from something I chose to be part of."
Keshawn stood there, towering over her physically but somehow feeling smaller with each word she hurled at him.
"Those are my people back there," she continued, gesturing toward the distant sounds of the protest. "Fighting for something that matters. And you just... what? Decided I needed rescuing? Like some kind of white knight swooping in?"
"That's not what I—"
"Do you even know what we're protesting for? Do you even care about what's happening?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Or was I just some girl you recognized, and you thought, 'Hey, let me grab her'?"
The accusation stung, mainly because there was a kernel of truth to it. He hadn't been thinking beyond seeing her in danger. Hadn't considered what the protest meant to her, what her presence there signified.
A distant pop-pop-pop echoed from the direction they'd fled, followed by renewed shouting. Nadia's head whipped toward the sound, her face a mask of determination and worry. She began walking towards the alley, the only thing separating peace and chaos.
"Are you serious?" Keshawn reached for her arm but stopped himself before making contact. "This shit stopped being a protest, Nadia, it’s going to get fucking crazy.”
Nadia looked at his outstretched hand, then up at his face with a coldness that made him flinch.
"That's exactly why I need to go back. Because it's dangerous. Because people I care about are there." She adjusted her keffiyeh one final time, making sure it was secure. "That's what standing for something is about. Not running away when things get hard."
Neighborhood.
Tell Keshawn that it’s from the river to the sea, Palestine shall be free. Not from the river to the sea to get in some white bitch’s pussy.