Snow

51 | because this isn't just your story, neva

❝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..."