Nisha wakes early and the wrongness hits before she's fully conscious. Not forgot-an-assignment wrong. World-tilted-overnight wrong.
Her phone shows seventeen notifications. Group chats exploding with the news she already knows in her gut.
Trump won.
The map on her screen bleeds red—redder than 2016. He's taken the popular vote this time too, the key states flipping in those final early morning hours while she slept through the collapse.
Jessica, her roommate, hasn't stirred, or maybe she's just pretending. Nisha dresses quietly in the pre-dawn dark, sweatpants and hoodie, and slips out into the November cold.
Campus feels abandoned. The early light turns everything gray—the falling leaves, the library steps, the student union where in a few hours professors will try to teach students who can't think straight. Nisha walks without destination until she finds herself at the Quad.
The Quad stretches out before her—a wide expanse of grass bordered by brick pathways and mature oak trees that have watched generations of students pass beneath them. On warmer days, it would be full of frisbee games and study groups sprawled on blankets, students rushing between the library on the north side and the student union to the south. The old Gothic-style chapel anchors the eastern edge, its bell tower dark against the lightening sky. To the west, modern academic buildings frame the space with glass and steel. It's the heart of campus, where celebration and protest and ordinary life all converge.
A handful of others have had the same idea. One girl sits alone on a wooden bench near the fountain—currently dry for winter—crying. Two guys stand close together under one of the oaks, their conversation too intense for this hour. Near the center of the quad, maybe ten people have formed a loose circle on the grass, just standing there like they've forgotten what comes next.
Nisha takes a bench and opens Twitter, scrolling through the collective breakdown.
@ResistanceNow: This is how democracy dies.
@SarahK_2024: I can't breathe. I literally cannot breathe.
@ProudPatriot88: CRY HARDER LIBS 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸
@ProfJenkins: To my students: my office is open today if you need to talk.
@ACLU: We will fight. In the courts, in the streets, everywhere. This is not over.
@ResistanceNow: This is how democracy dies.
@SarahK_2024: I can't breathe. I literally cannot breathe.
@ProudPatriot88: CRY HARDER LIBS 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸
@ProfJenkins: To my students: my office is open today if you need to talk.
@ACLU: We will fight. In the courts, in the streets, everywhere. This is not over.
She should be crying, maybe. Or furious. Instead she just feels hollow, like someone scooped out her insides and left only the shape of a person.
Her phone buzzes.
Alexis: you up?
Nisha: yeah
Alexis: where are you
Nisha: quad
Alexis: omw
Alexis: you up?
Nisha: yeah
Alexis: where are you
Nisha: quad
Alexis: omw
A squirrel digs frantically in the grass nearby. More students emerge from dorms, their faces shell-shocked, movements zombie-slow.
When Alexis appears, walking fast across the quad, Nisha feels something loosen in her chest. All black as always, purple hair freshly dyed, face set in that expression Nisha's learned means Alexis is holding back tears through sheer force of will. They sit down close enough that their shoulders touch.
"I can't believe it," Nisha says.
"I can." Alexis's voice comes out flat. "I told you electoral politics was bullshit."
"You said she'd probably win and then betray us."
"I was half right."
Nisha wants to laugh but the sound won't come. "So what do we do?"
Alexis turns to look at her, and Nisha sees the red rims around their eyes. "We organize. We resist. We build mutual aid networks. Same thing we should've been doing all along."
"But—"
"There is no but, Nisha. This is it. This is the fight. You're either in or you're out."
Across the quad, someone's setting up a table with a hastily-made sign: EMERGENCY MEETING - STUDENTS FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE - MIDDAY TODAY. Someone else chalks on the sidewalk in huge letters: WE WILL NOT GO BACK.
"I'm in," Nisha says. "I've always been in."
"Then we get to work."
Two months later, five days before inauguration, the bedroom Nisha grew up in feels smaller every time she comes home. She sits cross-legged on her childhood bed, laptop balanced on her knees, refreshing Twitter for the hundredth time. Five days until inauguration. Five days until Trump officially takes office and everything they've been dreading becomes real.
Her mother knocks. "Nisha? Dinner's ready."
"Not hungry."
"You need to eat."
"I said I'm not hungry."
The footsteps retreat down the hall. Nisha stares at her plate, throat tight. Her mother doesn't deserve this anger. But how is she supposed to sit at that table and make small talk about her day when the world is ending?
The Twitter feed offers no comfort—just an endless scroll of despair and frantic organizing. Plans for inauguration protests. Lists of vulnerable communities. Calls to action that make her feel both galvanized and helpless.
She's been in this spiral for weeks now, ever since winter break started. She tried explaining to her parents why she can't just focus on school.
Her father doesn't get it. "Nisha, you need to think about your future. This is your junior year. You should be preparing for law school applications, not spending all your time at protests."
"Dad, what future? If democracy collapses—"
"Democracy is not collapsing. You're being dramatic. This is America. We have institutions."
"Those institutions just let a fascist win."
"Don't use that word. It's hyperbolic. Trump is… not ideal. But he's not Hitler. He won an election."
"So did Hitler!"
That ended the conversation. Her father walked away shaking his head while her mother mediated, as always.
"Nisha, we understand you're upset. But your father has a point. You can care about politics and still prioritize your education."
She can't separate them anymore. Politics isn't abstract. It's her friends who are undocumented, terrified of what comes next. It's her classmate who's trans, already researching which countries might take him. It's Alexis, whose parents are immigrants, who knows what happens when authoritarians consolidate power.
She's already read ahead, downloaded all the Week 1 readings—Setting the Baseline. The rise of Adolf Hitler. Democracy blamed for the defeat it inherited. Week 2 covers Democratic Backsliding, but Nisha's mind keeps returning to January 6th. A failed coup, participants arrested, the leader facing consequences but the movement continuing, eventually winning power legally.
The pattern's all there. The warning signs flashing red. And nobody with actual power seems to care.
She opens a new document and starts typing:
Questions for Dr. Brenner:
1. At what point does comparison to Weimar/Nazi Germany become appropriate? What are threshold conditions?
2. If scholars recognize authoritarian patterns, do they have obligation to speak publicly? Or does that compromise academic objectivity?
3. How do we balance historical nuance with urgent moral clarity?
4. What role did "neutral" academics play in enabling Hitler's rise? What could they have done differently?
Questions for Dr. Brenner:
1. At what point does comparison to Weimar/Nazi Germany become appropriate? What are threshold conditions?
2. If scholars recognize authoritarian patterns, do they have obligation to speak publicly? Or does that compromise academic objectivity?
3. How do we balance historical nuance with urgent moral clarity?
4. What role did "neutral" academics play in enabling Hitler's rise? What could they have done differently?
She reads it back. These aren't really questions for a seminar discussion. These are challenges, accusations barely disguised as curiosity.
But she needs answers. Needs Dr. Brenner to say something, anything, that acknowledges what's happening. Because if the experts stay silent, if the people who know history refuse to connect past to present, what's the fucking point of studying it?
Her phone buzzes with the Students for Social Justice group chat.
Alexis: Everyone clear on People's March plans?
Jordan: Yes. Meeting early morning, bus leaves shortly after.
Sophie: I can't go. Parents said no.
Alexis: Fine. Nisha you're still coming right?
Alexis: Everyone clear on People's March plans?
Jordan: Yes. Meeting early morning, bus leaves shortly after.
Sophie: I can't go. Parents said no.
Alexis: Fine. Nisha you're still coming right?
Nisha hesitates, her thumbs hovering over the screen. Her parents made their position clear. "It's dangerous," her mother said. "What if there's violence?" Her father was more blunt: "This is exactly the kind of thing that could hurt your law school applications. An arrest record, even for protesting—"
"Civil rights protesters got arrested. Were they wrong to risk it?"
"That was different."
"How?"
He didn't have an answer.
Nisha: I'm coming. Already told my parents.
Alexis: How'd that go?
Nisha: Badly. But I'm 21. They can't stop me.
Jordan: Hell yes. We need numbers.
Alexis: This is everything
Nisha: I'm coming. Already told my parents.
Alexis: How'd that go?
Nisha: Badly. But I'm 21. They can't stop me.
Jordan: Hell yes. We need numbers.
Alexis: This is everything
Nisha stares at that last message. This is everything. Is it? Or is that the kind of thinking that makes her father shake his head in disappointed silence?
She doesn't know anymore. She just knows she can't sit still, can't pretend everything's normal.
Another knock. "Nisha, please. Come eat dinner with us."
Nisha closes her laptop. "Coming."
The table downstairs is set with the precision her mother brings to everything. Her father sits at the head reading something on his tablet. Her brother Rohan, seventeen, scrolls through his phone with that particular teenage expression that means he's acutely aware of family tension but determined to stay out of it.
Nisha takes her seat. Her mother passes her dal, rice, vegetables—the food her grandmother taught her mother to make, the food Nisha grew up eating. It should feel like comfort, like home. Instead it feels like an obligation.
"How was your day?" Her mother's voice is determinedly cheerful.
"Fine."
"Any plans for the weekend?"
"The March in Washington DC."
Her father looks up. "Nisha—"
"What? You asked."
"We've been through this. You need to—"
"Dad, I know what you think I need to do. Go to class, study, apply to law school, pretend everything's fine. I get it."
"That's not fair. We're not asking you to pretend—"
"You literally are. You want me to focus on my future like the future isn't being destroyed right now."
"Democracy is not being destroyed. You're making this bigger than it is. Trump is—"
"A fascist. I know you don't like that word, but that's what he is. And if you studied history instead of just hearts and arteries, you'd recognize the pattern."
"Nisha!" Her mother's voice cracks with shock. "That's disrespectful."
Nisha stands abruptly, grabbing her plate. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I'll eat in my room."
She leaves behind silence, then her mother's voice, low: "She's just scared."
"She's being irrational," her father says.
Nisha closes her door and sits on the bed, eating without tasting anything.
Her phone buzzes.
Alexis: You ok?
Nisha: Parents don't get it
Alexis: Mine either. They think I'm overreacting.
Nisha: How are you not though? Like how is this not the exact thing we should be reacting to?
Alexis: Because they have the luxury of thinking it won't affect them. Your parents are doctors. Rich. Citizens. They can wait and see.
Nisha: My mom's from India. My dad grew up in Gujarat. They know what authoritarianism looks like.
Alexis: And yet they're telling you to focus on law school. They think institutions will protect them. They've made it into the professional class. They think that means they're safe.
Alexis: They're wrong
Alexis: You ok?
Nisha: Parents don't get it
Alexis: Mine either. They think I'm overreacting.
Nisha: How are you not though? Like how is this not the exact thing we should be reacting to?
Alexis: Because they have the luxury of thinking it won't affect them. Your parents are doctors. Rich. Citizens. They can wait and see.
Nisha: My mom's from India. My dad grew up in Gujarat. They know what authoritarianism looks like.
Alexis: And yet they're telling you to focus on law school. They think institutions will protect them. They've made it into the professional class. They think that means they're safe.
Alexis: They're wrong
She opens her laptop again, pulls up her notes for Dr. Brenner's class, and adds one more question:
5. When do the comfortable recognize danger? And is it always too late by then?
On Saturday, the day of the People's March, Nisha doesn't go.
She tells herself it's out of respect for her parents, which is technically true but not the whole truth. The whole truth is more complicated, messier, shot through with guilt that cuts both ways.
When she calls Alexis Saturday morning to say she's not coming to DC, the response is worse than anger.
"Okay," Alexis says simply.
"It's just—my parents really didn't want me to—"
"I get it."
But there's something in those three words. A distance Nisha's never heard before in Alexis's voice. Like they understand but find it disappointing anyway.
"My mom was worried about me getting detained again," Nisha tries. "They already think I'm reckless."
"They're your parents. They're always going to think that."
"I know, but—they were terrified when I got zip-tied in November. Kept asking lawyers if it would show up on background checks, if law schools would find out. It took weeks to convince them that being detained isn't the same as being arrested, that I wasn't charged with anything, that there's no record." She pauses. "And then they made it clear what happens if I actually do get arrested. Law school applications, my future, all of it. And they're paying my tuition. I can't just ignore—"
"Nisha." Alexis's voice is patient, which is somehow worse than if they were angry. "It's fine. You're not going. I'm going. Some of us are going."
That lands like a punch. Some of us. Meaning: some people are actually showing up.
After they hang up, Nisha stands at her bedroom window imagining the march. Maybe 50,000 people gathering in DC, voices raised, signs high, Alexis there with their camera, documenting, organizing, doing something that actually matters.
Meanwhile Nisha is here. In Westfield. In her childhood bedroom. Choosing parental approval over principle.
She refreshes Twitter obsessively. People's March photos roll in throughout the day. Huge crowds. Diverse, powerful, defiant. Alexis hasn't posted yet but they're probably moving through the masses, doing the work.
The guilt hits from both directions at once. Guilty for not going—for choosing her parents' wishes over her convictions. Guilty for resenting her parents for making her choose. Guilty either way. That's the trap, the bind that's been tightening since November.
Go to the march: betray her parents' explicit wishes, risk their anger and financial support and trust.
Stay home: betray everything she claims to believe in, betray Alexis, betray everyone fighting while she hides in the suburbs.
There is no right choice. There's only the choice you make and the guilt that comes after.
Later, as evening dims into night, Alexis texts. Photos from the march—crowds of people, signs that read PROTECT DEMOCRACY and IMMIGRANTS ARE WELCOME HERE and NO MUSLIM BAN and TRANS RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS and ANOTHER WORLD IS POSSIBLE.
Alexis: It was huge. We did good organizing, good turnout from campus coalition
Nisha: Glad you went
Alexis: Yeah
Alexis: It was huge. We did good organizing, good turnout from campus coalition
Nisha: Glad you went
Alexis: Yeah
A long pause. Nisha watches the three dots appear and disappear and appear again.
Alexis: I understand why you didn't. I do. But that doesn't mean I think it was right
Alexis: I understand why you didn't. I do. But that doesn't mean I think it was right
There it is. Direct, no hedging, no softening the blow.
Nisha: I know
Alexis: Your parents are scared and that's okay and it's also not an excuse. Fear is what they're counting on. Politicians, cops, all of them. They count on people being too scared to act
Nisha: I know. I feel like shit
Alexis: Good. You should. But tomorrow we start organizing on campus. We don't get to sit this out just because we're in college. And you don't get to sit this out because your parents are comfortable
Nisha: Okay
Alexis: I love you but I'm also disappointed
Nisha: I know
Alexis: Your parents are scared and that's okay and it's also not an excuse. Fear is what they're counting on. Politicians, cops, all of them. They count on people being too scared to act
Nisha: I know. I feel like shit
Alexis: Good. You should. But tomorrow we start organizing on campus. We don't get to sit this out just because we're in college. And you don't get to sit this out because your parents are comfortable
Nisha: Okay
Alexis: I love you but I'm also disappointed
Those words settle in Nisha's chest like stones. She doesn't move, doesn't cry, just sits with them.
I love you but I'm also disappointed.
That's the sentence that will replay in her head for weeks. More cutting than anger, which burns hot and fades. Disappointment from someone you love—that stays, becomes part of you.
The next morning, Nisha's packed duffel bag sits on her childhood bed like an accusation. Back to campus tomorrow. Classes start Wednesday. Real education begins in three days—not the kind her parents have been paying for, but the kind that might actually matter.
Her mother in the doorway. "Nisha? Can we talk?"
"About what?"
"About… everything. Please. Just five minutes."
Downstairs, her father already at the kitchen table with tea. This is an ambush, gentle but deliberate.
"Sit, beta," her father says.
Nisha sits.
Her parents exchange a look, some silent communication that comes from decades together. Her father speaks first. "We know you're angry with us. About the protests, about school, about… politics."
"I'm not angry," Nisha says. "I'm disappointed."
Her mother winces. "That's worse."
"You want me to focus on law school applications while democracy collapses. How am I supposed to do that?"
"Democracy is not collapsing." Her father sounds exhausted, like he's said this a thousand times. Maybe he has.
"Dad, you grew up in Gujarat. You were there during the 2002 riots. You know what communal violence looks like. You know what happens when leaders use religious minorities as scapegoats."
Her father's face hardens. The riots—over a thousand Muslims killed in three days while the state's chief minister, Narendra Modi, allegedly told police to let it happen. Her father had been in his early twenties, in medical school, watching his city burn, watching neighbors he'd known his whole life turn on each other. He never talked about it directly, but Nisha knew it shaped everything about how he saw the world.
He saw bodies in the streets. Neighbors burning neighbors. He knows what genocide looks like.
And that's exactly what scares her—that people who lived through it wait until it looks the same before acting.
"Which is exactly why I also know the difference between political rhetoric and actual genocide," he says. "Trump is… problematic. But he's not Modi. He's certainly not Hitler."
"Modi became Prime Minister. He went from state official who enabled a massacre to leader of the whole country. The pattern is the same—demonize minorities, consolidate power, wait for institutions to fold."
"Nisha—"
She doesn't want to argue anymore, she's too exhausted from having this same conversation on repeat. "Why did you really want to talk?"
Her mother reaches across the table and takes Nisha's hand. Her touch is warm, familiar, and Nisha has to fight the urge to pull away. "Because we're worried about you. Not about your grades—you're brilliant, you'll be fine academically. We're worried about your heart. You're carrying so much anger, so much fear. It's eating you up."
"The world is on fire and you want me to be calm?"
"We want you to be sustainable," her father says. "You can't fight every battle. You'll burn out before you can make any real difference."
"People are already burning. Trans kids may lose their healthcare. Immigrants will be rounded up and deported. Climate activists face arrest. I don't have the luxury of choosing which battles to fight."
Her mother squeezes her hand. "We know. And we're proud of you, truly. Your passion, your conviction—you get that from both of us. From your father's family who fought the British. From mine who survived Partition."
"Then why are you asking me to stop?"
"We're not asking you to stop. We're asking you to be smart. To finish school. To build a foundation. You can't dismantle systems without understanding how they work first."
Nisha looks at her mother, then her father. She sees the worry etched in their faces, the love that manifests as fear. They want her safe. Want her successful. Want her to have the life they built for her, brick by careful brick.
They just don't understand that the life they built is crumbling.
"I'll be careful," Nisha says. "I promise."
"And Alexis?" Her father's voice is careful. "They're going back with you tomorrow?"
Here it is. The other conversation lurking beneath this one.
"Yeah. We're taking the same bus back."
Her parents exchange another look. Nisha braces herself.
When she came out as bisexual sophomore year, her parents had been… complicated. Her mother cried, which made Nisha cry, which made her mother feel guilty for crying. Her father went very quiet for three days. Then they both said they loved her, that they supported her, that they just needed time to adjust.
Time meant six months of tension. Questions about whether she was sure. Whether this was a phase. Whether she'd considered how hard life would be. Her mother asking if she'd told her grandmother yet (she hadn't). Her father asking if this was about rebellion (it wasn't).
When Nisha started dating Alexis last spring, she waited two months before mentioning it. "I'm seeing someone. Their name is Alexis. They're non-binary."
Her father had looked genuinely confused. "What does that mean, exactly?"
Nisha took a breath, knowing this would require patience. "It means they don't identify as male or female. They exist outside the gender binary. That's why we use 'they/them' pronouns instead of 'he/him' or 'she/her.'"
"But… everyone is either male or female," her father said, trying to understand. "Biologically."
Their medical training had only ever offered two boxes to check. Hospital charts, residency rotations, patient records—everything reduced to M or F, binary toggles like blood types. The cultural conversations around gender had moved faster than the institutions they'd spent their lives in.
"Sex and gender are different things, Dad. Sex is biological—though even that's more complicated than just male and female, there are intersex people. But gender is about identity, how you experience yourself. Most people's gender aligns with their sex assigned at birth. Those are cisgender people—like you and me. But for some people, it doesn't align."
"So Alexis is transgender?"
"Non-binary falls under the transgender umbrella, yeah. 'Trans' just means your gender identity is different from what you were assigned at birth. But non-binary is specific—it means you're not a trans man or a trans woman. You're something else. Neither, or both, or somewhere in between. It's different for different people."
Her mother jumped in. "So Alexis was born… what?"
"That's really personal, Ma. And honestly, it doesn't matter. What matters is who they are now. They're non-binary. They use they/them pronouns. That's it."
"But 'they' is plural," her father protested. "How can one person be 'they'?"
Nisha tried not to sound exasperated. "We use singular 'they' all the time. Like, 'Oh, someone left their phone here.' You don't know if they're male or female, so you say 'their.' It's been grammatically correct English for centuries."
Her father looked skeptical but thoughtful. "And this is… permanent? They're sure?"
"Dad, would you ask if I was 'sure' I was a woman? Alexis knows who they are. This isn't a phase or confusion. This is their identity. And the respectful thing—the only thing—is to use their correct pronouns and name."
"But I don't understand why we need all these new categories," he said. "In my generation—"
"In your generation, people who didn't fit into boxes just suffered in silence. They still existed, Dad. We just didn't have language for them, so they had to pretend to be something they weren't or face complete rejection. The categories aren't new. The acceptance is."
The pronouns were almost harder for her parents than the queerness itself. Her mother kept slipping, saying "he" or "she," then apologizing, trying again. Her father practiced in private—Nisha heard him once in his study, quietly repeating "They are coming to dinner. I'm excited to meet them. They seem very nice."
Nisha brought Alexis home for dinner once. It went… okay. Alexis was polite. Her parents were polite. Everyone performed courtesy like a ritual—excruciatingly careful with every word. Her father messed up the pronouns twice, catching himself both times. Her mother made sure to use "they" in every sentence, which felt forced but at least showed effort. Afterward, her mother said, "They seem nice," in the same tone she'd use to describe a competent waiter.
Since then, mostly silence. Her parents don't ask about Alexis, don't ask about the relationship. They pretend it exists at the periphery of Nisha's life instead of at the center.
"How long have you two been together now?" her mother asks.
"Nine months."
"That's… that's good. That's serious."
"It is."
Her father clears his throat. "Are they—are they good to you?"
Something softens in Nisha's chest. "Yeah, Dad. They're really good to me."
"And they're… stable? Emotionally stable?"
"Dad."
"I'm asking because they were at that protest in November. The one where you got detained. That's concerning to me."
"We were both there. And being detained for an hour with zip-ties isn't the same as being arrested. No charges. No record. You checked with three different lawyers."
"I know. I'm just—" He runs his hand through his hair, and Nisha sees the gray at his temples, notices for the first time how much he's aged since she started college. "I'm your father. I worry."
"Alexis makes me better," Nisha says. "Braver. More committed to actually doing something instead of just talking about it."
"That's what concerns us," her mother says gently. "You're already so committed. We don't want you to—"
"To what? Care too much? Fight too hard?"
"To lose yourself in someone else's revolution."
Nisha stares at her mother. "It's not someone else's revolution. It's ours. Mine and Alexis's and everyone else who sees what's coming. And if you can't see it, that's not because it's not there. It's because you have the privilege of looking away."
The words hang in the air like smoke. Her mother's face crumples slightly. Her father looks down at his tea.
"I'm sorry," Nisha says, but she doesn't take it back.
"We see it," her father says finally, quietly. "Of course we see it. We're not blind. We're just…" He trails off.
"Scared," her mother finishes. "We're scared of what happens if you're right. And we're scared of what happens to you either way."
Nisha feels tears starting and blinks them back. "I'm scared too. But I can't let that stop me."
Her mother gets up, comes around the table, hugs Nisha from behind. "I know, beta. I know."
They sit like that for a while. Three generations of immigrants and their children. Three generations trying to figure out when safety becomes complicity.
"Will you at least call us?" her mother asks. "Let us know you're okay?"
"I always do."
"And be careful tomorrow. First day of classes."
"It's just a history seminar, Ma."
"We know. But still. Be careful."
On Wednesday morning—the first day of classes—Nisha checks her phone one last time outside the classroom building.
Alexis: Good luck. Remember: don't let him get away with bothsidesism
Nisha: I won't
Alexis: Love you. Coffee after?
Nisha: Always. Love you too
Alexis: Good luck. Remember: don't let him get away with bothsidesism
Nisha: I won't
Alexis: Love you. Coffee after?
Nisha: Always. Love you too
She pockets her phone and looks up at the building—1960s brutalist concrete, narrow hallways that amplify every footstep. History department, second floor. Room 204.
The weight of her backpack grounds her as she climbs the stairs. She's brought everything: syllabus readings annotated within an inch of their lives, notes from winter break, three different colored highlighters, laptop, backup pens. Armed for intellectual warfare.
The classroom door stands open. She's early—the room empty, waiting. Perfect.
It's a seminar room with tables arranged in a modified U-shape, maybe seventeen or eighteen chairs total. Windows on the left overlook the quad. Two whiteboards dominate the front. No podium, nowhere to hide.
Nisha chooses a seat on the left side, middle position. Not at the front where Dr. Brenner will stand—too presumptuous. Not in the back corner either. Middle left, facing across the open center space where she can make eye contact, engage, challenge.
She sets up methodically. Laptop open but angled away—she'll take notes by hand first, transcribe later if needed. Notebook centered, her favorite pen (blue felt tip, used since high school). Water bottle to the left. Week 1 readings to the right, already annotated—Treaty of Versailles, Weimar crisis, Kershaw chapters 4-5.
Ready.
Footsteps echo in the hallway. She looks up.
A student walks in wearing a MAGA hat.
Nisha's jaw tightens. She's seen him around campus before—polite but unapologetic, supposedly argues in good faith. She's never believed MAGA ideology can exist in good faith.
He sees her. His eyes catch on her activist t-shirt for a brief moment. Then he scans the room deliberately and takes the back right position, across the open space from her. The red hat clearly visible.
He begins setting up his own space—laptop, notebook, annotated readings. He came prepared too.
They don't make eye contact. Both arrange their materials with studied focus. Both very aware of the other's presence.
She wants to ask him what exactly was so great about America that it didn't let people like her parents immigrate, didn't recognize her relationship, didn't protect the vulnerable. But she stays silent.
There will be time.
Other students trickle in gradually. A few faces she recognizes from other classes. Mostly strangers. The energy in the room feels strange—half nervous anticipation, half eager dread. Everyone knows this semester will be different.
The door opens again. Someone from her past comes in, stamping snow from his boots—engineering textbook under one arm, the other hand holding a travel mug of coffee. A quiet presence that blends into the background if you're not specifically looking.
When he catches sight of Nisha, he does a double-take. Recognition. Surprise.
He nods—small, genuine. Hey.
Nisha's chest does something complicated. Richard Waters. AP Bio, high school junior year. His basement, his hands, the weight of a lie she'd constructed to survive herself. The breakup had been clean enough—or as clean as anything involving his confusion and her silence could be—but seeing him here, in this class, in this semester that feels like the end of the world, reminds her that the person he'd wanted her to be still exists somewhere in her bones. Sleeping but not dead.
She nods back. Smiles a little. They're not close friends exactly, but they're not strangers either. They're people who touched and then moved on, who somehow both landed in this same room, watching each other recognize that improbable fact. There's history between them—the kind that doesn't demand acknowledgment but doesn't disappear either.
They message and text sometimes—brief, casual messages about hometown events, high school football games, mutual friends who've moved away. Never about their history, never about that year. Just the small-talk thread that keeps old connections from completely fraying. She'd gotten a message from him two weeks ago: heard Kyle finally got drafted. Remember his junior year when everyone thought he was done after the knee injury? She'd replied: Yeah. Crazy he came back from that.
That's what they do now. Reminisce about the town in ways that don't require acknowledging what they once were to each other.
He finds a seat on the right side, middle zone, settles in. Nods once more at her before opening his textbook. Nisha returns to her setup, but something has shifted. There's a before-and-after line running through her now that wasn't there five minutes ago.
The room fills to sixteen people including her. A good size for seminar discussion.
At exactly 10:00 AM, Dr. David Brenner walks in.
He's tall, thin, graying at the temples. Wire-rimmed glasses catch the light. Khakis and a button-down—the history professor uniform, worn like armor. He carries a leather briefcase that looks older than Nisha.
This is him. The expert who wrote the book on Nazi propaganda techniques. The person who might finally say what needs to be said, who might connect the past to this terrifying present.
Dr. Brenner looks around the room slowly, making eye contact with each student. When his gaze reaches Nisha, she meets it steadily. She's here to learn, yes. But also to challenge. To question. To push.
He opens his briefcase deliberately, pulls out a folder, takes a breath.
Nisha's pen is ready. Her notebook open. Her mind sharp and humming with questions.
Whatever happens next, she's ready for it.
This is where it begins.
Sign in to join the discussion and post comments
Loading comments...