"It was during one of those nights when you asked me a question I couldn't answer right away. You told me you had learned about Renee Macklin Good at school. Then you grew quiet, the way you do when something settles deep inside you. You wondered if something like that could ever happen to me, and asked me not to go to any more protests because you wanted me to be safe."
"But I understood what you were really asking. You were asking if I would still be here. That night, I didn't want to let you go. I held you longer, a little tighter than usual. I don't know if you felt it but my heart was pounding with love. I told you that I was safe, that we are held by people who love us and look out for one another. That was true-and it was also incomplete."
"As much as I want to believe that I am safe, the truth is that the world does not protect everyone in the same way. People of color, like us, live with more danger, and women and girls, and trans and queer people, are punished every day for wanting to live freely. I'm so sorry this is the world you've been given."
Nights of intimacy reveal conversations about safety after learning about Renee Macklin Good, prompting a plea to stop attending protests. The narrator has shifted activism toward storytelling, convening conversations, and supporting collective action while still recognizing personal risk. The partner’s request is understood as a deeper question about presence and survival. The narrator chooses honesty as the truest protection, holding loved ones tightly while explaining systemic danger. The narrator acknowledges that people of color, women, girls, and trans and queer people face unequal threats and emphasizes that love, community, and truth-telling are essential responses.
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