Unfiltered Dialogues

Kiera Washington

The soft glow of the recording light cast long shadows across my desk as I leaned into the microphone, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “This week, we’re talking about another killing—another young Black brother gunned down by those sworn to protect us.” I paused, letting the weight of those words sink in before continuing. “His name was Malik Johnson. Eighteen years old. And just like that, another life extinguished while the system continues to fail us.”

My grip crushed the pages in my hand as faces flashed through my mind—countless souls turned into viral slogans and fleeting news cycles. Rage boiled beneath my composed delivery; it always seethed when justice remained a distant dream. I glared at Malik’s framed photo, its presence fueling my resolve. “No!” I shouted into the mic, my voice reverberating off the walls. “We refuse to let his murder fade into another cold statistic! We owe him—and all our fallen—the raw, unapologetic truth, even if it burns those complicit in this rotten system to ashes!”

“No doubt those racist cops will walk free yet again,” I hissed, the bitter taste of injustice coating my tongue. “I can already hear their rehearsed lies—the ‘threat,’ the ‘feared for their lives’ shit—to justify pumping ten bullets into his chest. Fuck that!” My voice shook, trembling with fury as the words tore from me.

Tears blurred my vision as I spoke into the mic, my voice cracking. “Malik was out on the court with friends, living his life, not armed, just enjoying the moment—then suddenly he lay in a pool of his own blood.” The horrific image burned behind my eyelids.

“We are rallying downtown Atlanta tomorrow, and I will be on the front line. Please join us to fight against these injustices—let Malik’s life not be forgotten as another Black youth gunned down. He had a life, a family, a future... all taken away.” I paused, then added firmly, “This is Kiara Washington from Unfiltered Dialogues. Peace and love to y’all.”

The final words of my podcast felt heavy, laden with the grief of countless losses. I slumped back in my chair, the echo of Malik’s name lingering in the quiet room. The silence pressed in, amplifying the thud of my heartbeat as exhaustion washed over me. My throat tightened, raw from hours of speaking truth to power. But even as weariness settled deep into my bones, resolve hardened within me—a familiar fire stoked by relentless injustice.

With deliberate care, I refined the podcast recording before uploading it to my website and various podcast platforms. The episode resonated widely, drawing in listeners and generating modest earnings. Its success was notable given that I never pursued it for profit. By day, I maintained a position as an accountant at a prominent downtown law firm—a place steeped in old money and privilege, where mostly white colleagues rarely grasped my lived experience. Still, that role offered financial security — quietly funding the fight against the very structures I walked into every morning.

Gathering myself, I reached for my phone to check messages from the rally organizers. Their updates were urgent; permits had been secured for downtown Atlanta tomorrow morning. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed out replies, coordinating logistics and confirming speaker lineups. Despite everything—the fatigue, the anger—I knew this was only the beginning. Justice demanded more than just words; it required action, a collective roar that could no longer be ignored.

About thirty minutes later, my phone buzzed with a notification. It was Derek. His message read: “Yo! Kiara, great podcast—you absolutely nailed it. Malik won’t be forgotten.” I smiled faintly at his words. Derek had become a steadfast ally over the years, assisting with technical aspects of my show and standing beside me at every rally. Though he was naturally reserved, his commitment to our shared cause burned just as fiercely as mine.

I replied with my thanks, even as he followed up with a heart emoji—a gesture that never amounted to more than admiration for my efforts and the bond we shared as friends.

I rose from my chair, my body aching from hours hunched over the desk. Hunger gnawed at me, so I wandered into the kitchen of my cozy one-floor apartment—a sanctuary where I cherished my independence. As I rummaged through the fridge, memories drifted back to the crowded, multicultural neighborhood where I once lived.

My parents, my two brothers and I were often seen as the token black family in our predominantly white neighborhood. Some might have even labeled us “Uncle Toms,” though I despised that term. They were simply striving to live quietly and raise their children without conflict.

I grew up clinging to that simple belief—work hard, reap the rewards. My parents did their best to steer clear of race, insisting it wasn’t part of the equation. Yet life taught me differently, time and again. Every path I took seemed to collide with moments where being Black cast a shadow on opportunities or sparked unnecessary tension. From job rejections to heated debates with white colleagues, my identity became an unwelcome variable in a world that promised fairness only in theory.

I threw myself into my studies, majoring in economics where my knack for numbers opened doors. Most of my university friends were white, and we’d gather at our usual café spot to debate courses and career plans. Yet occasionally, race would surface in those conversations—a topic that always unsettled me since I never initiated it.

During those years, I dated several men, exploring different connections without reservation. Among them was a white guy named Nathan—I genuinely fell for him. Our intimacy was frequent and meaningful; I truly believed he could be the one despite our racial differences. My family was aware of him and eventually met him too. Though initially hesitant about our interracial relationship, they understood that if my heart had chosen him, their support would follow.

But that changed when I met his family. Despite Nathan’s assurances, they weren’t as welcoming as he’d hoped. Their disapproval stung deep; they voiced concerns about our future together, speaking of mixed children in tones that made the very idea seem shameful. My heart shattered, yet I knew I had no choice but to walk away from him—it remains one of the most painful decisions I’ve ever made.

Sometimes a smile would cross my lips as I recalled the intimate moments with Nathan, only for the bitter realization to crash down—that he was white and our future had been doomed from the start. Over time, I’ve watched countless interracial couples and marriages, quietly questioning whether any of them could truly last.

After that painful chapter, I consciously chose to date only within my race. Yet no matter how many promising connections I pursued, none ever rekindled that electric spark I’d shared with Nathan. The cruel irony still haunts me—my one true love, the man who irrevocably claimed my heart, happened to be white.

“JUSTICE FOR MALIK!!!” I bellowed into the megaphone, my fist raised high as I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with my fellow protesters. We marched in unison, our footsteps echoing down the city streets as we chanted for change. Along the sidewalks, officers lingered—mostly white faces dotted with a few Black and Hispanic colleagues—who did little more than observe our demonstration with detached expressions. My gaze burned into theirs as I continued shouting our demands.

Beside me, standing equally resolute, was Derek. In these charged moments, he served as my unwavering pillar, always present whenever I needed his quiet strength.

My blood surged as we marched along the storied avenue where Dr. King had once led historic demonstrations. I’d immersed myself in the words of our fallen leaders—Martin and Malcolm, both martyred for justice—and now I strode forward, determined to honor their legacy as a Black woman fighting for change.

I had to concede that during my school years, I’d skimmed the pages of history books detailing the lives of Martin and Malcolm without fully absorbing their lessons. Back then, I was so enveloped by white culture that I neglected my own heritage. A shudder ran through me as I recalled the person I once was—a token nice Black girl, always laughing and giggling to fit in with my friends.

Nathan Ellis

I found myself on the balcony with Lyra, my girlfriend. We’d met at a small law firm where we worked together; our connection had been instant and effortless. Originally from Serbia, she carried that charming accent I adored. Together we observed the march unfolding below—the clamor of protesters demanding justice for Malik Johnson, an eighteen-year-old killed by police.

The reports indicated that Malik had been reaching for a weapon when the officers reacted instantly, firing ten shots on the basketball court. However, the description of the supposed weapon remained vague, leaving me uncertain about the specifics.

The media frenzy intensified as conservative outlets defended the police, attributing Malik’s tragic death to his perceived hostility toward law enforcement. Meanwhile, progressive voices expressed outrage, insisting that no conceivable aggression or weapon—other than a basketball—could justify such lethal force.

“He was shouting and swearing at the police, why couldn’t he just comply?” Lyra said as I shrugged my shoulders, “Still, being shot ten times for shouting is hardly the right approach” I replied.

Lyra placed a hand on my shoulder and asked, “Coffee?” Her thick Serbian accent softened the question. I nodded, replying, “I would love one,” as she turned to go inside and prepare it.

As the protestors moved down the street, fading into the distance, I pulled out my phone almost without thinking. It had become a reflex, that mindless scroll through Facebook. And there it was—my so-called friends posting every vile opinion imaginable about the shooting and the marches. The platform seemed designed to let bigots crawl out from under their rocks and spew hatred with ease.

A wave of disgust washed over me as I read those hateful posts. Their willingness to blame the victim felt like a knife twisting in my gut, and hearing that vile racial slur thrown around so casually left me cold.

With a moment to reflect, my thoughts drifted to Kiara—my first love. We met at university over ten years ago and quickly fell for each other. I had been certain she was the woman I wanted to spend my life with, convinced that once my parents saw how deeply I loved her and how much she meant to me, they would accept us and not reject their only child.

The backlash from my parents was jarring; they had always presented themselves as open-minded, instilling in me the principle of treating every person with dignity, regardless of race. Yet somehow, showing respect in public differed entirely from inviting someone into their home.

I recall the day Kiara and I sat facing my parents in our living room. Mom had prepared tea and set out biscuits while Dad observed us quietly. Though he wasn’t the primary source of opposition, my mother proved far more challenging to contend with.

Kiara was at ease around my parents at first. Accustomed to predominantly white social circles, she found common ground effortlessly. In her view—and mine—we were simply people sharing space, no different from anyone else.

“You know, when you have mixed children,” my mother began, her words measured yet unsettling. “They aren’t fully black or white and will face challenges in life.” My brow tightened involuntarily. Mixed children? The thought was jarring—I hadn’t even considered marriage, let alone starting a family.

Kiara shifted abruptly in her seat, turning to meet my gaze, her expression suddenly speechless. “Mom? What are you talking about—we haven’t even discussed the future properly yet,” I interjected firmly, my tone carrying defiance. Without hesitation, Kiara added pointedly, “What’s wrong with mixed children?”

My father sensed the mounting tension and tried to mediate. “There’s nothing wrong with it, dear,” he offered gently, attempting to soften Mother’s words. “She means that biracial children might face certain difficulties in the future.” As usual, he deferred to her judgment, effectively taking her side. Classic Dad—always letting Mother steer the conversation.

It went back and forth as I realized my parents were against our union, the shock evident on my face as they questioned our love and dismissed it as merely a phase we were going through.

The air grew thick with discomfort as we gathered ourselves to leave. Outside, Kiara’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as I met her gaze. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured, reaching out instinctively. But she pulled away sharply, her voice steady despite the hurt. “You didn’t even try to protect me in there—you let your parents hound me like that.” Her words struck deep, each syllable underscoring my failure to stand by her side.

It wasn’t until she said it outright that I understood my failure. “You’re right,” I conceded, adding, “I’ll make sure they know how much I love you. They’ll come around,” Yet the words fell flat; as she turned away, the silence between us spoke louder than any apology.

After that disastrous encounter with my parents, Kiara and I continued seeing each other in public, but the dynamic between us had irrevocably shifted. I began noticing her spending more time with others within her community—amongst fellow Black friends and colleagues—and it appeared she felt uneasy being seen with me around those circles. That unspoken shame hung heavy between us whenever our paths crossed socially.

The most devastating moment came when she told me it wouldn’t work out between us. Her tone was cold and detached, as if she were discussing something trivial rather than ending something that meant so much to us. The finality in her voice cut deeper than any emotional display could have.

Lyra emerged with two steaming mugs, her smile a welcome distraction. I accepted one gratefully as we settled into chairs on the balcony. The late afternoon sun warmed our skin while we sipped quietly, the calm of the day contrasting sharply with the turmoil swirling inside me.

“What time is your interview tomorrow?” she asked softly. “Eleven in the morning,” I replied. As we sat there, my thoughts drifted back to the uncertainty of my job search. The sting of being laid off from my last law firm still lingered, but this new opportunity held some promise. I was as nervous as fuck, yet I remained certain of my capabilities.

After my breakup with Kiara at university, I threw myself into my law degree with single-minded focus. The rigorous coursework provided a necessary distraction; I buried myself in textbooks and lectures, channeling every ounce of energy into my studies to avoid dwelling on what had been lost.

Still, chance encounters with her were inevitable—I’d catch sight of her across campus or in the library, and each time our eyes met, a familiar ache would tighten in my chest. I fought to maintain composure, determined not to reveal how deeply her presence still affected me. But those attempts always failed, and almost every time I’d slip away to a secluded spot where the pent-up emotions overwhelmed me and tears would fall.

​Kiara Washington

That evening, I settled at a café with my comrades from the march. My megaphone rested on the floor near my chair—a tangible reminder of our collective voice earlier that day. To my side sat Derek, ever reliable and quietly supportive. Across from us were Tanya and Nia, both equally passionate in their own right.

Tanya nearly matched my intensity, as if we were locked in a spirited contest for the spotlight, yet I held the primary role. Our voices would frequently rise in unison during heated discussions, each of us striving to be heard above the other.

Nia was different, passionate about our cause as well but not as loud spoken. She was mixed race, raised by a white father who had spoiled her. I often wondered if she ever got into trouble whether her daddy always had her back.

“That was a good rally,” Nia offered, her tone sincere. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at the oversimplification. “It’s not about being good, Nia—it’s about the numbers and the awareness,” I retorted sharply. Nia bristled, replying with defiance, “I know! I was merely stating that fact.”

The waiter approached our table, coffeepot in hand. “More coffee?” he asked with a polite nod. I gave a quick affirmation, and around the table, Derek, Tanya, and Nia followed suit. After refilling our cups, Nia flashed him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said warmly. The waiter returned her smile as he replied, “With pleasure,” before moving on to the next table.

I watched with narrowed eyes. “You’re flirting with him,” I accused Nia sharply. “No, I was just being polite,” she insisted, though judging by the white waiter’s lingering gaze, it was clear he found her attractive. Leaning closer, I lowered my voice. “You need to stay focused, Nia—you’re either fully committed to this cause or you’re not.” My tone left no room for ambiguity.

“Relax, Kiara, she just said thank you,” Derek interjected, his voice steady despite the tension. I shot him a pointed glare, but he quickly raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying,” he added softly. “We’re not at war with anyone—we’re sitting in a café trying to relax.” Nia’s words came out defensively, though her tone betrayed a hint of exasperation.

I glanced at Tanya who had remained unusually silent throughout the exchange. “What? Aren’t you going to say anything?” I demanded, turning my attention fully on her. “What Kiara? Sometimes I just want to sit and drink coffee, it’s been a tiring day for fuck’s sake—just shut it with the activism for now, will ya?”

I settled back into my seat, lifting the mug to my lips. The caffeine warmed me as I took a slow sip, my body still humming from the afternoon’s exertions. “I’m sorry, Nia—I didn’t mean anything by it,” I murmured regretfully. When I glanced at her, I noticed her eyes shimmering slightly with unshed tears. “It’s okay,” she whispered softly in response.

Although I felt some sympathy for her, it was clear Nia wasn’t really cut out for this. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was trying to prove something about her Black identity. Did she truly grasp our cause, or was she merely tagging along?

Nathan Ellis

I adjusted my tie while wearing a crisp gray suit, Lyra having already departed for work. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I muttered under my breath, “You’ve got this Nathan, don’t fuck it up,” as I readied myself to leave the apartment.

​After speaking with the receptionist at Sedgewick & Marlowe, I settled onto a sofa in the waiting area. My leg tapped restlessly as nervous energy coursed through me. I silently repeated “relax” to myself, willing my body to still.

Warren Marlowe emerged to greet me, a welcoming smile on his face as he extended his hand. “Nathan?” he asked. I stood and clasped his hand firmly, replying with deference, “Mr. Marlowe.” He waved off the formality. “Call me Warren,” he insisted warmly before gesturing toward his office door. “Come in.”

The interview unfolded better than expected, as I detailed my background and enthusiasm for potential projects. Warren gave me his full attention, treating me with genuine respect—a refreshing change. All too often, I’d endured interviews where the person across the desk seemed distracted, their lack of interest grating on my nerves.

As the interview concluded, Warren escorted me out but paused near the department desks. “Where’s Kiara?” he asked, turning toward an employee. A coworker responded, “I believe she stepped away to the restroom.” Warren then instructed, “Please have her report to my office once she returns.” The employee acknowledged with a nod.

I thanked Warren and left, the name echoing in my thoughts. Kiara, I mused, it had to be a common name here.

​Kiara Washington

As soon as I returned to my desk, Sophie immediately informed me, “Warren wants to see you—he’s expecting you in his office.” I acknowledged her message with a brief nod, wondering what urgent matter required my attention now. Gathering my notepad and pen, I proceeded down the hallway toward his corner office and announced my arrival with two measured knocks on the door.

I entered the office and Warren gestured toward a chair. He launched into a discussion about recent developments at the firm and our financial priorities, detailing areas where he believed we needed to allocate resources. I listened intently, offering nods of acknowledgment even as private doubts lingered about certain aspects of where I worked and who I collaborated with. Still, I remained dedicated to my role; I had committed myself fully to our mission and was determined to excel in my responsibilities.

No one at the firm suspected my secret life as an activist; I had taken pains to keep it hidden. Yet with each passing day, I felt as though I were walking a tightrope, acutely aware that my face had become increasingly recognizable online and on news broadcasts after leading that protest. Even so, I refused to allow those fears to undermine my commitment. If my public activism jeopardized this position, I would willingly accept that risk—I was prepared to sacrifice anything for the cause.

With my hand resting on the doorknob, I paused. “Uh, Warren,” I called out hesitantly. He glanced up from his papers, his expression courteous yet expectant. “Yes, Kiara?” I drew a quiet breath before continuing.

“I was wondering—do you think there might be room for a raise? I’ve consistently shown I can manage our finances effectively, and frankly, I believe my contributions warrant better compensation.” My voice carried a tremor of uncertainty, but beneath it lay a resolute insistence that my worth be recognized.

“I understand,” Warren said, his tone decisive as he added, “I’m currently handling a new hire. I’ve just interviewed someone for the lawyer position, and they show promise. Once that process wraps up, we’ll revisit your compensation.” I offered a polite smile and expressed my thanks before exiting his office.

I trusted Warren’s sincerity, he wasn’t all too bad but I’ve asked for a raise on a couple of occasions with no effect so I wasn’t holding my breath.

​Nathan Ellis

Warren had told me before I left the interview that he would get back to me in a few days. These were the hardest moments—the waiting game, never knowing if you’d land the job or not. Lyra was helping with the finances using her own earnings, but I despised depending on anyone else for support.

The phone rang and Warren’s voice came through. As I listened intently, my muscles tightened with apprehension; the tone of his greeting hinted at unfavorable news. Still, I held my breath in anticipation. Then, unexpectedly, he said, “We’d love for you to join us at Sedgewick & Warren.” Shocked by his words, I blurted out, “What? Are you offering me the job?” Warren affirmed without delay.

After accepting the offer and ending the call, I met Lyra’s gaze and gave her a confirming nod. “I got the job.” With an exhilarated cry, she leapt into my arms, our mouths colliding in a passionate kiss. Pulling away, she beamed, “I knew you’d get it—I never doubted you.” I couldn’t help but smile as I admitted, “I doubted it.”

Kiara Washington

I was tucked away in my private studio, the mic ready as I hit record. Clearing my throat, I began with practiced ease, “Hey y’all—it’s Kiara Washington coming at you with another episode of Unfiltered Dialogues.” I grinned, already picturing the perfect topic taking shape in my mind.

“The march yesterday was a powerful testament to our unity. Thousands of courageous brothers and sisters stood together to demand justice for Malik Johnson—a young life brutally cut short by systemic discrimination. May his soul find eternal peace, and may we never stop fighting against the injustices that plague our communities.”

I then took a moment to acknowledge those who had poured their hearts into this fight—the tireless organizers, the fearless activists, the everyday heroes whose courage fueled our movement. Their dedication proved this wasn’t a lost cause; it was a revolution in progress. My voice grew fierce as I continued, “We’re making it clear—they can’t muzzle us with threats, hate speech, or violence. We’ll keep pushing until we’re seen as equals, until justice isn’t just a demand but our reality.”

At the same time, I kept an eye on my computer screen, scrolling through the steady stream of incoming comments. Many came from our own community—brothers and sisters lifting us up with words of solidarity. Yet predictably, there were also voices dripping with disdain, white detractors clinging to their false sense of superiority.

I shamed them over the podcast, “This comment comes from Twitter—or X, whatever Elon—from someone named WhiteAndProud23. Where are the rest of you WhiteAndProuds hiding?” I paused before continuing, “He wrote: ‘All you black folks do is complain, don’t you know that slavery was demolished 300 years ago.’” I scoffed, then corrected him with biting precision: “Well Mr. WhiteAndProud, allow me to fix your history lesson: Slavery was abolished in 1865—do the math, you ignorant prick! Or at least search it before spewing your nonsense.”

“This one’s from a fan of mine, wow! @KiarasTheBest, says you are just incredible Kiara, keep fighting the good fight,” I read aloud and added, “Aww, that is so wonderful thank you—I send you kisses whoever you are!”

I had considered mentioning my workplace and the raise situation during today’s recording, but decided to save it for another show. After wrapping up the thirty-minute podcast, I made the necessary edits and uploaded the final version.

​I received a call from Derek later that evening as I sat down on the couch about to switch on the TV. “Hey Derek, what’s up my brotha?” I greeted him warmly. There was a slight pause before he responded in his usual soft-spoken manner, “Hey Kiara. Heard your podcast today... thanks for mentioning me.” I smiled at the sincerity in his voice and replied, “It was an honor to recognize you, seriously.”

“Are you doing anything right now?” I raised an eyebrow. “Just planning to chill and watch some TV. Why?” Derek hesitated before answering, “Oh, it’s nothing really—just wondered if you wanted to hang out.” I shook my head with a tired smile. “Not tonight, Derek; I’m pretty drained.” He let out a soft sigh of understanding in response.

After ending the call, I flipped on the television, sinking into the cushions just as my phone buzzed again. “No rest for the wicked,” I muttered to myself, seeing Nia’s name flash across the screen. I answered casually, “Hey Nia, what’s up?” Little did I know how this conversation would unfold.

“Hey Kiara, I heard your podcast,” Nia began, her voice trailing off as she fell silent. I waited expectantly, wondering what more she had to say. When the silence stretched on awkwardly, I finally prompted with a tinge of impatience, “Well? Is that all?” Nia’s reply came out sharp and frustrated, “No! You mentioned Tanya and Derek and a few others but not me, why?” I could hear the hurt in her tone as I let out a weary sigh.

“I must’ve forgotten, Nia,” I replied with a dismissive wave of my hand, already losing interest in her complaint. “I’ll give you a shout-out next time.” A heavy pause hung between us before I added impatiently, “Alright?” But she pushed back sharply, her voice laced with frustration. “Not quite,” she retorted bitterly. “Too little, too late now.” I exhaled slowly, feeling annoyed by her dramatic reaction. “What exactly do you want me to do? The episode’s already live—it’s done. I’ll mention you in another one,” I offered flatly. Without another word, she ended the call abruptly.

I stared at my phone, muttering “You little bitch!” Shaking my head, I added flatly, “Well you can’t please everyone I guess.” I tossed the phone aside and returned to watching TV.

​The following day at work dragged on without much excitement. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with messages from friends scattered across my desk. Sophie glanced over, her expression tightening with irritation. “That’s rather distracting, don’t you think?” she remarked dryly. I shrugged off her comment and tossed my phone into my bag, though the muffled vibrations persisted, serving as a constant reminder of the outside world intruding on my focus.

“Happy?” I said sarcastically as she didn’t respond returning to face her computer.

​At lunchtime, I ventured to the local cafe and settled in to check my messages. “Fucking hell,” I muttered, shaking my head at the flood of notifications. Fame certainly came with a price, I thought wryly, suppressing a chuckle. Then one message from Tanya caught my eye—an old photo of Nathan and me locked in an embrace. My eyes widened; how had she dig that up? The attached note read: “Well, well, it seems our black panther sister had a secret past she didn’t want to share... I wonder why?”

I immediately fumbled to call Tanya, nearly dropping my phone in the process. The phone rang endlessly as I cursed under my breath, “Pick up you bitch!” Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she answered with a smug tone. “Yes, Kiara, how may I assist you?”

“Where the fuck did you get that picture?” I snapped loudly. “Oh the one with you and that white guy?” I sighed, she’s fucking playing with me. “Relax Kiara, I’m just fucking with you, but it’s interesting don’t you think?” she said. “What is?” I asked.

Tanya continued, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “You spend your days lecturing everyone on how to be Black, yet here you are with a hidden history of fucking some white guy. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not judging who you fuck—but you’ve got some serious audacity treating Nia like shit just because you question if she’s ‘Black enough.’”

“That’s ancient history, Tanya,” I shot back, heat rising in my chest. “I was someone else entirely back then—it doesn’t define who I am now.” My jaw tightened as I added defiantly, “And I’m not mistreating Nia. She joined our movement willingly, and if anything, I’m pushing her to develop thicker skin for the battles ahead.”

“We’re not soldiers, Kiara,” Tanya retorted sharply, her tone laced with irritation. “Ease up—we’re all fighting for the same cause. Treat your comrades with more compassion. And by the way, Nia called me last night in tears over your lack of acknowledgement for her.”

I took a deep breath to steady myself as my voice carried through the bustling café, drawing curious glances. “Listen Tanya,” I said firmly, lowering my tone, “don’t go spreading that around.” I paused, then continued with measured words. “I’m not trying to blackmail you. After talking to Nia, I felt compelled to look into your background. Had you given her proper recognition, this photo might never have surfaced.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” I asked skeptically as she scoffed, “For fuck’s sake Kiara, the world doesn’t revolve around you. I’m just saying to treat Nia with a little more respect—who gives a fuck about you fucking a white guy?” Tanya spat, each mention of fucking a white guy felt like a deliberate jab.

After hanging up, I struggled to compose myself, bewildered by the depth of my reaction. Tanya was right—my past relationship shouldn’t have mattered. Yet her words struck a nerve, making me question why I’d worked so hard to bury that chapter of my life after Nathan. I had vowed to leave behind the person I once was, but apparently not completely.

That photograph had inadvertently triggered memories of Nathan, and now, unbidden, my eyes began to well up as I recalled the exact moment I ended our relationship. After that disastrous meeting with his parents, everything shifted within me. Their perception of me as unworthy of their son—nothing more than a black girl stealing away their only child—had reshaped me entirely.

I felt humiliated, as if I should have been ashamed of who I was. Consequently, I started spending time with other Black students on campus, shutting Nathan out of my new circle. Despite his desire to remain together, my new friends made it clear that interracial relationships were problematic. Their influence seeped into me until eventually, I began to agree with them.

I had resolved to never be hurt again, I reminded myself as I steeled my nerves before facing Nathan. Astonishingly calm, I delivered the final blow without revealing a flicker of emotion. Seeing the pain etched in his eyes, I remained detached—he needed to grasp this was truly the end.

That day in my dorm room, my roommate—a white friend—witnessed my anguish. I attempted to maintain composure, but she immediately noticed my distress. Explaining that it was over between Nathan and me, I accepted her embrace and finally broke down in tears.

Spotting Nathan in the hallways or at the library always unsettled me, sending a jolt through my system. His dismissiveness cut deep; whenever our eyes happened to meet, he would abruptly turn away as if I were invisible. It was as though I no longer existed in his world, and that realization left me reeling each time.

I hastily brushed away the tears that had escaped, firmly reminding myself that the past was best left undisturbed. With a sigh heavy enough to carry the weight of years gone by, I abandoned my unfinished meal at the café and retreated back to work where my tasks offered a welcome refuge from memories better forgotten.

The following days passed quietly without much contact from my friends. During that time, I maintained a strong online presence, actively countering the numerous troubling remarks that surfaced and striving to clarify matters.

Coming Monday, this new lawyer would begin, though I didn’t know his name yet—but there was little doubt I’d have to engage with him concerning financial matters.

Friday evening, I composed a message in our WhatsApp group chat, inviting Derek, Tanya, and several others for drinks at our usual spot. Although I hadn’t yet included Nia—I planned to do so later—I expected an immediate flurry of replies. My phone remained silent despite the read receipts confirming they’d all seen it.

I waited patiently, assuming everyone was caught up in their own affairs. After finishing work an hour later, I checked my phone only to find the chat still silent, the messages lingering unanswered.

Finally deciding to add Nia to the group, I thought she’d definitely reply and be excited about it. I waited for a bit for her acceptance, but to my surprise she declined.

A knot tightened in my stomach as I suspected Tanya had spread that photo of Nathan and me. It suddenly made sense why nobody seemed eager to engage—I sensed an unspoken judgment hanging between us, a subtle accusation of hypocrisy that left me cold.

Desperate for answers, I dialed Tanya first—no response. Next I tried Derek; again, silence. One after another, I reached out to a few others, my calls going unanswered each time. Finally, with mounting unease, I called Nia—and to my relief, she picked up.

“Nia?” I began, my voice tight. Her tone was cold, almost dismissive. “Yes Kiara, what do you want?” My brow knotted—this was the girl who had clung to me like glue before, and now she spoke with such distance. “Why is everyone ignoring me?” I pressed, frustration edging into my words. She paused deliberately before answering. “Are they? You mean you called everyone else and then me?” I sighed heavily; I already knew where this conversation was heading.

“I spoke with Tanya and I’m sorry I upset you,” I said, my voice lacking conviction. “What are you sorry for?” she pressed, her tone cool. I braced myself, sensing her resolve hardening. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention you on my podcast.”

“Really,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, I am,” I snapped back, then added impatiently, “Now do you know why everyone is ignoring me?” Silence stretched between us for a long moment before I called out, “Nia? Are you there?” With a heated breath, she lashed out with full force: “Fuck you, Kiara”—and then abruptly ended the call.

My mind churned with bitter certainty—it had to be Tanya’s handiwork. She’d likely twisted things to turn Nia against me. Of all people, Nia.

​The bus ride home was quiet as I pondered my conversation with Nia, her anger obvious and unfamiliar to me. I recalled how we’d met through another friend who introduced us, and how I’d immediately judged her upon first seeing her.

The truth gnawed at me—the real stupidity wasn’t judging her character; it was letting her skin color bother me. I’d known she was mixed race, yet something about that grated on me. It felt like she was forcing herself to fit in with us, as if being black was some exclusive club she needed to audition for. And here I was, caught up in the very sin of colorism I claimed to despise—evaluating people based on whether their skin was too dark or not dark enough.

Nia fought fiercely for our cause, and as I realized how foolishly I’d judged her—treating her as coldly as the white people I’d battled against—my eyes brimmed with tears. My chest tightened with remorse, stirring painful memories of being scorned not for who I was, but for my skin color. Those moments haunted me most when I’d been in love with Nathan.

I had become the person I despised.

A tear slipped down my cheek as I brushed it away, feeling like a monster. Nia was a beautiful soul; she never deserved the harsh words I’d thrown at her. Countless times I had shrugged off her ideas, scolded her over trivial matters, accused her of not taking things seriously enough.

As I got home, I headed directly to my small recording studio, where I’d carefully arranged everything. After turning on the equipment, I pressed record. Typically, I didn’t produce any podcasts on Friday evenings—I preferred spending time with friends over drinks—but tonight, I found myself utterly alone.

“Hey y’all, it’s me again—Kiara Washington—for another episode of Unfiltered Dialogues.” My voice faltered, lacking its usual conviction. “Now, I don’t typically record on Fridays; normally I’m getting lit with my friends.

But tonight...” I hesitated, struggling to steady my breath as raw emotion bubbled up inside. “...tonight, my friends ignored me.” A sniffle escaped me before I could stop it. “Look, I know this is personal—not the usual fire I bring—but I need to put this out there.”

“Tonight they ignored me and I know why,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “My last podcast was the day after our march for Malik Johnson’s murder—a magnificent event with thousands of brave brothers and sisters joining the fight against oppression.” I paused, pressing my lips together as I exhaled into the microphone. “I had thanked several people who helped organize the rally...but I left out one person.” My eyes welled up with tears, the weight of my omission heavy on my conscience.

“Nia Simmons,” I finally managed, my voice thick with regret. “For two years now, she’s stood shoulder-to-shoulder with us against injustice. Always there, always fighting hard—she’s truly a patriot for the cause.”

“I have to admit, when I first saw Nia, I judged her harshly—not because of her character,” I paused, gathering my thoughts, “...but because of her skin color. Can you believe it? I judged someone because they weren’t dark enough.” Tears began streaming down my face as my voice cracked with emotion. “I had become the very person I was fighting so hard against. And everyone has every right to judge me now.”

Breathing heavily now, the recorder captured every ragged breath as I pressed on. “Because of my treatment of her, I truly broke her heart. A beautiful soul who only wanted to do good and I pushed her away.” My head hung low as I fought to steady myself. “Nia... You have every right to hate me, but if it means anything, I am truly sorry, sorry for all the shit I put you through.” The words caught in my throat before tumbling out in a broken whisper. “I love you Nia, I hope you can forgive me.”

I wept openly for half a minute, the sobs shaking my body. Summoning my last reserves of composure, I whispered into the microphone, “This is Kiara Washington on Unfiltered Dialogues. Feel free to hate me.” With those final words, I reached forward and switched off the recorder.

Without making any changes to my confession, I uploaded the raw recording immediately. Though I knew it might damage my reputation with my audience, I was prepared to risk everything for Nia’s sake.

​I hadn’t expected Nia to respond immediately, so I busied myself preparing a simple meal. Afterward, I settled onto the sofa and distracted myself with mindless television while dabbing at lingering tears with a tissue. Throughout it all, my phone remained within reach—just in case she decided to contact me.

The morning light crept through the blinds as I stirred awake, the distant trill of birdsong filtering through my drowsy haze. I realized I’d drifted off on the sofa during the night, a slight chill prickling my skin. My hand instinctively reached for my phone resting on the cushion beside me. Heart sinking with each passing second, I scrolled through notifications and saw no calls or messages from Nia.

Disappointment washed over me as I swiped open my social media accounts instead. Scanning the comments section of my latest podcast episode, a bitter smile touched my lips—I found plenty of praise for my candid confession alongside vicious remarks from detractors calling out hypocrisy.

Apart from these comments, the silence felt hollow without the one message I truly craved. I set aside my phone and headed to the bathroom, still clutching it as I sat down. Just then the doorbell chimed, its timing as awful as ever. “Fucking great,” I grumbled under my breath.

As I awkwardly wiped myself quicklyand washed my hands, I scrambled out the door, nearly tripping as I yanked my skirt into place. Tanya stood there smiling, her smirk widening as she greeted me with a pointed “Good morning hypocrite.” A surprised laugh escaped me. “So you listened to my podcast, huh?” I asked, already knowing the answer from her nod.

“Have you heard from Nia?” I asked desperately, my voice tight with longing. Tanya paused just long enough to torture me before finally admitting, “I have.” My head cocked impatiently. “Come on now, bitch - spill it,” I demanded playfully, unable to hide my eagerness for news of her.

“I heard it,” a familiar voice announced. I blinked in astonishment as Nia emerged from her concealed spot beside the door. “Nia!” I exclaimed, my eyes stinging with sudden tears. Without hesitation, I moved into her open arms, burying my face against her shoulder as relief flooded through me. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured, my voice breaking with emotion. Nia held me tightly, whispering back, “I know, Kiara. Thank you.”

As we separated, our eyes locked in a moment of unspoken understanding. Gratitude washed over me at having Nia here. “Come in, let’s grab some breakfast,” I urged, gesturing toward the kitchen. They followed as I moved to the stove, pouring coffee and whisking eggs with hurried hands.

That weekend, just the three of us girls went out shopping and enjoyed a leisurely lunch, deliberately steering clear of any activism talk. It was during those relaxed moments that I truly connected with Nia; her genuine warmth and understanding made me realize she wasn’t merely a friend – she was one of us sisters.

​Monday morning at Sedgewick & Marlowe, I settled at my desk with my phone in hand as I powered up my computer. My fingers fumbled through the influx of comments and messages about my latest podcast episode, the hate mail accumulating like digital debris. Despite the vitriol, I found myself chuckling at some of the ridiculously outrageous racial slurs—small-minded words that rolled off me like water off oil.

A pen rolled off the desk and I lunged to catch it, but it slipped through my grasp. The pen hit my foot and ricocheted under the table near Sophie’s legs. “Shit,” I cursed quietly as I crouched down. I reached under the desk, my hand grazing her knee by accident. “Hey! What are you doing?” she said as her knee jerked in surprise.

As I prepared to crawl back out, I heard Warren call my name. “Kiara?” Startled, I bumped my head sharply on the underside of the desk. “Ow!” I groaned, rubbing my scalp. “One moment!” I called out, finally emerging from beneath the table and rising to my knees. My gaze lifted toward Warren—and froze as I noticed someone standing beside him. My mouth fell open in shock as he announced, “I’d like to introduce you to Nathan Ellis, one of our new lawyers.”