A lot of girls thought a black dude like me was hot

And some didn’t

And that was okay

What wasn’t okay was being judged for being with a white girl and being black

I swear that shit pissed me off so fucking bad

Most of all because it always made my girl shrink into herself, made her quieter, smaller, like she was suddenly taking up space she didn’t deserve.

I’d feel it before she said anything. Her hand would tighten in mine, grip just a little too hard, like she was bracing. And every time, every fucking time, it twisted something ugly in my chest.

People stared. Whispered. Sometimes they didn’t even bother lowering their voices.

“Of course she’s with him.” “Daddy issues.” “Bet he’s got it big, that’s it.”

Or worse—when it came from my own side.

“Bro, why you with a white girl?” “You forgot where you came from?”

I could take the looks. The comments. I’d been black my whole damn life—I knew how to wear that armor. But she wasn’t supposed to.

She wasn’t a shy, scaredy cat girl, no way, my girl was fire, a fucking goddess, loud laugh, sharp tongue, the kind of woman who walked into a room like she owned oxygen. She argued with bartenders, corrected people mid-sentence, danced like nobody was watching and flirted like it was a sport. She took up space beautifully.

So when the world tried to fold her in on herself, I noticed. Every time.

I’d squeeze her hand back, harder. A silent I’m here. Sometimes I’d stop walking altogether, force her to look at me. Tilt her chin up with my thumb, make her meet my eyes.

“Hey,” I’d murmur. “You good?”

She’d nod, always

But I knew it got to her

My parents adored her, my little brother, he was in love with her

But my friends?

That was where it hurt her the most.

Because strangers were easy to dismiss—background noise, ignorance you could laugh off later.

They never said it outright. Not at first.

It was the pauses.

The looks exchanged when she wasn’t paying attention.

The way conversations shifted when she walked up—music, sports, anything but her.

Or the “jokes.”

“Damn, you really switched teams, huh?” “So when you gonna bring a sista around?” “You serious about her, or…?”

Always followed by laughter, like that made it harmless. Like I was supposed to laugh too.

She tried to play it cool. God, she tried. Smiled when they spoke to her. Asked questions. Brought drinks, remembered names, laughed at their dumb stories.

But I saw the cracks.

I didn’t push at first. Let her breathe.

But when we got home, when she kicked her shoes off and sank onto the couch like the weight of the day finally caught up to her, I sat in front of her. Knees between hers. Hands on her thighs. And we talked, she cried in my arms while I held her, running my fingers through her hair.

A few weeks later, as in, right fucking now, we sat at a bar with my friends, she was wearing a fucking dress, lord save me from my very impure thoughts right now because goddamn, i’d always been an ass dude, I swear, until i met her, holy shit, i was a tits dude now, period.

Anyways, I was sitting there, with her on my lap, just laughing and drinking with my friends, she seemed at ease, until one of them leaned in a little too close, beer on his breath, grin sharp in that way I already didn’t like.

“So,” he said, eyes flicking to her, then back to me, “you ever miss being with… you know. Your own?”

Her hand, resting on my chest, curled into my shirt. There it was. That shrink.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He held his hands up, chuckling. “Relax, bro, it’s just a question, I ain’t tryna be rude. Just curious, you know?”

I set my glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Curious about what? My dick? My taste? Or the fact that I apparently need permission to date whoever I want?”

He blinked, clearly unprepared for the storm. “Nah, man, I didn’t mean—”

I cut him off. “Didn’t mean what? That I’m a traitor to my race if I date a white girl? That she’s somehow less than because she’s not ‘one of us’? Or that you think she has to earn her seat at my table?”