You’re crouched down in the aisle, laces spilling from a box of Jordan 12s when Erik walks up behind you, a quiet scowl on his face. He doesn’t even glance at the shoes. He just leans against the shelf with his arms crossed, jaw tight like he’s been chewing on something all day. He’s still in his campus hoodie and baggy jeans, his locs no longer in his signature updo.

He sighs heavy.

“Spanish professor was on that same dumb shit again. Had me readin’ somethin’ out loud—fast, too—then tried to correct me like I ain’t know what the hell I’m sayin’. Had the whole class lookin’ at me like I’m slow.” he mutters, leaning in while you hand him a size eleven.

“I know what it is,” he mumbles after a second. “I talk how I talk. I dress how I dress. But that don’t make me dumb.”

You know him too well. He’s not just mad, he’s tired. Tired of being seen like a visitor in a place he worked hard to get into. Tired of smiling it off.