In September 2013, I walked into my Spanish class on the first day of senior year of high school—fluorescent lights humming overhead, the room still smelling faintly of summer dust and fresh Expo marker. I scanned the room the way you do on the first day, cataloguing faces, looking for someone I knew. Then I felt my entire body go stone cold, the heavy thumping of my heart reverberating in my ears. No freaking way. No no no no no.
Henry and I had never been in a class together before because, as he used to love to remind me, he was more advanced than me in every subject (except Spanish—until just this moment, I was always a course ahead). I thought it was fairly unlikely that we’d cross paths again in our high school careers. He was barely on my radar, that was on purpose. That chapter of my life involving him had been definitively closed and locked in a vault.
There’s a particular kind of sadness reserved for versions of yourself you don’t want to keep. I had buried mine deliberately, two years in the ground. And I believed—the way you believe things you need to be true—that it would stay there. I had built an entire life on top of it: new routines, new joy, a new version of myself that I was proud of. I thought that was recovery.
But now he was here.
He was already seated, slouched low with that same easy posture I used to know so well. It was the first class that Henry and I ever had together. I hadn’t talked to him since our sophomore year.
My heart dropped into my stomach, churning up something like nausea. I was afraid to be so close to him. I hated being in the same room as him, and I didn’t want him to look at me. I underestimated how I’d respond to being near him, how deeply rooted was my fear of him. I had spent so much time attempting to rid myself of the scars he gave me, and I thought it was unfair that the universe could just dump me in the same room as him. The wounds he left me with were beginning to sting, like they were threatening to reopen. I couldn’t simply ignore it, ignore him, like I presumed I would.
I found my desk—assigned seats, so at least I didn’t have to choose—and settled in with just my binder and a pencil (backpacks had been banned at my high school since freshman year). Around me, other students filtered in with the loud, overlapping energy of a first day. Comparing schedules, groaning about early classes, laughing too hard at nothing. Our teacher, a middle-aged woman who was a little too enthusiastic about teaching Spanish to a class of mostly white Midwestern kids who’d never use it, wrote the day’s agenda on the whiteboard, unbothered by the noise. Henry was two rows over and one seat up. Close enough that I could see the edge of his profile without turning my head, close enough that there was no version of this class where I could pretend he wasn’t there.
Then he spoke—not to me, but generally—and tears reflexively burned behind my eyes. It was the first time I’d heard his voice in almost two years. It was deep and pretentious, his words buttery in his vocal fry. When I heard it that day in class, I felt it cut into my chest like a dagger, leaving behind a deep ache…a familiar pain. It was agony, it was heartache. It was a visceral emotional pain.
I was unprepared—I thought about him as little as possible over the past two years. We went to a big school, I really didn’t have to go out of my way to avoid him. We had a large cafeteria, the hallways were always crowded. We had entirely different friend groups.
Anxiety washed over me. My mind spun as my breaths became shallow—oxygen seemingly scarce. I felt my heart pound in my throat and ears. In my head, memories of his voice replayed. Do as I say, not as I do. You need to be perfect. I’m doing this because I love you.
The ache in my chest followed me into my next class. And the next. Then to my dismay and utter bewilderment, I found I had another class with Henry. Two classes. Fuck.
The ache in my chest followed me home, and I woke up with it the next morning. Nightmares came back with a vengeance. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, start the day with my heart pounding. I was afraid to be in class, and I didn’t want to participate. I didn’t want him to hear me speak. I didn’t want his attention to land on me for even a second. I had already spent so much time and energy escaping his grasp, his gaze, his judgment—I would not subject myself again to his control.
The teachers praised him in every class. He was always the top student. He made witty comments, made it obvious that he understood the course material with minimal exposure to it. He claimed to never know when it was exam day, but aced each one every time. Teachers ate it up. I found out that we were in the same level of Spanish now because he tested out over the summer, allowing him to skip a year of the Spanish curriculum and landing him a spot in the most advanced Spanish course our school had to offer, Spanish V, with me. Though he had been a year behind the class until now, he was still among the best Spanish speakers in our class, if not the best. He texted during class, right out in the open where teachers could see it, but they never batted an eye. I heard stories of how he played Pacman on his phone every day through AP Physics but still aced every assignment. Our AP Microeconomics teacher insinuated that he would one day become a doctor.
I had spent two years carrying the knowledge of who he really was, and I felt like no one wanted to hear it. He had it all put together, and I was just a girl who used to date him. Somewhere along the way, that had quietly become the whole story. So when senior year started, and I found myself back in a room with him, I wasn’t just afraid of my own memory. I was afraid of how alone I was going to be inside it.
Often after a breakup, people in your life finally speak up and tell you about all the things they didn’t like about your significant other. People say things like, “I always thought you could do better,” or, “I noticed he’s a really bad tipper…”
That didn’t happen with Henry.
Instead, people who knew nothing of his unforgiving side seemed to think I was an idiot for leaving him. Like I’d had the trophy and given it up. I saw how people admired him, but his performance made me nauseous. Don’t fall for it. He’s evil. I wanted to scream it from the rooftops. Shout it over the loudspeaker. Put flyers in everyone’s locker.
His brains, accomplishments, and charisma were celebrated continuously, and I remained quiet. I felt so small, like the harm he caused me meant nothing. My entire concept of self had been mangled beyond recognition by his words and actions—but there wasn’t a scratch on him. He was thriving while I spent my days and nights reliving all the ways I had been hurt and violated. I spent all my emotional energy searching for a way to relieve myself of the tightness I felt in my chest.
I still don’t know exactly where it started to go wrong. But I do know exactly where it started.
I met Henry our freshman year, so innocently, at a school dance. I remember that Friday in September 2010, standing in front of my bathroom mirror with my dark brown hair straightened and parted off center, second guessing my decision to attend the dance at all. My friends had already decided not to go—they’d heard through the grapevine that it was supposed to be pretty lame. I’d find out soon that they were right.
I don’t remember what compelled me to attend anyway, but then later in the evening there I was—alone and awkward in the high school cafeteria in a time before you could hide your face in a smartphone. Going to my first high school dance solo was definitely out of character for me. Not to mention way out of my comfort zone.
With tables and chairs pushed to the periphery to clear a space for a makeshift dance floor, the freshmen were herded into the middle of the room and instructed to sit on the floor. The dance was called “Freshman Frenzy”—explicitly for freshmen, though run by upperclassmen—which was precisely why my friends didn’t want to go. The upperclassmen were giving some kind of speech echoing sentiments of “Welcome to high school!” and “Best years of your life!” and “Are you ready to dance?” But honestly, I couldn’t tell you what was said. My attention was captured elsewhere.
I’d been in the same school district just outside of Green Bay, Wisconsin since I moved here in the first grade, so I was familiar with almost every face around me. I’d spent nearly a decade with these people. But there, at the edge of the crowd, was someone I didn’t recognize—a beautiful someone.
A few feet away from me, he sat on the floor of the dimly lit room, knees slightly bent, arms casually draped over them. His hazel eyes were pensive as he rightfully gave his attention to the upperclassmen. His white T-shirt contrasted with his summer tan. He had spikey blonde hair.
I knew pretty much everyone my age in the room, or at least knew their faces. So if I didn’t recognize this guy, he had to be new to the district. He probably didn’t know anyone here, either. When the speech hit a lull, I saw my chance. I leaned over and asked him what his name was, noting aloud that I didn’t recognize him.
He said his name was Henry. He was part of a cohort of students that transferred from a nearby private school. Our exchange was quiet and fleeting, we were cut off by the upperclassmen’s spiel. As music swept the room and the freshmen started to slowly diffuse throughout the cafeteria, I couldn’t help but notice that Henry seemed to know more people than I did. He wasn’t standing alone anymore—he was already talking to a group of other kids, effortlessly mingling.
Granted, some of the people from the nearby private school—who Henry probably grew up with—were at the dance too (somehow, I’d overlooked those unfamiliar faces). But the school year had already begun, and it was clear that Henry had found his footing in this new environment. He was seamlessly connecting with classmates, forming bonds with people I only knew by name. Then I noticed that we had a mutual friend—a guy from my science class. When he seemed to have a free moment, I saw my chance and tactically made my move, approaching him to strike up a conversation.
I set myself a goal: I wanted to get Henry’s number by the end of the night. I figured if I started talking to the dude from science it might draw Henry over, and to my delight, my plan worked pretty quickly. Henry wandered over to join our conversation, chatting with his friend—and by extension, me. The three of us hung out for a bit, but as more people drifted into our circle, Henry and I slipped to the side, pulling away from the crowd so we could just talk to each other.
I felt pretty clever. I really pulled it off—I’d gone to the dance on my own and, by the end of the night, I had a cute guy’s number in my pocket like a little trophy.
The idea of having a high school boyfriend had me practically buzzing. So a month later when Henry asked me to be his girlfriend on October 17th, 2010, I answered with an enthusiastic YES and just like that, in the classic high-school way, it was official. Word got around, and several girls at school approached me to tell me how lucky I was to be with him. It felt surreal. I wouldn’t say I was necessarily unpopular, but normally people weren’t that interested in my love life. I quickly noticed that dating Henry put a spotlight on me. It turns out, “Henry’s Girlfriend” was a coveted spot. In the beginning, I really did feel lucky.
Sitting through another miserable Spanish class en silencio, callaita, “luck” was the last word I’d use for him coming into my life. Someday I’d look back trying to pinpoint the exact moment things changed, and never quite find it. That’s the part that still gets me: there was never a turn. It felt like fate, right up until it didn’t.