It was the first day of high school and I was walking down the hall, an awkward freshman rocking a puka shell necklace, Rainbow flip-flops, and wearing two layered collared shirts from American Eagle. I passed Henry’s locker where he was surrounded by a large group of friends, even though we had only been in the building for an hour.

He doesn’t remember our encounter, of course. Why would he? I was another nondescript body in a throng of many excited people. My chest was as flat as a board, my hair was frizzy, and I was pasty pale, a stark contrast to the girls that flanked his sides, fully developed and already beautiful. I was hardly a distraction then.

Or now.

His head turned at the exact moment I shimmied by his group, gleeful eyes meeting mine. The playfulness behind the cool facade he wore faltered temporarily. Our gazes remained interlocked for three long seconds while his lips pursed like he was trying to solve a difficult math problem. I audibly gasped, never having seen someone so blatantly good-looking in real life. Up to that point, I relied on Cosmogirl! and Seventeen for pictures of hot guys.

But there he was. A beautiful boy. Staring at me.

He looked away first, abruptly severing our contact as his attention slid from my face and refocused on his group. A friend clasped him on his shoulder and Henry shook his head, grin falling back into place, clearly unaffected by the insignificant moment we shared.

I happily faded away into the background for the rest of our high school years while Henry thrived. He was always the star, front and center. He played basketball and baseball, was student government president and homecoming king. He talked to a slew of classmates between lessons and exchanged high fives by his locker.

The only person he didn’t talk to?

Me.

We never interacted again after that first day, narrowly missing each other over the course of four years. No shared classes. No nearby lockers. Different lunch periods. Zero casual comments tossed my way while leaving the library.

It was radio silent. A careful reflection on our time together leads me to believe he purposely avoided me, going out of his way to prevent any crisscrossing of paths. Our school wasn’t that small, and I saw plenty of the rest of his gang.

Never him.

I blink and the Henry of the present returns, the young boy of the past shifting into a man. He shrugs, the shoulders of his immaculately tailored suit jacket tensing then relaxing, hugging his limbs in a salacious way.

“Only the fake ones do, I hear,” he says. “Fascinating. I, too, have a thing tonight.”

“Cool. I’m running extremely late, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”