This is not a fictional or fabricated story. If anything it’s probably the most truthful I’ve ever been in writing. I would like to preface this by clarifying that I’m not proud of my actions, they range from ethically murky to down right not nice. Please understand that I’ve changed everyone’s name to keep people’s privacy intact. And because it keeps with my Poe theme.
Call me Nevermore. This story starts in my freshman year of high school at … let’s call it Bleakridge high. This is the kind of public school where the bathrooms end up being closed for somehow getting black mold, where Mr. Harrigan had to leave within the first quarter because he choked a student out in frustration. When I started high school, I was under the impression it would have more fights and dramatic declarations, less emotional minefields. I had made a small number of friends over the years, Lenore, Roderick, Prospero, Annabel, Eulalie, Fortunato, Israfel. All of them filled their own roles in my life at different points of my school career. This particular story concerns me and Lenore. I suppose I should start at the beginning, shouldn't I?
Bleakridge high is in the small town in the country side of the small, yet busy, Island I live on. On the very first day of school (Which was orientation day for freshmen and optional for the other grades) Us new kids were split up into a few groups of about 14 students. I was in the same group as my would-be-friends Lenore and Eulalie.
Of course, If I’d known the trouble our relationships would have brought I may have moved groups. But we aren’t there yet.
Lenore is shorter than me by almost a head, she has delicate features, pale skin with a rosy shine and a general air of nervousness. She has long, straight, dirty-blonde hair. Lenore dresses in oversized shirts and short shorts almost exclusively. She has pink lips and green-teal eyes that are reminiscent of a particularly beautiful opal I have in my collection. Ahem… sorry, I didn’t need to be that descriptive, you get the point.
My best friend at the time was actually Eulalie, We’d spent lots of time together and happened to live in the same neighborhood which made visiting and hanging out quite easy. This specific story is not about Eulalie, however. I shared a class or two with Lenore, she often slept through math and drew in English. I would talk to her minimally as we didn’t really have any shared interests. Lenore was attractive but boring, in other words she was fair of face but dull in conversation.
My opinion of her and my interactions changed notably when I’d come to learn one simple fact—Lenore had a crush on me.
It’s strange how quickly a story about hallway crushes can turn into something more—something about power, perception, and the quiet ways we learn to test people.
I can’t exactly recall if I’d come to learn from a reliable source or not but I do remember noticing things about how she acted around me after I’d come to this revelation. Small things - her feet pointing toward me in group conversations, her blush and turn-away thing, the way she spoke every sentence with a slightly higher when directed towards me.
She went quickly from that pretty girl who didn’t apply herself academically to that girl who seemed to see me as important somehow. She saw a version of me that was idealized and unique to her perspective. Knowing this made me feel, well, powerful I suppose. This was the first time that someone had seen me in that way.
I began to do things deliberately to coax a specific reaction out of her. I liked when she got nervous, when she giggled and blushed and turned away. At the time, I didn’t think of it as manipulation. I thought of it as curiosity—like poking a frog to see if it jumps. I thought her reactions to my proximity were hilarious. Of course, I would never tell her this directly. I wanted her to like me enough to keep up the entertainment, after all. Watching her squeak quietly or the way her breath paused ever so slightly when I’d brush my hand against hers or when I’d compliment her appearance. I didn’t like her, I loved the game.
I suddenly felt powerful, like I could control her reactions and emotions if I just played my cards right. And I did. When I was bored I would text her or talk to her just for that entertainment, but outside of that I never spoke to her. She was probably the third most interesting thing in my life for at least six months. Always there to play with when I had nothing better to do.
There was also Fortunato. He was the kind of boy who wore his heart like a name tag—visible, crinkled, and slightly damp. He had a crush on Lenore so obvious it felt like a school-wide PSA. I didn’t mind at first. Her reactions were mine, after all. But over time, his presence began to sour the game. He’d linger near her, offer her gum, laugh too hard at her jokes. It wasn’t jealousy—I didn’t want her. I just didn’t want her wanted by someone so… earnest. His pining made her feel like a prize, and I didn’t like playing a game where someone else thought they were a contestant.
She didn’t like him, not really. She let him hang around her but kept a solid distance most of the time. He wasn’t a threat to my game. Like when you’re playing chess and a kid wants to play with the knight. Sure, he was a little annoying but I didn’t see him as someone I should be mad at. I mostly pulled back from Lenore for his benefit. Knowing someone else cared about her—even if he was a minute presence—sort of brought clarity to me that she could have a life outside of me.
He was persistent, though. She would keep physical distance from him that he would try to minimize. Fortunato was the kind of guy who didn’t take hints unless told by someone bigger that he didn’t have a chance and that he should back the fuck off her. Luckily, one of Lenore’s friends did that for me.
Over time I would push her a little bit further so I could get the same reactions, I had to keep her on her toes. I went from smiling at her a little extra to grabbing her by the wrist and playfully flirting. All the while I felt no actual romantic attraction towards her. I had no intention of pursuing a relationship with her. She was entertainment, like a Saturday morning cartoon or a doll who’s hair you’re slowly cutting away until it gets unbearable to look at.
There was a stretch of time—weeks, maybe months—where this dynamic became routine. I’d find her in the hallway and lean just a little too close, say something teasing, watch her eyes flicker with that mix of fluster and hope. Sometimes I’d sit next to her in class and let my knee brush hers, just to see if she’d freeze. I’d compliment her handwriting, her earrings, her laugh—always just enough to keep her guessing.
It was a game, but it was also a rhythm. Predictable. Addictive. I knew exactly how to get the reaction I wanted, and I knew exactly how little I had to give to keep her chasing it.
Other people started to notice. One day, Josh—an acquaintance from my PE class— asked if Lenore and I were dating. I remember the way he said it, casual but curious, like he was confirming a rumor. I didn’t laugh or play coy. I recoiled. “What? No! Never, we’re just friends.” I said it with such certainty that he blinked and nodded, like he’d misread something obvious. But I remember the way it felt to say it—like I was drawing a line in permanent marker.
She never heard, and even if she did, I probably wouldn't have pretended to have said otherwise. Not that early in the relationship, her reactions mattered more to me than her feelings.
And then came the banquet.
The cafeteria had been decorated with little water bottles wearing cowboy hats and a picture booth in the corner, like someone’s Pinterest board for a cowboy wedding. The music was too loud, the punch too sweet, and everyone smelled faintly of Axe body spray and teenage hope. It was the kind of night that promised something dramatic, even if it only delivered awkward slow dances and sticky floors.
It was underwhelming considering what my young teenage mind had conjured but that’s okay. I remember that the theme was wild west, everyone wore a flannel and jeans, including me. I had done my eyeliner myself, wore a large black and red flannel and black jeans, I even wore fingerless gloves for the full ‘emo' boy’ effect. I looked like a wannabe bad boy but Lenore said I looked handsome and I had fun dressing up which was all that really mattered. It was just a dance after all.
I’m sure I’ve been called handsome before but there was something about it coming from her that made it feel real, not like when an old auntie says you look handsome or pretty in your church outfit. Lenore wore a striking white dress that fell to her knees and brown sandals. She wore an oversized cowboy hat for most of the night, and had her makeup done in a relatively simple way. Lip gloss emphasized her already bright smile and soft looking lips, she had winged eyeliner and what I think was blush. She kept her hair down and it would flair out like a golden halo whenever she spun. I’d told her that her dress was a bold choice to wear to banquet since it could be so easily ruined, you know, being white and all.
That was also the night I formally met Fortunato. He’d been orbiting Lenore for months—persistent, oblivious, the kind of guy who thought standing closer might make her like him more. She kept her distance, physically and emotionally, but he didn’t take hints unless they came with volume and authority. One of her friends had already told him to back off, which I appreciated. Still, seeing him up close made something click. He wasn’t a threat, just a reminder. A reminder that Lenore had a life outside of me, and that someone else—however minute—had noticed her too.
Fortunato was an interesting reminder that there was someone actively fighting for a position I'd found so easily. Here he was, sitting too close, laughing too hard, trying to dispel threats (me). And through all that I stood next to Lenore with a hand on her shoulder.
Fortunato had clearly failed to win her over. I’d spent the night dancing with her in front of him and internally questioning why someone would go through all that effort for someone as uninteresting and uninterested as Lenore.
The night continued in this vein, I’d kiss her hand, spin her, dip her, dance with her until we both decided to retire to the photo booth with her group of friends. By the time the night was almost over I’d left the crowded and hot cafeteria to take a breather outside. I’d sat leaned against a brick wall and listened to the faint hum from inside. I was certain that Fortunato was inside using my absence to his advantage, probably trying to casually dance closer to her until he gets called out for being a creep or something.
To my surprise Fortunato sat across from me, cross-legged. He looked at me with the kind of sincerity that makes your skin itch.
Then he pulled a photo out of his pocket—creased, like it had been rehearsed. It was a group shot, one of those blurry banquet pictures where everyone’s smiling too hard. He was in it, of course. So was Lenore.
“I have a crush on one of the people in this picture,” he said.
Like it was a riddle. Like I was supposed to squint and guess, as if he hadn’t been ogling her for the last two hours.
I nodded like he’d told me the weather. “Cool.”
He waited, like I was supposed to say more. I didn’t.
Eventually, I mustered up my best sympathetic face and said, “I know, man. You’re pretty obvious.” I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.
After this conversation with Fortunato, I mostly backed away from Lenore. There wasn't necessarily a dramatic ending to this... I guess you could call it a confrontation.
I didn’t ghost her. I just stopped showing up in the ways that mattered. The texts slowed, the teasing faded, and eventually she stopped looking for me in the hallway. I didn’t owe her an ending. The game was over, and I’d already won.
The game ended. But the echo didn’t.