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Baking cherry turnovers from scratch helped calm me down, but I’m still annoyed at Mom after finishing up my homework in my room later. The corners of my mouth lift as I twirl a pen between my fingers, sitting cross-legged on my bed. As irritated as I am, I’m so damn proud of myself for not only standing up to Mom, but also telling Connor off.
It felt good.
For those few minutes I embodied everything I aspire to be in my secret folder photos, and for once I wasn’t sacrificing anything about myself to do it. Usually when I try to become Secret Folder Girl, I’m imitating other women who have made me stop and go wow, because they have that it factor.
It’s been like that since my early teens, bombarded with images of the elusive idea of a perfect woman—as if anyone could live up to the fake ideals presented to us. Women are already wonderful the way they are. But I still struggle to accept that myself, even if I can dole out that advice to my friends.
Those old wounds are stubborn, scabbed over but never fully healing.
I shuffle my books to the nightstand and minimize the half-finished English paper for my favorite teacher on my laptop, opening a new browser window. The address I type in is ingrained, my fingers flying across the keyboard with muscle memory to type out my blog address.
The one I hid from Mom.
It loads, showing a feed of my latest posts—old photos of myself posed by the lake in a bikini that Maisy took for me, selfies in my bedroom trying on different outfits with short skirts or tying the tails of my blouse to reveal my stomach, and artsy crops where a hint of bra or panty line edge into the frame. Hundreds of posts blur past as I scroll the history of my blog, each with a photo.
I haven’t posted to it in a long time, at least a year and a half. I didn’t have to once I found someone to fill the void the blog plugged up in my aching heart.
Looking at these is kind of cringy now, seeing the phase I went through where I did my
hair in half-braided pigtails in every photo, or the ones where I put on thick winged eyeliner. The cringe factor only lasts for a few minutes, then it’s just like the muscle memory, the old photos from a few years ago reminding me how good they made me feel at the time.
The comments help that feeling.
I click on posts at random, seeing the numerous comments left by Henry_Your_GoodKnight.
Henry_Your_GoodKnight: This is your best color. I’ll picture you like this always.
Henry_Your_GoodKnight: Beauty beyond measure princess, but what really gets me is the way you smile. Your intelligent eyes say it all, love. You’re longing for the world to show you all it has to offer.
Henry_Your_GoodKnight: Wish I could be there with you to experience your laugh. You’ll always be my princess.
His words were always like poetry. He seemed so intellectual and cool. The fact he followed me? Wanted to talk to me? It was a dream come true to have someone like him notice me.
I don’t always end up deep down this memory lane. Usually I only look at the pictures, but once I read one of his comments, I find myself in an all-consuming black hole. One after the other, I relive being the sad little girl so desperate to love herself, to make sense of her changing body, to experience being wanted, that I latched onto the first person to give me that. A stranger on the internet who found my blog and gave me the attention I was so hungry for.
There’s an echoing pulse of endorphins as I read through the emails we’ve exchanged, where I sent more…risqué photos when he asked for them. Nothing nude, but not entirely innocent, either. He was so good at talking to me, getting me to see things his way. But some part of me is uncomfortable with the idea the suggestive images are still out there somewhere. I couldn’t bring myself to ever delete the emails, afraid I might forget the connection we had.
Maybe I’m stupid.
Maybe he doesn’t think of me at all, even though he worms his way into my thoughts and brings my entire day to a halt.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling weak, I consider replying to an old email. Even if he doesn’t respond, it would be an outlet. The temptation hovers at the back of my mind. I haven’t taken things that far, though.
One of the earlier emails catches my eye.
To: Thea Marie
From: Henry Knight
Subject: a knight always comes for his princess
You’re 15? Damn. Thought for sure you were older. By the way you talk and those pretty pictures, you seem closer to my age. I would expect to find you entering college with me this semester. That’s not a big age difference, though. How do you like older guys? The idiots in your grade sound like their intellect is subpar to yours. They wouldn’t understand you the way I do, princess. You must have one of those old souls, something too special to waste on boys your age. The connection I feel to you is unreal, it’s hard to believe.
I used to feel just like you do. Tell me more about it. Tell me everything about you. I feel like I could reach through the screen and caress your cheek when you open up to me.
The world will show you what it has to offer you. It brought us together, didn’t it? Now that I have you, I can’t imagine you not being mine. Trust and it will keep offering you good things.
I guess I should sleep. It’s 4am here. Thoughts of talking to you and imagining your laugh always keep me up. I want to touch your hair.
