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The weight room smelled like rubber and metal. Biceps bulged, sweat-slicked palms gripped steel bars, and plates hit the floor in rhythmic thuds. Dad rock blared in my headphones as I tried to focus on my workout. I was mid-hip-thrust, muscles shaking, when I caught a reflection in the mirror that stopped me cold.
There he was, barely six feet away. That smirk. That haunting face. That same disconcerting mustache he used to wear. His eyes met mine in the mirror and held my gaze like I was a prisoner in custody. He’d been there the whole time, watching me.
My vision blurred and my head spun. I blinked hard as the barbell wobbled above my chest. Nausea curled low in my gut. I sat up and looked away from him, trembling, my body already rigid with the urge to run.
According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 1 in 4 women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. I was still in my teens when I became a part of that statistic. My abuser was an adult with charisma, attention, and a disturbing knack for manipulating the naive. He had just enough life experience to know exactly how to use mine against me.
At the time, I didn’t have the language to call it abuse. I just thought I was special—mature for my age, chosen by someone older who could guide me in the right direction. That’s how he framed it, anyway. There were no visible bruises—just a gnawing sense that something was wrong. I knew his constant control, sexual coercion, and the way he isolated me from friends wasn’t love, but I stayed anyway—I didn’t know better. And when I finally left, he didn’t fight it. I suspect it was because I was too old for him.
That was years ago. I hadn’t seen him since. But he hadn’t come alone.
At his side was a young girl who couldn’t have been much older than I was when I left him. She was short with a naive face that seemed barely out of high school. I could tell, from their proximity, that they were together. I wondered briefly if she still had a vertical ID.
I tried to act like I hadn’t seen them; that I wasn’t unraveling inside. But the question I had buried for years resurfaced, louder than ever: If I found out he was dating someone, would I tell her what he did?
I used to play the scenario in my mind like a tape stuck on repeat. It haunted me—this imagined moment where I might have the chance to warn her, to say, He’s not who you think he is. I pictured running into them at the bookstore, or passing them on the street, or seeing them at the restaurant where I helped him get his first job. But the idea of confronting her terrified me. Not just because of him, but because of her. She was a woman I’ve never met, dating the man who abused me—and yet I dared to care what she thought, whether she would believe me. It felt strange to crave solidarity with her, and to assume, automatically, that she needed help. I pictured us locked in a heartbeat of mutual recognition—with just a glance, we would see, understand, and stand by each other. It scared me to imagine seeing myself in her—the part of me that stayed—but I also knew that I would’ve wanted someone to make sure I was OK. I wish someone would have told me that a teen holding hands with an adult was questionable.
In reality, I knew she probably wouldn’t believe me. Maybe she’d think I was the problem. I’m sure she’d heard a different story than the one I’d tell—one where I was just some bitter, crazy ex. Frozen in the gym, I wondered why I cared what either of them thought.
Then something came over me. Instead of fear, I felt rage. It was his audacity that gripped me. He’d taken so much from me, and it had been so difficult to move on, yet here he was, staring at me, breezily coupled with someone new. Their eyes burned the back of my head. Now was the time to confront her. Instead, I chose to flee.
I grabbed my water and phone and hurried past them, desperate to get away and retreat into the locker room. I fumbled with the combination as my eyes blurred with tears. Then a woman’s voice to my left made me freeze.
“Hey,” she said. I had to angle my head down to look at her. Her arms were crossed defensively, like she was protecting him.
“You don’t have to stop your workout,” she began, “but try to stay away from him. From what I’ve heard, he’ll just be triggered.”
My blood started to boil. I’d spent the last five years trying to work through the intense PTSD he’d given me, and he was the triggered one? I’d been happy to stay out of her business, but I couldn’t let that slide. I knew what I had to do. I reached for my phone. There, in a saved folder, was a voice message he’d sent me all those years ago—the one where he admitted what he did. I’d kept it as evidence in case I wanted to go after him, or in case I met his future partner. I leaned against my locker and decided now was as good a time as any. I pressed play, and the truth came spilling out.
October 13, 2018: Hi … I’m sorry if this is weird, but I am reading a book … for English … I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. And there’s a scene in it where she gets … raped. And I can’t stop thinking about how I failed you. I was a part of the problem. I violated you, too. I feel like I’m just gonna keep apologizing. I just keep getting sad and trying to apologize but I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. I hope you’re OK, and I hope everything has been resolved. Sorry… yeah.
He paused many times in the message to catch his breath or sob. I suppose he was recollecting the times he belittled me, punched holes in the wall, and used me knowing I was a minor.
When it was over, she stared at me in bewilderment. It was just the two of us in the locker room. The silence was overwhelming.
“I was still a child,” I said finally. “He was not a good man, but maybe he is now. You would know. The thing that I’ve learned, however, is people like that never change.”
I grabbed my bag and closed the locker. She shook her head and stuttered, but all I had for her was a sympathetic smile. “Be safe,” I said.
“I didn’t know,” she whimpered.
“We never do,” I shrugged.
I left her standing by the lockers and exited out into the gym. He was waiting for her by the water fountain. I gained the courage to raise my head to him, mimicking his smirk. His face fell as I passed by.
I never knew her name, and I didn’t want to. A few days later, my friend who works at the gym told me they got into an argument by the treadmills after I left, and then, that they weren’t together anymore.
Months later, I’m still figuring out how I feel about it. There was no sense of triumph—I hadn’t wanted to get involved—but as the days wore on, I started, finally, to feel relief. Not because I needed him to lose, but because I needed her to have a chance to win—a chance at knowing the truth, at making her own choice, at walking away before the damage sank in. I know what it’s like to feel powerless; to not have a warning. If I had to be the person to give her one, that felt like enough.