Eavesdropping is a superhuman skill all teachers have– we just don’t let anyone know it. If we did, students would never reveal themselves during group work. Trust me, I don’t want to know the details of a fifteen-year-old’s life, but I do want to know who is working hard and who is only pretending to. So I listen closely.

There were maybe twenty minutes left before the final bell. The classroom had that late-afternoon heaviness: backpacks rattling against chair legs from the early packers, pencils shuffling quickly to outrun weekend homework, the static of overlapping conversations buzzing through the air. Then I heard Mia.

“I’m going over to John’s house after school,” she beamed to her friends, excitement radiating through her voice so openly I could almost see her smile. “It’s the first time his parents are leaving us alone.” The lift in her voice on the last word made the meaning unmistakable.

“Mia!” One of her tablemates exclaimed, “I thought you two had broken up! He wasn’t talking to you in the hallway earlier…”

“He was with the boys,” Mia interrupted, defensive, “It’s all good though, we’re fine.”

“If you say so… but he didn’t even look at you…” The girl’s softened tone carried pity and concern. 

“He doesn’t need to!” Mia’s voice rose, firmer now, “I know he loves me, and he knows I love him. He doesn’t have to look at me!”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t your boyfriend want to be around you in public too?”

Mia snorted, “School doesn’t count!”

Their conversation pulled me backward through time– when I was Mia, and Max was my John. I recognized it immediately: the way she trusted the girls at her table with her secret, the way her confidence sounded practiced but sincere. That dreamlike assurance you have before young love teaches you violent delights have violent ends.

I remembered when my girlhood felt whole. Radiant. Like a sun with no concept of clouds. I believed then that being chosen– even privately– meant something. I learned how to lower my expectations so I wouldn’t lose him. I wished on lucky coins and shooting stars for him to change, and when he didn’t, I changed myself instead.

Usually, Max’s memory feels like a story that belongs to someone else. A distant version of myself I barely recognize anymore. But sitting in that classroom, listening to Mia, it felt immediate—like it was happening again, just across the room.

The final bell rang. Pencils scratched frantically for last words, chairs scraped the floor as students surged toward the door. Noise swallowed the moment.

I briefly watched Mia pack up. In that heartbeat, I wanted to stop her. I wanted to pull her aside and offer her wisdom and foresight. To tell her to be brave enough to voice what she wants, and strong enough to leave the first time it’s not met. 

I turned away as my eyes burned. Faked a cough, and reached for my water bottle.

The truth is, some lessons don’t belong to teachers or parents– they must be lived. They must be felt, and then survived. 

So I can’t warn her that what feels like joy now may one day come back to her as pain, sorrow or regret.

“Miss!” Mia called.

I turned to look at her; so young, so kind. A radiant girl. 

“Goodbye, Miss! I hope you have a great weekend!”

“You too, Mia!” I said, smiling back. As Mia disappeared into the hallway crowd, I let a quiet wish follow her– that she might find her way back to herself sooner than I did.