I (20F) honestly feel sick even writing this. College was supposed to be a safe place but my professor (45M) is making it feel like a nightmare. It started small. Compliments about my work, extra attention in class, personal questions that had nothing to do with my assignments. I brushed it off at first thinking maybe I was overthinking. Then the texts started. You are different from everyone else, he said. I feel something special for you. When he said that my stomach dropped. He controls my grades, my recommendations and part of my future. I cannot just ignore him without consequences. I feel trapped. Angry. Afraid. I do not want this. I have tried avoiding him, staying professional but it is impossible. Every time I see him my chest tightens. I should not feel unsafe where I am supposed to learn. I do not know how to make him stop without risking my education.
The first time he singled me out, I thought it meant I was doing well. He praised my essay in front of the entire class, saying it had “depth and maturity.” I blushed, proud of the work I had put in. He smiled back — too long, too steady — and something in that smile made me uneasy. I ignored the discomfort because I didn’t want to believe that a teacher could cross a line. Professors were supposed to be mentors, not people you feared.
But soon his attention became difficult to escape. He asked where I liked to study, what music I listened to, even if I was seeing anyone. His questions didn’t sound academic, but I convinced myself he was just being friendly. He was twice my age, after all. I assumed he couldn’t possibly mean anything by it. I didn’t realize that people like him build comfort first — they make you feel seen, then they make you feel small.
After the first few messages, my anxiety began to follow me everywhere. Every buzz from my phone made my stomach twist. What if it was him? What if I didn’t respond? What if I did, and said the wrong thing? I reread his texts over and over, trying to find a polite way to make him stop without making him angry. I told myself I just needed to keep the peace until the semester ended.
In class, he started treating me differently. When I raised my hand, he’d smile in a way that felt too personal. When I didn’t, he’d call on me anyway. I could feel other students noticing. I stopped sitting near the front; I stopped volunteering answers. I wanted to disappear into the back row, but even that didn’t protect me. He found me after class, asking if I’d walk with him to his office. I made excuses — meetings, deadlines, errands — anything to keep a safe distance.
It wasn’t enough. The messages kept coming. You make teaching feel alive again. You see me. I can’t stop thinking about our conversations. I never gave him permission to say these things, yet I felt guilty, as if I had caused them somehow. I started doubting my own instincts — maybe I had smiled too much, maybe my tone had been too warm in an email. I kept rewriting my own memories, trying to find the moment when I had supposedly invited this. But there wasn’t one.
Power doesn’t always announce itself loudly; sometimes it hides behind compliments and attention. What he said always came wrapped in softness, but underneath it was control. When I tried to distance myself, he punished me in small, deliberate ways. He took longer to grade my papers. He ignored my questions in class. Once, he “forgot” to mark my attendance. It was subtle enough that I couldn’t prove anything, but I knew what he was doing — reminding me who held the power.
I started avoiding the entire building. I changed my route across campus, skipped his lectures, and begged my friends for their notes. Every time I passed the hallway where his office was, my heart began racing. I told myself I was overreacting, but then I’d see another message from him: I wish you trusted me enough to talk. I miss seeing you smile. We have something rare.
The more he reached out, the smaller my world became. I stopped sleeping properly. I stopped talking to my parents because I didn’t want to worry them. I stopped trusting myself. The university felt like a maze I couldn’t escape from — and he was at every exit.
One afternoon, I was sitting in the library when my friend Clara noticed how pale I looked. “You okay?” she asked. I hesitated before answering, but the words slipped out before I could stop them. “My professor keeps texting me,” I said quietly. She frowned. “About what?”
I showed her the messages. She read them in silence for a long time, her jaw tightening. “This isn’t okay,” she said finally. “You need to tell someone.”
“I can’t,” I said immediately. “He writes my recommendation letters. He’s the reason I got my internship last year. If he turns against me, I’m finished.”
Clara leaned forward. “You’re not finished. He’s the one breaking the rules, not you.”
I wanted to believe her, but fear had already built its nest inside me. People admired him. He was published, respected, charming. If I reported him, he’d twist it around. He’d say I misunderstood, that I was exaggerating, that I was the one seeking attention. I’d seen this happen before — whispers about a “troublesome student” who ruined a good professor’s career. I didn’t want that to be me.
Still, something inside me cracked the day he cornered me outside the lecture hall. He smiled as though nothing was wrong. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said lightly. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”
I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. “I’ve just been busy.”
“You can tell me if you’re scared,” he said. His tone shifted — quieter, more intimate. “You don’t need to hide from me. I understand you better than anyone.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I stepped back and muttered something about another class. I ran until I reached the dorms, my hands shaking so hard I could barely swipe my keycard. That night I decided I couldn’t keep living like this.
The next morning, I went to the Title IX office. My voice trembled as I told them everything. The woman listening didn’t interrupt; she just nodded and asked me to forward the messages. She told me I wasn’t alone — that other students had come forward before in similar situations. The relief was mixed with fear. What if he found out I reported him? What if it made things worse?
For days, I avoided my inbox. Then, one afternoon, I received an email from the department chair. It was short and formal: “Dr. ___ has been placed on administrative leave pending investigation. Your coursework will be reassigned to another instructor.”
I sat staring at the screen for a long time. It was over — or at least, that part was. But I didn’t feel victorious. I felt hollow. When people talk about justice, they don’t tell you about the exhaustion that follows. You carry the fear even when it’s gone.
Word spread quickly across campus. Rumors bloomed, twisting into strange shapes — some said he was sick, others that he’d taken a sabbatical. No one mentioned me, but I could feel the whispers circling. I started sitting in the cafeteria corners, afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.
Healing didn’t happen overnight. I still woke up sometimes thinking I saw his name flash across my phone. I still felt my heart race when a male professor leaned too close. But slowly, I began to reclaim parts of myself that I had lost — my voice, my confidence, my trust in my own intuition.
I joined a student group that supported survivors of academic misconduct. At first, I just listened. Eventually, I started helping others write statements, gather evidence, or find the right offices to contact. Each time I helped someone, I felt stronger — as if the fear that had silenced me was finally being turned into something useful.
There’s one memory I return to often. A girl came to one of our meetings, shaking and near tears. “My professor keeps sending me messages,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.” I sat beside her, holding her hand, and said the words I had once needed to hear: “You’re not overreacting. You deserve to feel safe.”
It still hurts, sometimes, to remember how powerless I once felt. But now I understand something I didn’t then: silence protects the wrong people. Speaking up is terrifying, but it’s also the first step toward freedom.
College was supposed to be a place for learning. And it still is — though what I learned was not in any syllabus. I learned that authority doesn’t always equal integrity. That fear can disguise itself as politeness. And that even when someone tries to take your power, you can take it back.
The investigation ended months later. I was never told the details, only that “appropriate action” had been taken. I didn’t need to know more. I had already chosen to move forward — to rebuild, to graduate, to leave that building and its ghosts behind.
Now, when I walk past the university gates, I feel a strange mix of grief and pride. I lost something there — innocence, trust — but I gained something else too: the certainty that my voice matters, that my boundaries are worth defending, that fear doesn’t define me.
I don’t know if he thinks about me anymore. I don’t want to know. What matters is that I’m free from that shadow. What matters is that the girl who once felt trapped now stands tall. And when I see another student hesitating, doubting herself, I tell her what I’ve learned the hardest way possible — that courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it just whispers, enough.