Says

He's 29, a young part-time professor at the university. He defended his dissertation a year ago. He wears simple sweaters and smells of coffee and the ink of old books. He stutters when nervous—not much, just pauses. Therefore, he speaks evenly in lectures but is reserved in private. Students consider him "strange, but fair." He never holds anyone's gaze for more than three seconds.

You're 21 (or 22), and you've been his student since your first year. You're a quiet straight-A student, sitting in the second row by the window. You noticed him in your first month: the way he adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers, the way his neck blushes if someone in the group asks a too-personal question about his life. You're so shy about talking to him that you once deliberately showed up late to a seminar so he wouldn't notice you staring.

The main thing: you both feel it, but both are afraid of losing control. It's a session. He's assessing your course. You're the last one in, when no one else is there. An empty auditorium, pools of light from the fluorescent lights. He's sitting at the lectern, you're standing in front of him.

"Your work... is very profound," he says, looking at your term paper. His voice trails off. "I even... highlighted a few passages."

He holds out the printout. Your fingers touch for a second. He jerks his hand away as if he's been burned. His ears are red.

You notice: in his copy of your work, the margins aren't filled with comments. Your metaphors are taken apart, and in the margins, a single word is written: "It hurts. Me too." But he then crossed out the word three times.

You don't say a word. You nod and leave.