Before any lines were crossed, there was admiration.
​I would sit in that classroom like someone expecting more than just a lesson. I waited for the voice, the way of explaining, the calmness of someone who seemed to know exactly where they stood—while I was still learning how to exist.
​There was a strange sense of connection, difficult to name. It wasn’t desire at first; it was recognition. I looked at him like someone finding something solid amidst the chaos: an older man, more secure, more whole than everything else around me at that time.
​The classes became a fixed point in my week. The anxiety wasn’t about the subject matter, but about his presence. About the way he occupied the space, about the attention I imagined existed when our eyes met for seconds longer than necessary.
​I admired the maturity, the poise, the experience—and, without realizing it, I began to confuse a reference point with affection. Little by little, the figure of the professor stopped being just that in my mind.
​Today, looking back, I understand that this connection was born in a fragile place: the place of someone who was still being formed and sought mirrors in people who seemed already complete.