For the first time in my academic career, I had a hot professor. I couldn’t help but stare at her throughout the class. Her name was Elizabeth Anderson, and her class was required for my music business major. After a month of occasional drawn-out glances over her perfectly accessorized reading glasses, I couldn’t help but wonder if the attraction was mutual. This unexpected spark set the stage for an intriguing lesbian love story that I never saw coming.
When I asked her to help with my resume, I knew I was testing dangerous waters. After all, no professor sets aside an evening to review a student’s resume unless there’s something more. And when she suggested meeting at a trendy hotel bar downtown, I knew I had crossed into unfamiliar, exciting territory.
It was 6 p.m. on a Tuesday night when I walked into the softly lit lounge. Elizabeth was already there, her tailored blazer draped casually over the back of her chair, her wine glass catching the amber hues of the room’s lighting.
“Susan,” she greeted with a warm smile that made my knees wobble. “I hope I didn’t drag you too far out of your way.”
“Not at all,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. Truthfully, I would have driven across the state if she’d asked.
We spent hours going over my resume—or at least that’s how the evening began. Soon, the conversation shifted to music, favorite composers, and life experiences. There was a playful undertone to her words, a subtle teasing that kept me enthralled. She genuinely cared about what I had to say, and it felt… electric.
The following week, Elizabeth assigned an extra-credit opportunity: attend a show by a local songwriter who had guest lectured in our class. Only four students showed up, and I was the only one who stayed until the end. When the show wrapped up, she found me at the bar nursing a glass of cider.
“Dedicated to the very end,” she said, sliding onto the stool beside me.
“Just trying to make the most of the opportunity,” I replied, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.
We laughed, exchanged a few lingering glances, and then she asked, “Want to come back to my place? I have a great record collection I think you’d appreciate.”
Her place was exactly what I’d imagined: modern, immaculate, and filled with character. Vinyl records lined one wall, and an elegant suede couch sat in the center of the room. As we settled in with glasses of wine, the tension between us was almost tangible. We talked about the songwriter, her teaching career, and the complications of boundaries.
“This isn’t exactly professional, is it?” she said with a soft chuckle, her gaze steady on mine.
“Probably not,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes searched mine, and then she asked, “Can I kiss you?”
The world seemed to pause. I nodded, a smile breaking across my face. She leaned in, and the kiss was everything I hadn’t realized I needed. Gentle yet consuming, it was the kind of kiss that left you breathless. One kiss turned into another, and before I knew it, my dress lay discarded on her living room floor.
We moved to the couch, the suede cool against my back as she hovered over me. Her hands were firm yet tender, tracing every curve with a reverence that made me feel cherished and desired. Her lips explored my neck, my collarbone, and then lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It was passionate but never rushed, a slow unraveling of the tension that had built between us for weeks.
When it was over, I dressed quickly, my mind swirling with excitement and dread. I didn’t stay the night, though part of me wanted to. The drive home was a haze of emotions: exhilaration, guilt, and that unmistakable pit in my stomach. What the hell had I gotten myself into this time?
The next day, I could hardly focus in class. Elizabeth was as poised as ever, showing no outward sign of what had happened between us. But her eyes lingered on mine a fraction too long, and there was a knowing curve to her lips whenever she spoke my name.
The thrill of our secret was intoxicating, but it didn’t take long for reality to intrude. The first crack appeared in the form of Melissa, a fellow teaching assistant and Elizabeth’s ex-girlfriend. Melissa had always been friendly, if a bit overly curious about my sudden closeness to Elizabeth. One afternoon, she cornered me in the staff lounge.
“You’re spending a lot of time with Elizabeth,” she said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
“She’s been helping me with my resume,” I replied, forcing a smile.
“Hmm. That’s what she told me when we started dating,” Melissa said, her smile razor-sharp. “Just be careful. Elizabeth has a way of… complicating things.”
Her words rattled me, planting seeds of doubt. Over the next few weeks, Melissa’s presence became a thorn in my side. Rumors started circulating about Elizabeth’s “favorite student,” whispers that made their way to other professors and even the department head. I tried to confront Elizabeth about it, but she brushed it off.
“Melissa’s just bitter,” she said, her tone dismissive. “She’ll get over it.”
But it wasn’t just Melissa. One evening, I received an anonymous email: “End it with Elizabeth, or everyone will know.” Attached was a blurry photo of us leaving her apartment together. My stomach dropped. Someone knew, and they were willing to expose us.
I showed the email to Elizabeth, who went pale but stayed composed. “We’ll handle this,” she said firmly. “Trust me.”
But could I? The secrecy, the rumors, and now the threat of exposure were beginning to suffocate me. And then there was Melissa, always lurking, always watching. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had something to do with the email.
The situation reached a boiling point at a faculty gala, where Elizabeth introduced me to an older woman named Catherine. There was an undeniable tension between them, and when Catherine referred to Elizabeth as “more than just an old friend,” my blood ran cold.
Who was Elizabeth, really? And how much of her life had I truly seen?
The questions haunted me as I sat in the small, dimly lit apartment I rented off campus. The city skyline blinked faintly through the rain-streaked window, but my focus was elsewhere—on the journal Elizabeth had handed me before she left abruptly that night. It wasn’t just a collection of professional musings as she had initially implied; it was a roadmap to the parts of her life she hadn’t shown me.
My fingers trembled as I opened the leather-bound book. The first few pages were filled with neat, precise handwriting detailing her early years in academia. Then, as I flipped further, the tone shifted—less guarded, more personal. Mentions of Melissa began to emerge. Elizabeth wrote of their passionate, toxic relationship, of Melissa’s manipulation, and of the heartbreak that followed. My stomach churned as I read about the lies and the betrayal, feeling as if I were intruding on something private and raw.
But then, I came across something that made my breath hitch. A section marked with a simple title: “Susan.” My name stared back at me from the page. She had written about me—about our first meeting, her conflicted feelings, and her fear of crossing boundaries. It was all there, raw and unfiltered. I could almost hear her voice in the words, confessing emotions she had never dared to say out loud.
Tears pricked my eyes as I closed the journal, clutching it to my chest. How could someone so guarded let herself be this vulnerable on paper? And why had she chosen to share it with me now?
The next day, I resolved to confront her. My feet carried me to her office on autopilot, the journal tucked securely in my bag. But when I arrived, I found the door ajar and the room empty. Papers were scattered across the desk, and a half-packed box sat on the floor. A sinking feeling settled in my chest.
“She’s leaving,” a voice said behind me. I turned to see Melissa standing in the hallway, arms crossed, her expression a mix of smugness and pity. “Didn’t you know? She’s accepted a position in another city.”
My heart dropped. “Why are you telling me this?”
Melissa smirked. “Because you deserve to know what kind of person you’ve been wasting your time on. Elizabeth runs when things get complicated. She did it to me, and now she’s doing it to you.”
Her words stung, but I refused to let her see how deeply they affected me. “You don’t know anything about us,” I snapped, brushing past her and storming out of the building.
That evening, I found myself outside Elizabeth’s apartment. The rain had started again, soaking through my coat as I knocked on her door. When she opened it, her expression shifted from surprise to something unreadable.
“Susan,” she said softly, stepping aside to let me in. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I ignored her warning, pulling the journal from my bag and holding it out to her. “Why did you give me this?”
She hesitated, her eyes darting to the journal before meeting mine. “Because you deserved the truth,” she said finally. “I couldn’t leave without letting you see all of me—the good, the bad, and the messy in between.”
Her honesty disarmed me, and for a moment, all the anger and confusion melted away. “You’re leaving?”
She nodded, guilt flickering across her face. “It’s better this way. For both of us.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to run away and leave me to pick up the pieces.”
Elizabeth stepped closer, her hand reaching out to cup my cheek. “I’m not running, Susan. I’m trying to protect you—from Melissa, from this mess, from me.”
I shook my head, tears spilling over. “I don’t need protection, Elizabeth. I need you.”
For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Then, she pulled me into her arms, holding me tightly as if trying to memorize the feel of me against her. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.
“Let me be the judge of that,” I replied, my voice muffled against her shoulder.
We spent the night tangled in each other, our emotions spilling over in whispered confessions and tender touches. It wasn’t just passion—it was a desperate attempt to hold on to something slipping through our fingers.
But as dawn broke, reality set in. Elizabeth’s decision was firm. She had to leave, and no amount of pleading could change her mind.
“I’ll come back for you,” she promised as she stood by the door, her suitcase in hand. “When I’ve figured things out.”
I wanted to believe her, but doubt lingered in the corners of my mind. “I’ll be here,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just don’t take too long.”
She kissed me one last time before walking away, leaving me standing in the doorway with tears streaming down my face.
Weeks turned into months, and life went on. Melissa faded from the picture, her attempts to stir chaos losing their potency. But Elizabeth’s absence was a constant ache, a reminder of what we had and what we lost.
One day, as I walked across campus, my phone buzzed with a new message. It was from Elizabeth. “I’m coming back,” it read. “If you’ll still have me.”
A smile broke through the clouds of doubt, and for the first time in months, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe our story wasn’t over after all.
