*This is an embarrassing, pathetic, very true story of something that plagues me. I thought writing it down might help, but it only made it worse.*
I was doomed the moment his voice first played through my headphones; deep, yet gentle, and laced with witty sarcasm. I’ve always had a thing for men who could nail a dry sense of humor, and an even bigger thing for intelligence and passion for literature. Though miles away in years and separated by our respective titles, I found we had much in common. I listened to him echo certain beliefs and interests that I have, and this made me all the more curious about him— the man who haunts my sleepless nights— my former professor.
Twice a week, our class would meet online to discuss interesting stories and learn about a particular genre of literature. Each class left me more inspired and delighted than the last. I’d join every meeting as early as possible and wait for his face to appear in his box, where he’d then launch into what he had planned for the following hour. I participated heavily to hear his thoughts on what I took away from each story. Every time he gave me positive feedback, I found myself filled with a giddy excitement.