Twelve Years Apart: When Lines Blur Between Right and Wrong

“Dr. Harris? I—I’m Emily. Emily Carter. I’m supposed to start tutoring with you today.”

I remember the moment so clearly, like a sharp jolt in my chest. I looked up, expecting another nervous freshman, but the girl in the doorway seemed both older and younger than her eighteen years. Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steady. I stood to shake her hand, but my own fingers were cold with a strange anticipation.

Of course, I’d seen her name on my roster. But seeing the actual person was different. She had a way of making the room seem smaller, as if suddenly we were the only two people in the world. I forced myself to focus on her transcript, not her curious gaze.

“Have a seat, Emily. Let’s talk about what you need help with.”

She smiled, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m struggling with statistics. I thought I’d be good at it, but… I’m just not.”

I nodded, trying to keep it professional. “That’s what I’m here for. We’ll get you through it.”

For the first few sessions, things stayed strictly academic. She’d show up with her laptop and a notebook full of messy numbers. But little by little, our conversations drifted.

“So, you went to Northwestern too?” she asked one afternoon, glancing at my framed diploma.

“Yeah. It feels like a lifetime ago.”

She bit her lip. “I was six when you graduated.”

The words hit me like a punch. Six. My face must have shown my discomfort, because she added quickly, “Sorry. That makes it sound weird.”

“It’s just—twelve years is a lot,” I said, not meeting her eyes. “You’re an adult, but still so young.”

She shrugged. “I get that a lot. People think I’m naïve, but I know what I want.”

I wanted to ask, “And what do you want?” But I bit my tongue.

The real trouble started when my sister, Lauren, invited me over for dinner. She always tried to set me up with her friends or coworkers, certain I’d never find someone on my own.

“Any cute students this semester?” Lauren teased, pouring me a glass of wine.

I laughed it off. “No. That’s not how it works.”

But inside, I felt a burning shame. Was I just another cliché? The professor lusting after a student?

The next week, Emily lingered after her session. “You seem sad lately. Is there something wrong?”

I almost told her. I almost confessed everything. Instead, I said, “Just tired.”

She touched my arm—a light, electric touch. “You can talk to me, you know.”

I stepped back, heart pounding. “Emily, I think we need to keep things strictly academic.”

Her eyes darkened. “Why? Because of my age?”

I hesitated. She was eighteen, technically an adult. But I still felt like the responsible one. The world would see me as a predator, not a man caught off-guard by something he couldn’t control.

“It’s not just your age,” I said finally. “It’s… everything. The power dynamic. The way this could look.”

She looked hurt. “Do you really care what people think?”

I wanted to say no. But I cared too much. About my job. My reputation. My family.

Later that night, I stared at my ceiling, replaying the moment over and over. I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced with what-ifs and regrets.

At Thanksgiving, Lauren brought it up again. “You okay, Greg? You look wrecked.”

I snapped. “I’m fine. Just—work stuff.”

My mom gave me a look. “You work too hard. Maybe you need to meet someone.”

I laughed bitterly. “Maybe.”

The next week, Emily didn’t come to tutoring. I told myself I was relieved, but part of me missed her presence—her certainty, her stubbornness.

Then, one rainy Friday, she showed up at my office, soaked and shivering.

“I failed the midterm,” she said softly. “I—I needed to see you.”

I handed her a towel and sat beside her. “It’s just a test, Emily. It’s not the end of the world.”

She looked at me, eyes shining. “I’m not here about the test.”

“I can’t.” My voice broke. “Not while you’re my student. Not like this.”

She stood abruptly, anger and pain in her voice. “You think I don’t know that? I just thought… maybe you’d fight for me.”

She walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Winter settled in, cold and unrelenting. I threw myself into work, ignoring the ache in my chest. Rumors started to swirl—small whispers from colleagues about my closeness with a certain student. I denied everything, but the guilt gnawed at me.

When the semester ended, Emily sent me a letter. She was transferring to another university. She wrote, “I wish things could be different. I wish you’d let yourself be happy, just once.”

I read her words over and over, the paper trembling in my hands. I thought about all the lines we draw in life—between right and wrong, love and propriety, duty and desire.

I never saw Emily again. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder: Did I do the right thing, or did I let fear dictate my life? How many of us walk away from something real because we’re too scared of what the world might say?