“There’s a level of trust that isn’t there”

When I walked out of a meeting with a professor to hyperventilate in the privacy of an empty Arts building bathroom, I knew my situation had become precarious. But it was late March of my third year, the busiest time of my busiest semester, and I had to return to his office. I walked back in and sat down. My professor discretely pushed a box of Kleenex across the desk. I hadn’t realized that I was still crying. We agreed that I would get the first 25 pages of my honours thesis to him by Friday.