Chapter 3: Stalked and Slandered

It would’ve made a great feel-good feature for the alumni magazine. But life isn’t a Hallmark movie.

But the story took a dark turn.

Sometimes, I wish I could rewind and stop everything before it went wrong. But stories don’t work like that. Once the line is crossed, there’s no going back.

I always treated him like a little brother.

I really did. I never saw him as anything else. I teased him, gave him advice about girls, even tried to set him up with a friend once. I thought I was being a good mentor.

But he saw me as prey.

Looking back, there were signs. The way he looked at me sometimes... The way he lingered in conversations. I chalked it up to awkwardness, to hero worship. I never thought he’d cross the line.

The first night of freshman year, he confessed.

We were sitting on the quad, watching the campus lights flicker. He turned to me, eyes shining with something I couldn’t name.

"Alyssa, I like you! Be my girlfriend!"

—Eric Morales is a sexual predator.

The words echoed in my head as I stared at the chat box. I wanted to scream them from the rooftops. But I hesitated. What good would it do? Would anyone listen?

After typing those words in the chat, I felt like I’d poured out all my strength.

My hands shook. My stomach churned. I could feel the old panic rising, the urge to run, to disappear. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the blinking cursor.

Before I hit send, I hesitated. I’ve always hated him, thought even a beating wouldn’t be enough for what he did. A few years in prison was too light.

But I also didn’t want any more ties to him. We crossed paths once in this life—never again. Letting him go was really just letting myself go.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Maybe it was time to move on, to stop letting him have power over me. But the anger, the injustice—it wouldn’t let go.

With a sigh, I started erasing the words, one by one.

—Eric Morales is a sexual predator!

—Eric Morales is a

—Eric Morales

My fingers hovered over the delete button, but I couldn’t bring myself to finish. It felt like erasing part of my story, my truth.

Meanwhile, in the livestream, Eric was reciting his life story like it was some kind of poem, painting a picture of redemption after prison.

He had the whole routine down. Regret, remorse, hope for the future. It was a performance, and the audience ate it up. I wanted to reach through the screen and shake him.

He said he wanted to start over, turn his life around.

He talked about second chances, about forgiveness. But not once did he mention what he’d actually done. He let everyone assume he was just another guy who got a raw deal.

I didn’t want to listen. If it were anyone else, I’d wish them well. But for Eric, who hurt me, I selfishly wanted him to stay miserable, to never crawl out of the hole he dug.

It’s not revenge—it’s just wanting justice. Wanting him to know what it feels like to be powerless, to have your story twisted by someone else.

I wouldn’t seek revenge, but I hoped the world would teach him a lesson.

Maybe that makes me petty. I don’t care. Some things you can’t just forgive and forget.

—Eric

With only the last letter left in the comment box, Eric started reminiscing about his college days.

"What I remember most is sophomore year, on Thanksgiving. The moon was so bright that night!"

Clatter!

My phone slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor.

The sound jolted me back to reality. My heart was racing. I stared at the shattered screen, feeling the old terror creeping in.

My whole body went cold. I started shaking uncontrollably.

It was like being sixteen again, trapped in that moment. The room felt too small, the air too thin. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to keep from falling apart.

I looked up, staring at that face on the screen—the face that could fool anyone. He was laughing.

That laugh—it was the same as before. Carefree, confident, like he’d already won. It made my skin crawl.