Handcuffed to a Stranger at 19
Part 2: Why College was the Worst 4 Years of My Life
Hi, friend. This is part two of my college series, where I share my challenging experiences at UNC. The post below takes place in the spring semester of my freshman year. If you missed part one, you can find it here.
*Deciding to share this series wasn’t easy. Writing it brought up memories I’d rather forget. But as a young college student, I often wished for stories like these—raw, honest, and real. I’m sharing this now in hopes that it reaches someone who needs to know they’re not alone.
I return to UNC in the winter of 2011, my chest heavy with a mix of dread and determination. My first semester had been nothing like I imagined—lonely, confusing, and full of moments that left me questioning myself. It took every ounce of courage to come back, but what other choice did I have? I tell myself that spring semester is a clean slate, a chance to start over.
“Things will get better,” my parents had told me over break. “It just takes time to meet people. You have to put yourself out there.”
I’m trying to believe them. So, when one of my sorority sisters suggests setting me up with her family friend for an upcoming fraternity party, I say yes.
“Sarah-Frances, you have to go,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement. “He’s gorgeous, comes from a really good family, and when I showed him your picture, he said, ‘Hell yeah, set me up.’ You two are going to hit it off.”
Her confidence is contagious, but I feel a knot forming in my stomach. Blind dates make me nervous. I’ve never been on one before, but she assures me this is how things work in college. “Everyone gets set up for cocktails,” she says with a wave of her hand.
I’m uneasy about the process—especially knowing he had to approve my picture before agreeing—but I brush it aside. Maybe this is what it takes to find where I fit in. Maybe this is how things will finally turn around.
Saturday night arrives, and I’m in my sorority sister’s dorm room, standing in front of her full-length mirror. I smooth the strapless purple dress she let me borrow and ask, “What do you think?”
“I love it,” she says, tilting her head. “But maybe try a strapless push-up. Give yourself a little more to work with.”
I hesitate but comply, figuring she knows best. When I glance back at the mirror, I barely recognize myself. For a moment, I think about changing into something more comfortable, something that feels more me. But I push the thought away. I want my date to like me, and this, I’m learning, is how it’s done.
My friend sits cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone and rattling off last-minute details about my date.
“He’s an amazing soccer player,” she says casually. “Went to Charlotte Country Day—it’s, like, the nicest school in Charlotte. He’s in one of the Big Four frats and just got into the B-school.” (I’d recently learned that “B-school” is slang for UNC’s competitive business program.)
I nod, curling the last section of my hair, but my stomach flutters with nerves. My friend suddenly perks up and says, “Okay, He’s here, He’s here! Hurry up! He just texted me—he’s pulling up now.”
My heart races, the same way it did before shooting free throws in high school basketball games. It’s go time.
When I step outside, the crisp January air hits me. A sleek black Audi A5 is parked out front. My date steps out to open the door for me, and I’m a little taken aback. He’s as handsome as promised—tall, confident, and effortlessly charming. But something about his self-assuredness puts me slightly on edge.
“Hi, I’m Sarah-Frances,” I say, smiling.
He grins back. “I’m Will. It’s nice to meet you.”
There’s an instant attraction, but something about his confidence feels rehearsed, like he’s always been the kind of person who gets what he wants.
The conversation in the car starts off light and easy. He asks about my major, my classes, and how I’m liking UNC so far. For a moment, I let myself relax.
Then he asks, “Where are you from?”
“Greensboro,” I reply.
“Oh, nice. Greensboro Day?” he guesses, naming the city’s prestigious private school.
“No, Southeast Guilford,” I say. “It’s a public school just outside the city.”
His smile falters. “Oh. Nice,” he says, his tone noticeably flatter. “I’ve never heard of it.”
The silence that follows is brief, but it feels heavy. I’m glad the car is dark because I can feel my cheeks burning. He moves on to another topic, and I try to keep up, but the moment lingers. His reaction makes me feel small, like I don’t belong here.
The frat house is buzzing when we arrive. From the outside, it looks grand—string lights twinkling against the backdrop of columns. But stepping inside is like stepping into chaos. The air is thick with the sour tang of beer and stale cigar smoke, and the floor sticks to my heels with every step.
Will guides me through the dimly lit rooms, past composite pictures, UNC memorabilia, and signed images of famous alumni. A sense of nostalgia lingers in the air. We walk by dented walls and mismatched furniture that looks like it was salvaged from a curb. Neon Budweiser and Miller Lite signs buzz on the walls, their harsh light spilling over fraternity members already halfway drunk.
“This is our legendary Fifths and Cuffs party,” Will says with a grin.
“Fifths and Cuffs?” I repeat, confused.
“You don’t know what that is?” he laughs. “We get handcuffed to each other and share a fifth of liquor. The only way to get uncuffed is to finish the bottle.”
My stomach drops. I skipped dinner because my dress wasn’t forgiving, and now I’m expected to down half a bottle of Jack Daniels?
“Don’t worry, I’ll drink most of it,” Will says, as if this is supposed to be reassuring.
I force a smile.
Sounds terrible, I think. “Sounds... fun,” I say.
The night spirals quickly. Will pours shot after shot, handing me glass after glass of whiskey. The smoky, bitter taste makes my stomach churn, but I choke it down. After the third shot, I shake my head.
“I can’t,” I say, trying to sound firm. “I need a break.”
Nearby, a guy yells, “Cuff and chug, cuff and chug!”
Will rolls his eyes and suggests we go outside for fresh air. I nod, relieved to escape the bar area.
On the patio, a game of beer pong is in full swing. Before I can protest, Will signals to his friend, “Hey, James! We call next round’!”
I want to disappear. I hate being on display, but I don’t know how to say no. We take our places at the battered ping-pong table, and I realize I’ll have to shoot left-handed because of the cuffs. Each missed shot means another drink.
Across the table, I notice the other girl looks disheveled—her mascara is smudged, her hair is a mess, and she’s slurring her words. I am horrified for her and instinctively want to comb her hair and call her an Uber home. But she’s laughing, and everyone around her seems unbothered.
This is not me. This doesn’t feel right. Why am I here? I think.
I glance around at the other couples, wondering if they’re truly having fun or if we’re all just pretending.
Eventually, I tell Will I need to use the bathroom, the water I’ve been chugging all night in a desperate attempt to avoid getting sick finally catching up with me.
We approach the key keeper, who greets us with a smug grin that makes my stomach tighten.
“Drink up if you want to get unlocked,” he says, dangling the key in front of us before slipping it into his pocket.
Will laughs and does not find this as appalling as I do. I follow him to the bathroom, the cuffs pulling my wrist along like a leash.
Inside, the humiliation sinks in. I’m handcuffed to someone I barely know, and now I have to share a bathroom with him. The tiny room smells faintly of mildew and old beer.
“I’ll turn around,” he says, like this is some grand act of decency.
I awkwardly manage to squat in my heels, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I don’t even let myself think about the absurdity of the situation—what it says about me, about this place. I just want to get out of here.
When I stand and reach for the door, he stops me. His hand catches mine.
“Don’t be in such a rush!” he says, his voice low, almost playful.
My heart pounds as he pulls me closer. The air between us feels heavy, suffocating. He leans in, his breath reeking of whiskey and stale cigar smoke, and kisses me.
I freeze for a moment and push him back, my palms flat against his chest.
“Relax,” he says, grinning as if this is a game.
I laugh nervously, my voice shaky, and edge toward the door. “Come on, let’s go back,” I say, my words trembling but firm enough to make him step aside.
Back on the dance floor, the music pounds, shaking the floor beneath my feet. Couples sway and grind, their bodies pressed together, lost in a haze of alcohol and dim lights.
Will pulls me close, his hand on my waist, then my thigh, lingering in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I try to step back, to create some distance, but the cuffs tighten, and his grip on me holds firm.
“Stop,” I say, my voice sharp, but he doesn’t. His hand slides up my dress, and something in me snaps.
“What are you doing?” I shout, shoving him away as much as possible.
He stumbles back, his drink sloshing over the rim and soaking his shirt. His face hardens, his smile gone in an instant.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” he yells, loud enough that people around us turn to look.
My chest tightens as I feel the weight of their stares—curious, amused, indifferent. I don’t care anymore.
“I’m done,” I say, my voice shaking with anger.
I grab his arm and drag him through the crowd, ignoring his protests.
“Chilllllll, I was just dancing” he says, rolling his eyes like I’m being dramatic.
I stop in front of the key keeper, my eyes blazing. “Unlock us.”
He hesitates, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “Let me see how much you have left.”
I am not playing around this time. I’ve had enough.
“If you don’t unlock us, I’m calling the police,” I snap, my voice loud and cutting through the music.
That does it. He sighs and pulls out the key, unlocking the cuffs with a dramatic gesture. My wrist aches where the metal has rubbed it raw, but I don’t wait to inspect the damage. I’m already walking toward the door.
The cold air bites at my skin as I step outside, but it’s a relief after the suffocating heat of the party. The music fades behind me, replaced by the steady crunch of gravel under my heels.
I walk fast, my breath visible in the icy night air. My thoughts race, spiraling as I replay the night over and over. The bathroom, the dance floor, his hand, his words—they all swirl together in a blur of anger and humiliation.
How did I let this happen? Why didn’t I leave earlier? Why did I even agree to this in the first place?
By the time I reach my dorm, the tears have come and gone, leaving only a hollow ache in their wake. I let myself in quietly, the room dark except for the faint glow of my roommate’s bedside lamp. She’s not here, and I’m grateful for the solitude.
I peel off the dress, my wrist still red and raw, and change into a T-shirt and shorts. The softness of the fabric feels like a small kindness after the night I’ve had and it makes me miss home. I climb into bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pulling at me but sleep refusing to come.
The next morning, my phone buzzes on my desk. It’s my sorority sister checking in.
“So?” she says when I pick up. Her voice is bright, expectant. “How was it? Isn’t he great?”
I pause, unsure how to answer. Finally, I give her a brief rundown, hoping she’ll pick up on the disappointment in my voice.
She doesn’t. Instead, she sighs. She’s annoyed. “I put in a good word for you, you know. What am I supposed to say to him now?”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I sit there, stunned, the phone still pressed to my ear.
What am I supposed to say to him?
I feel the anger rise in my chest—hot and sharp. How can she be disappointed in me, not him?
“Maybe you should tell him to get some manners,” I finally reply, my voice cold.
When I hang up, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the phone in my hand. Her words loop in my head, sharp and relentless.
I put in a good word for you.
My chest tightens. I don’t want to lose her friendship—things already feel precarious enough, and losing a sorority sister would only make it worse. But her friendship doesn’t feel anything like the friendships I left behind at home. It’s all surface-level smiles and silent judgments, like we’re all performing for one another.
I take a shaky breath, but it does nothing to ease the ache spreading through my chest. I don’t know what’s worse—the way last night made me feel or the thought of being on the outside. Alone. Different. Disconnected.
Everyone I know seems to love college. My friends from home, my sisters, the people I see smiling in Instagram photos, arms draped around new friends as if they’ve known them forever. They’re all thriving, and here I am, falling apart in a dorm room I haven’t even bothered to decorate.
I can’t tell my parents. They’ll be disappointed. They’ll tell me to give it more time, to keep trying. I can’t admit to my friends back home that I’m not having the time of my life. I can’t even admit it to myself.
So I decide, for now, I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep pretending. I’ll keep smiling through the small talk, laughing at jokes I don’t find funny, wearing dresses that don’t feel like me.
If it means I can belong—even just a little—I’ll keep losing pieces of myself.
Click here to continue reading the next post in my college series.
*While the stories in this series are all true, names and identifying details have been changed.
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This is a perfect example of discovering an abuser in a crowd and your friend's behavior was so hurtful. Glad you got out, more young women should see this post.
Thanks so much for sharing your story Sarah-Frances and for being vulnerable. I am glad to know it didn’t go any further than that! My college experience was also not all that I was told it should be. I’m sure there are more that feel this way than we know. ❤️