my professor, my obsession || cillian murphy

chapter one

   Anxiously seated, I awaited the commencement of the class, one of the first to arrive due to recent struggles with tardiness that Professor Murphy had been quick to address. Over the weeks of his tenure, his strict teaching methods and demeanor, somehow both intimidating and attractive, became increasingly more intense. My gaze fixated on him, my crush deepening with each passing moment.

As the weeks progressed, my academic performance remained steady until the latest paper, where I failed miserably. I braced myself for the impending reminder from Professor Murphy, fully aware of his unwavering strictness.

Leaning casually on the front side of his desk, Professor Murphy smoothly scanned the attendance paper and the faces in the room. Once finished, he neatly stacked the papers on his desk and began speaking.

"First things first, most of you did a great job on your analysis," he remarked, a rare smile gracing his features briefly before fading. Then, his gaze zeroed in on me. "I strongly encourage those of you that did not to come see me and have a chat." As his eyes finally moved away from me, I felt flustered. My cheeks burned, probably turning red, and I hoped the dim lighting near my seat concealed it. Though directed at me, I hesitated to talk to him, for I tend to struggle with confrontations, especially with him – my sternest professor thus far.

Upon arriving at CU Boulder, Professor Murphy wasted no time settling in before implementing substantial changes to our class. The transition from Ms. Luvlend's constructive criticism to his more assertive approach felt like an abrupt shift. Admittedly, writing was never my forte, but Professor Murphy's critiques on my last two essays seemed excessively harsh, almost seeing personal.

In Professor Murphy's class, my attention wavered between the lecture and my persistent fascination with his striking appearance. My gaze lingered on every detail, becoming somewhat obsessive and, unfortunately, affecting my academic focus.

Suddenly, he called my name, and the collective eyes of the class were on me. "Clementine, surely you could give us an example of any kind of themes represented?"

Lifting my eyebrows, I refocused on his question about themes in Kafka's "Metamorphosis." Glancing at the book in front of me, I couldn't confess that I hadn't read it yet, and my distraction was entirely attributed to him.

I hesitated for a moment under his intense yet flattering gaze before responding with a basic answer, "Anxiety," my eyes lingering on his for a few moments longer than necessary.

His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. "Very good," he mumbled, turning around to write the word on the board. "But it's isolation itself that makes him so anxious in the first place," he continued, then shifted his attention to the rest of the class. "Is there anyone else willing to add on?" The class continued, but my focus remained on those captivating eyes of his. As the end of class approached, the pit in my stomach grew.

I I fixated on the clock, each second dragging on painfully slow until Professor Murphy unexpectedly concluded the class 30 minutes ahead of schedule.

"I think we're done for the day," he announced after a pause, "remember to start your thesis for your new analysis; I have high expectations for most of you."

With a tinge of shame, I glanced down, gathering my belongings. Suddenly, my entire body froze as his hauntingly familiar, smooth voice called my name from across the hall.

"Clementine, please stay back," he requested. I raised my gaze, observing the classroom emptying out. Professor Murphy leaned against his desk, his eyebrows lifted as he maintained his stare. I nodded once, swiftly packing my belongings into my black Jansport backpack before making my way over to his desk.