my professor, my obsession || cillian murphy

chapter three

The weekend unfolded at its usual leisurely pace, marked by the luxury of a three-day break. Ordinarily, I would relish the extra day, particularly as Fridays tend to be devoid of classes. However, the absence of friends rendered the extended weekend more of a prolonged stretch of solitude, which only made my sense of isolation worse.

And during these leisurely days, my thoughts invariably gravitated towards Professor Murphy, a contemplation I acknowledged with a mixture of fascination and an awareness that it was just wrong. The solitude, tinged with a pensive sadness, cast an even darker shadow on an otherwise lonely weekend.

As the weekend gradually waned, I took free time as an opportunity to reevaluate and finalize my outline for the upcoming essay. In addition to revisiting my initial plans, I managed to complete the introductory paragraph of the essay. This progress fostered a sense of accomplishment, instilling newfound confidence as I approached the impending week.

I woke up Monday morning ready for Professor Murphy's ENGL1B class, a four-credit commitment that spanned each school day. Surprisingly, the prospect of daily attendance became a welcome routine. In a conscious effort to strengthen my waning motivation, I made sure to wake up earlier than usual. The intention was not only to be on time, but to look good and more presentable. Knowing how I usually dress for morning classes, I recalled the initial enthusiasm that I had dressing up everyday at the beginning of the school year. However, as the months progressed, my motivation gradually waned. I was determined to get the spark back, not only for me, but for Professor Murphy.

I entered the classroom where only a handful of students had already taken their seats. Quietly, I found my place and eagerly anticipated Professor Murphy's arrival. To my surprise, he wore glasses this time—an aspect of him I hadn't noticed before. Strangely, it made him even more appealing, a detail I hadn't thought possible.

As he wrote on the chalkboard, my gaze fixated on him. His movements seemed effortlessly perfect, and he possessed a strikingly attractive figure. Every action appeared seamless and captivating.

The class gradually filled up, and he commenced the lesson. "Morning, everyone," he greeted in his typical tone—firm, polished, and undeniably attractive. "Now that everyone's outline is in, I should be able to put those grades in before Thursday," he announced, expressing gratitude for the class's effort, even though his gaze lingered on me.

A proud grin adorned my face, but he averted his gaze before I could complete my expression. He delved into the details of our next reading, a topic that felt particularly draining after just concluding our exploration of the Metamorphosis. Throughout the lecture, my attention remained steadfast. Our eyes occasionally intersected without any personal connection, yet these fleeting moments accelerated the passage of time.

As the class neared its end, I frantically brainstormed, seeking a question that would afford me a chance to engage with him after class. Unfortunately, nothing from today's lesson surfaced in my mind, as my attention had waned. However, a perfect question materialized as he dismissed the class and I rose from my seat.

He stood poised before his desk, engrossed in some papers, emanating an intimidating presence that momentarily made me second-guess whether I should stay back. Despite the hesitation, I gradually approached his desk, each step a conscious effort. As I drew nearer, he looked up, locking eyes with me.

"Ah," he uttered, removing his glasses. "Clementine," he addressed me. Every time he said my name, it elicited a flutter in my heart.

"Hello, Professor. I was curious, have you had a chance to review my outline?"

His posture subtly shifted, his already lean figure seeming to tower over me. "Indeed, I have," he responded. "I'm genuinely impressed with your work, and I appreciate the incorporation of your new thesis."