my professor, my obsession || cillian murphy

chapter eighteen

Following a lengthy conversation with David, I sat on my bed, consumed by thoughts. Shock and disbelief overwhelmed me; it seemed as though my world was crumbling. Hastily, I scoured my computer for flights to San Francisco, settling on the earliest option: this Thursday, the 11th. With little alternative, I booked it, only to be interrupted by a call from Cillian.

I answered immediately. "Hey, Cillian," I greeted, my voice carrying the weight of sadness.

He paused for a moment. "Are you alright? You sound different," he observed.

"No," I replied.

"What's going on, Clementine?"

"I really need you right now," I pleaded.

"I'll come pick you up," he assured. "Just stay put. I'll be there shortly," he promised.

"Thank you," I breathed out, feeling a sense of relief. He ended the call, leaving me to wait, attempting to distract myself, although the weight of everything crashing down made it nearly impossible. Cillian was my only hope.

When I got the text that he was here, I hurried down to the parking lot, quickly spotting his car. Despite the small crowd of students in the lot, I stealthily made my way to Cillian's car and got inside, greeted by the comforting warmth and the familiar scent of his air freshener.

For a brief moment, we simply gazed at each other, his eyes reflecting concern while mine struggled to contain the tears threatening to spill.

Come here," he murmured softly, leaning in for a hug that brought forth an outpouring of tears as I collapsed into his embrace.

Sobbing against his chest, I felt his arms squeeze me with a reassuring strength, his head resting gently against mine. He didn't even know what was wrong yet, he was just there, and that's all I needed.

"You wanna come back to mine and talk?" He asked as we slowly released the hug.

"Yes," I replied, sniffling.

He nodded, wiping away the tears from my cheeks with his thumb. "Alright," he murmured, then started the car. The ride to his apartment was silent, but it felt oddly comforting. This time, he drove at a steady pace, periodically glancing at me to ensure I was alright.

While we walked from the parking lot and up the stairs to his apartment, Cillian maintained a comforting hand on my lower back, instilling a sense of security within me. Stepping inside, I realized that his apartment was now starting to feel like home. I felt comfortable, protected.

"Talk to me," he urged, settling onto the couch. I joined him, feeling the weight of his expectation in his words. "Tell me what's going on." It was more of a demand than a request.

"It's family stuff," I began, mentally rehearsing my words. "My dad hit my mom." I observed the shift in Cillian's expression—his worried eyes widened slightly, and he repositioned himself, leaning in closer to me. Without interrupting, he encouraged me to proceed.

"My brother called me a few hours ago and told me everything. Apparently, my dad's not staying at home anymore, and my mom's basically neglecting my twelve-year-old brother," I explained, the weight of the situation heavy in the air.

Cillian listened intently, his expression a mixture of concern and empathy. After a moment of silence, he reached out and gently squeezed my hand in reassurance before speaking. "Clementine," he started, "I'm so, terribly sorry. And I hate to say this, because I have no place, but I think you need to go back home."

Glancing down at his hand in mine, then meeting his gaze, I continued, "I know. I've already booked a flight."

His expression shifted into one I had never witnessed before, a mixture of surprise and worry, and even a tinge of sadness. I could tell he was still processing the flood of emotions, trying to find the right words to express them.