my professor, my obsession || cillian murphy

chapter twenty eight

       As I laid in my bed, it felt like depression was weighing on me like a heavy blanket. Three days had passed since Christmas, yet my parents' absence was still there. The silence between Cillian and me had grown, which was an unintended consequence of our busy lives pulling us in separate directions. It felt as though he was slowly slipping away, each day distancing us a little more, and the thought made my stomach turn. I reached for my phone, fingers hesitating over the screen as I contemplated who to call. Perhaps I could try Dad again, despite the disappointment of all the unanswered calls. If not him, then maybe Cillian. With a resolve tinged with uncertainty, I dialed Dad's number, silently hoping for a different outcome this time.

The phone rang, each tone echoing in my ears, my heart pounding with anticipation. "Please pick up," I whispered to myself, a silent plea reverberating in my mind.

Finally, his tired voice broke through the silence, which both comforted and worried me. "Hi Clementine," he greeted, the weariness evident in his tone. "Merry Christmas," he added.

I paused for a second. "Christmas was three days ago, Dad," I replied, my tone tinged with a mix of resignation and frustration, "but thanks, anyway."

His voice softened, carrying the weight of an apology. "I'm sorry, my phone died, I had nowhere to charge it," he explained.

"Where are you living?" I asked, concern evident in my voice. His silence spoke volumes. "Dad, just come home. David's fine. I don't understand why you just ignore your children and neglect us like this."

"I'm sorry," he offered, his voice heavy with regret, "but can't you understand why I wouldn't want to come home? David hates me–"

"I don't fucking care! He's your son!" I interjected, my frustration boiling over into anger. "Dad, you better get over here. Tonight. David will survive, I know deep down he wants you here. He thinks he's tough, but he's only twelve." My voice softened, a vulnerable plea slipping through the cracks of my anger. "And... I'm your daughter. I want you here." Despite my resentment, I yearned for his presence, craving the stability and guidance only a parent could provide.

He sighed. "Okay," he relented, the tension in his voice easing slightly, "I'll be there."

"Thank you, Dad," I said, gratitude mixed with lingering hurt.

"Don't thank me," he replied solemnly."I'm the last person you need to be thanking."

I nodded to myself, a silent agreement with his sentiment. "See you soon," I said before hanging up, the promise of his arrival offering the slightest glimmer of hope.

***

        I was in the midst of preparing dinner for David and I when the doorbell rang. My attention immediately shifted to David, who was comfortably sprawled on the couch.

"I got it," David said, pushing himself up from the couch to answer the door.

"Wait, David–" I began, but he was already on his way.

David swung the door open, revealing Dad standing on the other side, a guilty expression etched across his face. "Hey kiddo," Dad greeted, his voice tinged with remorse.

"Dad?" David's tone held a mixture of surprise and curiosity. "Why are you here?"

I hurried over to the door, eager to bridge any potential awkwardness. "David, I invited him," I interjected, offering a reassuring smile as I gently closed the door behind Dad, welcoming him in.

"Why didn't you tell me?" David's voice crackled with anger now, his brows furrowing deeply. "You went behind my back?"

"David, I knew you wouldn't agree to him coming here," I confessed, my tone tinged with regret. It was the truth, after all. "Please. We need to find a solution together. This can't be our dynamic forever."