I met him on the DART on a wet Tuesday evening, the kind of evening when everyone in Dublin looks like they are carrying the weather home with them. I was standing near the doors at Tara Street with a broken umbrella dripping onto my shoes, trying not to cry after a long day in a job I hated. He offered me a tissue first, then a seat when someone got off at Pearse. His name was Ciarán. He had kind eyes, a navy coat, and a way of speaking that made ordinary things feel considered.
We got off at the same stop in Dún Laoghaire. I thought that was the end of it, but he turned around on the platform and said, “Would it be very forward to ask if you’d like a coffee sometime?” It was forward, but not frightening. I had been single for two years after a relationship that left me feeling like I had to apologise for taking up space. So I said yes.
For three months, he became the brightest part of my week. We met in small places where nobody seemed to know us: coffee near Grand Canal Dock, a drink in Grogan’s, walks along the pier in Dún Laoghaire when the wind made conversation ridiculous. He told me he worked in consultancy. He said he lived alone in Blackrock. He said he had no children, no ex drama, no complicated past. Looking back, that last part should have warned me. Real adults are nearly always complicated in some way.
He was careful, but I mistook it for tenderness. He never stayed the night, and I told myself he was respectful. He rarely answered calls in front of me, and I told myself he had boundaries. He preferred weekdays, early evenings, places slightly away from the centre, and I told myself he was tired. When my friends asked why they hadn’t met him, I said we were taking it slowly. The truth was, I was afraid to question something that felt good.
The first crack appeared in St Stephen’s Green. We were sitting on a bench with takeaway tea when a little girl ran past in a red coat. He watched her for a second too long, with a softness I had never seen in him. I asked if he wanted children someday. He smiled, but it landed badly on his face. “Maybe,” he said. “Life is funny.” Then he changed the subject to a film he wanted to see.
A week later, he left his phone on the table while he went to the toilet in a café near George’s Street Arcade. It lit up with a message from someone called Aoife. I did not open it. I only saw the preview: “Ella has a temperature. Can you come home early?” My whole body went cold. When he came back, I asked who Ella was. He looked at the phone, then at me, and in that pause I understood more than any answer could tell me.
He said he should have told me. He said his marriage had been over “emotionally” for a long time. He said he was sleeping in the spare room. He said Aoife knew they were unhappy. He said he was going to leave, but the timing was difficult because of their daughter. He said all the things married men in stories say, and I hated myself for recognising the script only when I was already inside it.
I walked out before he finished. He followed me as far as Dame Street, speaking softly, urgently, like a man trying not to cause a scene. I remember buses passing, the smell of rain on hot brakes, people moving around us with shopping bags and headphones. He kept saying my name. I kept thinking
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
