The last text I sent her was not angry. That surprised me most. After two years of loving someone in a way that made my hands shake, I thought the ending would be dramatic, something with blame in it, something that would make her finally understand me. Instead, I sat on a bench by the Grand Canal near Portobello, rain collecting on the sleeves of my coat, and typed, “I hope you find whatever it is you keep looking for. I can’t be the place you come back to only when you’re lonely. Please don’t contact me again.” Then I pressed send, watched the two little ticks appear, and blocked her before I could see if they turned blue.
We met in Grogan’s on a Friday evening when the city felt generous. She was laughing with a group from work, her hair damp from the rain, holding a pint she barely drank. I was there with my cousin, pretending I wasn’t tired of dating apps and small talk. She asked me if I knew anywhere quieter, and we ended up walking towards South William Street, sharing chips from a paper bag like we had known each other for years. She had a way of making ordinary things feel like a secret. A wet footpath, a Luas bell, a taxi splashing through a puddle, all of it became part of our story.
For a while, it was lovely. We went to the Lighthouse Cinema, ate noodles on Camden Street, sat in Dublin parks with coffees we couldn’t afford. She would leave notes in my jacket pockets. I would walk from Rathmines to her flat in Stoneybatter just because she said she couldn’t sleep. She told me nobody had ever stayed before. I wanted to be the one who did.
The trouble was that she only loved me fully when I was leaving. If I was steady, she became restless. If I asked where she had been, I was controlling. If I gave her space, she said I didn’t care. There were old boyfriends who were “just friends”, nights she disappeared and reappeared with apologies so beautiful they felt rehearsed. I forgave things before I had even understood how much they hurt me. I mistook chaos for depth. I thought being chosen after being wounded was proof of love.
The night that ended it began in Whelan’s. A friend of mine had a gig upstairs, and she said she would meet me after work. She arrived late, glowing with the energy she had when she knew she had done something wrong. I knew before she spoke. There was a smell of another person’s aftershave on her scarf, sharp and unfamiliar. She kissed my cheek and asked why I looked so serious. I said nothing because the band was starting, and sometimes dignity is just silence with a drink in your hand.
Afterwards, outside on Wexford Street, her phone lit up. She turned it over too quickly. I asked who it was, and she said, “Don’t ruin tonight.” That sentence did something to me. It was the same sentence in a different coat. Don’t ruin dinner. Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin my birthday. Don’t ruin the version of me you’re supposed to keep believing in.
I walked away from her near Harcourt Street. She followed me for a bit, angry at first, then crying. By the time we reached the canal, she had changed shape three times. She said she loved me. She said I made her feel trapped. She said I was the only person who really knew her. She said I was too sensitive. I stood there under a tree with rain dripping down my neck, and I realised I was exhausted in a way sleep could not fix.
She asked me to come back to hers and talk. Once, that would have been enough. I would have gone, sat on the edge of her bed, listened to her childhood stories and her fears, and by morning I would be apologising for needing the truth. But that night, I saw the smallness of the life I had accepted. My world had become her moods. My phone had become
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
