For three months after Conor moved out, we kept saying we were fine. Not together, obviously, but fine. Mature. The sort of people who could meet for a pint in Dublin and not make everyone else uncomfortable. We had the same friends, the same favourite corners of town, the same terrible habit of laughing before we were ready to forgive anything.
It started because nobody knew what to do with us. We had been together nearly six years, long enough that invitations arrived with both our names on them, long enough that his mother still texted me about the weather. When we split, there was no dramatic villain. That almost made it worse. He had fallen out of love slowly and quietly, like someone leaving a room on tiptoe. I had noticed, of course, but I kept making dinner, kept booking weekends away, kept pretending the silence was tiredness.
The first time we pretended to be friends was outside Grogan’s. Our friend Niamh was having birthday drinks, and I arrived late so I would not have to watch him arrive. He was already there, leaning against the wall, holding a pint like it was a prop. He smiled at me with that careful kindness people use around breakable things.
“You look well,” he said.
“You too,” I said, though he looked awful. Thin, nervous, handsome in the way that still annoyed me.
Everyone watched us without watching us. So I hugged him. A quick, bright hug, the kind you give a cousin at Christmas. His jumper smelled like the washing powder I used to buy for us in Tesco. That nearly finished me.
Inside, we performed beautifully. We asked each other about work. We laughed when someone mentioned the old flat in Rathmines and the leak over the bed. We even shared chips after the pub, standing on the path like survivors of a tiny, polite war. People relaxed. You could feel it happening. Our friends started talking normally again, grateful that we had made our heartbreak convenient.
After that, it became a routine. If there was a dinner, we both went. If there was a gig in Whelan’s, we stood in the same group. If someone suggested coffee near Stephen’s Green, neither of us said no. We were praised for it. “It’s amazing how sound you two are,” people said. I started to hate the word sound.
The truth was, every meeting reopened something. He would mention a film and I would remember watching it with my feet on his lap. He would say “mind yourself” and I would hear all the years when that meant “come home to me.” I began dressing for him while telling myself I wasn’t. I began saving stories to tell him, then acting casual when I did.
The worst night was in December, after a charity table quiz near Camden Street. Rain had polished the whole city silver. Everyone else went for a last drink, but I said I was tired. Conor said he’d walk me to the Luas. I should have said no. Instead, we walked past the lights, close enough that our sleeves touched.
At the corner by Harcourt Street, he asked if I was seeing anyone.
I laughed because it was easier than answering. “Are you?”
He looked down. That was enough.
“Right,” I said.
“It’s not serious.”
There it was, the sentence people use when they know seriousness is beside the point. My face went hot. I thought of all those nights I had gone home proud of myself for being civil, while he had been moving on in the ordinary, human way people do when they have already left.
“Why did you keep doing this?” I asked him.
“Doing what?”
“This. Meeting me. Acting like we’re grand.”
He looked genuinely lost. That hurt too.
“I thought it helped,” he said.
I remember the Luas bell ringing in the distance and the rain gathering at the ends
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
