I knew something was wrong on the second morning of our holiday, standing outside a small café in Dingle with rain coming sideways off the harbour and my boyfriend asking me why I looked “like that.” We had only been away one night. It was meant to be our reset, the thing that fixed the strange distance that had been growing between us in Dublin. We had packed jumpers, books we never opened, and all the hope people bring when they are trying to prove love is still easy.
Back home, we lived in a flat near Portobello, close enough to walk along the canal when we were pretending to be the sort of couple who went for walks. We had been together five years. We knew each other’s takeaway orders, bus routes, family dramas, the exact way the other person breathed when asleep. From the outside, we were steady. We went for pints in Stoneybatter, met friends around Camden Street, sat in the cinema at the IFI holding hands out of habit. Nobody would have called us unhappy. I wouldn’t have, either. I just thought this was what long-term love became: quiet, practical, slightly tired.
The holiday was my idea. I booked three nights in Kerry after a particularly bad Tuesday when we had argued about laundry and ended up not speaking until bedtime. I told him we needed fresh air. He said, “Grand,” in that flat way that meant he was agreeing because disagreeing required effort. On the drive down from Dublin, I tried to make it lovely. I bought coffee at a service station, made a playlist, pointed out sheep like a child. He answered work messages for most of the journey and laughed at something on his phone but didn’t show me. That tiny thing, not showing me what made him laugh, hurt more than it should have.
On the first evening, we went for dinner and sat by the window. The sea was dark and restless. He talked about a promotion he wanted. I talked about maybe doing a course, maybe changing jobs, maybe writing again. He nodded, but I could feel him waiting for his turn to speak. Halfway through the meal, I realised I had been performing cheerfulness since we left Dublin. Smiling bigger than I felt. Asking questions I already knew the answers to. Laughing at jokes that no longer reached me. It was like watching myself from another table.
The next morning, we planned to drive around Slea Head. Instead, we argued outside that café because I had gone quiet. He said I was ruining the holiday. I said I was tired. He said everyone was tired. Then he said, “I don’t know what more you want from me.” And the terrible thing was, I didn’t know either. Not exactly. I only knew I wanted to feel seen without having to submit an application for it.
We got into the car and drove anyway. The road curved around cliffs and fields so green they looked unreal. Tourists stopped to take photographs. He drove with both hands tight on the wheel. I looked out at the Atlantic and began to cry silently, not because we were fighting, but because I suddenly understood how lonely I had become beside someone. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no betrayal, no shouting, no single unforgivable act. Just hundreds of small disappearances. The way he no longer asked how my day really was. The way I stopped telling him things because his replies made me feel foolish. The way we used “we” for rent, bills, plans, but not for dreams.
That night, back at the guesthouse, he fell asleep early. I sat on the bathroom floor with the extractor fan humming and wrote a note on my phone: I am not
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
