For nearly two years, I measured Dublin by where I might run into him. I avoided the corner of South William Street where we had our first stupid argument over chips. I crossed to the other side of Grafton Street if I saw a man in a navy coat. I stopped going to Kehoe’s, even though it had been my favourite pub before it became ours. Love can make a city feel smaller than a room.
His name was Cian. We met on a wet Tuesday outside the Luas stop at Smithfield, both pretending not to be freezing while waiting for a delayed tram. He made a joke about Dublin weather having a personal vendetta against single people, and I laughed because I was lonely enough to let a stranger be funny. Within weeks, he knew how I took my coffee, which bus I hated most, and how I always cried at films involving fathers and daughters. He was warm, restless, full of plans. I was quieter, careful, but with him I became brave in small ways.
Then he left. Not in a dramatic way. There was no shouting, no betrayal I could point to and hate properly. He got offered work in Berlin, said it was only for a year, said distance would be easy because we were “solid.” For the first while, we spoke every night. Then every second night. Then messages sat unread while I watched the little blue ticks turn into a kind of punishment. One evening, walking past St Stephen’s Green, he called and said he didn’t think it was fair to keep me waiting. I remember a man nearby feeding pigeons, completely calm, while my whole life folded in on itself.
I waited anyway. That was the humiliating part. I told friends I was fine, but I kept his old hoodie in the bottom drawer. I checked flights to Berlin I never booked. I imagined him realising, apologising, arriving back with cold hands and a sorry face. When months passed, I stopped imagining romance and started imagining an explanation. Eventually, even that became too heavy to carry.
Healing was not beautiful. It was boring and stubborn. I joined a swimming class in Rathmines because I needed to be tired in my body instead of my head. I went for walks along the Grand Canal without calling anyone. I bought myself flowers from a stall near Camden Street and felt foolish the first time, then less foolish the next. I learned how to sit alone in cafés without pretending to text. Slowly, Dublin came back to me. It was no longer a map of Cian. It was mine again.
About a year and a half after he left, I met someone else, but not in a grand way. His name was Daniel, and he worked in a bookshop near Capel Street. He was kind without performing it. He never made me feel like I had to chase the room to keep his attention. We went slowly. I told him about Cian after our third date, expecting the air to change. He only nodded and said, “That must have hurt.” There was no jealousy in it, just understanding. I think that was the first time I realised love could be peaceful.
Then, of course, Cian came back.
It was a Friday evening in October. I was waiting outside the Lighthouse Cinema in Smithfield, holding two tickets and a bag of chocolate buttons for Daniel, when I heard my name. I turned, and there he was, thinner than I remembered, with the same navy coat I had spent months mistaking on other men. For a second, my body reacted before my heart did. My hands went cold. The whole square seemed to tilt.
He smiled like someone opening a door he assumed was still unlocked. He said he was back in Dublin for good
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
