I met him on a wet Thursday outside the Abbey Theatre, when the rain was coming down sideways and everyone at the bus stop looked personally betrayed by the sky. He offered me the dry half of his umbrella as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I remember thinking he had the kindest eyes I had ever seen on a stranger. Not handsome in a loud way, not someone you’d notice across a room, but close up he had this warmth that made you want to tell the truth.
We were both waiting for the 15, both late, both pretending not to be annoyed. He was called Cian. I was newly single, working in an office near Dame Street, and carrying around the particular loneliness that comes after a breakup where nobody did anything unforgivable. We talked about the weather first, then books, then how Dublin makes you feel like you’re always running into your past on the Luas. By the time the bus came, we were laughing. By the time I got off, he had my number.
For three months, he became the best part of my day. He sent me pictures of badly behaved seagulls on Grafton Street. He remembered that I hated coriander and loved old cemeteries. We went for coffee near Stoneybatter, walked through the Phoenix Park until our fingers went numb, and spent one Sunday afternoon in a corner of Grogan’s sharing a toasted special and talking about everything except the future. That should have warned me. He was generous with his attention but careful with his promises.
I knew there was someone else before he told me. Not in the dramatic way people describe in films, no lipstick on a collar or suspicious phone calls. It was quieter than that. He never stayed late. He never let me come over. He always had a reason to be somewhere after dinner, and his phone was always face down, as if even the screen had something to hide. Still, when you want someone, you become very skilled at explaining away the parts that hurt you.
One evening, after we had seen a film in the IFI, we walked along the quays. The Liffey was black and shining, and the city looked softer than it was. I asked him, “Are you with someone?” He stopped walking. That was my answer before he spoke.
He told me her name was Aoife. They had been together five years. They were not happy, he said. They were complicated, he said. They had nearly ended it, many times. He spoke gently, which somehow made it worse. I stood there listening to him explain the architecture of a life I had not been invited into, and I felt myself shrinking from a woman into a secret.
I should have left then. I wish I could say I did. But I was lonely, and he was sorry, and sorry can sound a lot like love when you are desperate to hear it. He said he hadn’t planned for any of this to happen. He said I made him feel like himself again. That sentence stayed with me for weeks. I held it like a medal, even though it was really a warning. I told myself that love was messy. I told myself people meet at the wrong time. I told myself he would choose properly when he was ready.
After that, everything beautiful between us grew a shadow. A pint in Kehoe’s felt borrowed. A walk along the canal felt stolen. If he laughed at something I said, I wondered if he laughed like that with her too. If he touched my hand, I wondered whose hand he had let go of before meeting me. I became jealous of a woman I had never met and ashamed of myself for it. He was everything I wanted: gentle, funny, clever, attentive. Everything except mine.
The end came on a Saturday in March. He had promised we would spend the whole day together, no rushing, no excuses. We met at Merrion Square, where the daffodils were out and the air had that false spring feeling Dublin gives you before another week of rain. We got coffee and sat on a bench. For an hour, it was almost perfect. Then his phone rang. He looked at it, and I saw his face change. Not panic exactly. Duty.
He didn’t answer, but the spell was broken. I asked him if he loved her. He rubbed his hands over his face and said, “It’s not that simple.” I remember feeling strangely calm. Maybe because the answer was finally clear. Love should not require a woman to learn how to survive on half-truths. Love should not make you wait for someone else’s life to collapse so yours can begin.
I stood up and told him I couldn’t do it anymore. He cried, which surprised me. I had imagined that if I left, he would suddenly understand, suddenly choose me, suddenly become brave. But he only cried and said he was sorry. I believed him. That was the cruelest part. He was 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
