I used to think distance was the hardest thing two people could survive. When Cian got the job in Amsterdam, I cried into my scarf outside Heuston Station as if he was going to war and not a city where you could fly to him for less than the price of a decent coat. We had been together three years then, two of them in Dublin, living half in my flat in Stoneybatter and half in his mam’s house in Terenure, always carrying chargers and spare socks between places. He kissed me on the forehead that morning and said, “It’s only a year.” I believed him because I wanted to be the kind of woman who could love bravely.
And for a while, we did. We became experts at airports, at voice notes, at sending photos of ordinary things so the other person would feel included. I sent him pictures of rain on the windows of the Luas, my coffee from the café near Smithfield, the swans on the Grand Canal when I walked home from work. He sent me bikes leaning against bridges, his tiny kitchen, the ridiculous price of apples. Every night, unless one of us was out, we spoke on video. We learned each other’s tired faces. We learned how to argue kindly because there was no point slamming a door when the other person was in another country.
The visits were bright and rushed. He would arrive into Dublin Airport with that same navy backpack, and I would feel my whole body lift when I saw him. We would go for pints in The Cobblestone, wander through St Stephen’s Green, buy groceries like a normal couple, and pretend we were not counting down the hours. On Sundays, I would sit beside him on the bus back to the airport, holding his hand too tightly. Distance hurt, but it also made everything precious. You did not waste a Saturday together when you only had six of them in a year.
When the year ended, he came home. That was supposed to be the happy part of the story. I had imagined the reunion so many times that real life could not compete with it. I pictured us cooking dinner, laughing at nothing, getting bored together in the sweet ordinary way couples do. He moved into my flat in Stoneybatter in February, dragging two suitcases up the stairs and joking that all his worldly possessions smelled like Schiphol Airport. I made pasta. He bought a plant. For a week, we were gentle with each other, as if happiness was a glass we might crack by holding too firmly.
Then the quiet began.
It was not peaceful quiet. It was not the kind where two people read in the same room and feel safe. It was a locked-door quiet. I would ask how his day was, and he would say, “Grand.” I would tell him about something funny that happened in work, and he would smile a second too late. At night, he turned towards the wall. His phone lived face down on the table, though I never checked it. I was not afraid of another woman. I was afraid of the version of him I could not reach.
One Friday, we went to Whelan’s for a friend’s birthday. Everyone was loud and warm, the way Dublin rooms can be when the rain is battering the windows and nobody wants to go home. Cian stood beside me with his hand around his pint, laughing when required. I watched him from across the table and missed him with him standing five feet away. That is a strange kind of loneliness. Worse than Amsterdam. Worse than the airport. At least when he was gone, I could name what was separating us.
On the walk home, past Camden Street and towards the last bus, I asked him if he still loved me. I had meant
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
