I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside Dublin Castle, both of us standing under the same narrow strip of shelter like two strangers pretending not to notice each other. My umbrella had turned inside out on Dame Street, and he offered me his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m going as far as Camden Street,” he said. “You can abandon me there if you like.”
I didn’t abandon him. We walked slowly through the rain, sharing that small black umbrella, laughing every time a bus sent a wave of water over the kerb. His name was Cian. He worked in a print shop near George’s Street Arcade and had ink permanently caught around his fingernails. I was working in a café in Rathmines then, saving money for a master’s I wasn’t sure I wanted. We ended up in a quiet corner of a pub near Wexford Street, steam rising from our coats, talking as if we had missed years of each other’s lives and were trying to catch up before closing time.
For three weeks, Dublin felt different because of him. It wasn’t that anything grand happened. We had chips outside Burdock’s and ate them too quickly because the vinegar was soaking through the paper. We walked along the Grand Canal after work, past people with cans and dogs and bicycles, and he told me he used to think the city looked best when it was almost dark, before the lamps fully took over. We sat in St Stephen’s Green on a cold bench and made up stories about strangers passing by. He said mine were too tragic. I said his were too tidy.
He had a way of listening that made me speak more honestly than I planned to. I told him about my father leaving when I was twelve, about how I hated goodbyes so much I usually left first. He told me his mother had died the year before and that sometimes he still bought her favourite biscuits out of habit. There was no performance in it, no dramatic confession. Just two people, still young enough to hope, old enough to know hope could embarrass you.
On our fourth date, he brought me to Howth. It was windy enough to make conversation ridiculous, so we walked mostly in silence along the pier, shoulders touching, hands brushing and then finally holding. I remember thinking, very clearly, that I was in trouble. Not bad trouble. The kind where your life begins making space for someone without asking your permission.
That evening, in a small seafood place near the harbour, he told me he was leaving for Berlin in two weeks. A friend had offered him a job in a design studio. He had applied months before we met and had given up on hearing back. The email came that morning.
I tried to be happy for him. I really did. I smiled so hard my face hurt. I asked sensible questions about accommodation and flights and whether he spoke German. But inside, something small and bright folded in on itself. He reached across the table and took my hand. “I didn’t expect you,” he said.
That was the worst part. Not that he was leaving, but that I believed him. If he had been careless, I could have hated him. If he had lied, I could have made myself the injured party and moved on with dignity. But he was kind. He was sad too. And that left me with nowhere to put the hurt.
We spent his last night in Dublin walking from Temple Bar to the Ha’penny Bridge, then up toward O’Connell Street, avoiding the topic until there was nothing left to avoid. The city was noisy around us, people spilling out of pubs, taxis crawling by, the river black beneath the lights. He said we could try long distance. I said maybe. We both knew “maybe” was a soft way of saying no.
At Connolly Station the next morning, I gave him back the umbrella. It hadn’t rained in days, but I had carried it with me like a borrowed excuse to see him. He laughed when he saw it, then stopped because his eyes had filled. We hugged for a long time, the kind of hug where both people are trying to memorise the shape of what they’re losing. When he pulled away, he kissed my forehead, and that nearly undid me.
For a while after he left, I kept expecting Dublin to return to normal. But it didn’t, not immediately. Every corner seemed to hold a version of us that had
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
