I used to think love was the whole answer. If a man came home every evening, kissed your forehead, remembered how you took your tea, and stood beside you at funerals and…

I met him on a wet Thursday evening in Dublin, the kind where the rain doesn’t fall so much as hang in the air and make everyone look half-lost. I was standing…

I met Aoife on a wet Thursday evening outside Trinity College, both of us sheltering under the same useless strip of stone while Dublin did what Dublin does best: rain sideways and…

I used to think marriages ended in dramatic ways, with slammed doors, suitcases, and someone shouting something they could never take back. Ours was ending much more quietly. It was ending over…

I used to think betrayal was a single act, something dramatic and visible, a door closing in a hotel corridor or a phone lighting up at midnight. I didn’t know it could…

I met him on the DART on a wet Tuesday evening, the kind of evening when everyone in Dublin looks like they are carrying the weather home with them. I was standing…

I used to think heartbreak would announce itself loudly. A slammed door, a suitcase dragged down the stairs, crying in the rain like something you’d see outside a cinema on Camden Street.…