I used to write in a small black journal on the 15B bus from Rathmines into town. Nothing important, I told myself. Shopping lists, odd dreams, sentences I overheard outside pubs, complaints…

I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside the Dublin Writers Museum, both of us pretending the rain wasn’t getting to us. He had a broken umbrella and a calm, distracted…

I used to think love was what happened in the gaps between ordinary things. His hand finding mine on the walk home from Camden Street. Two coffees balanced badly on the Luas.…

I was twenty-two when he left Dublin with one suitcase, a cheap navy coat, and a promise that distance would not make a coward out of him. We were standing outside Connolly…

When Conor and I moved into the little apartment in Rathmines, I thought love would become easier because the distance had been solved. Before that, we were always crossing the city for…

I had not spoken to Maeve in nearly two years when she arrived at St James’s Hospital carrying my old navy scarf and a paper cup of tea I hadn’t asked for,…

I met him on a wet Thursday outside a café in Stoneybatter, both of us sheltering under the same narrow awning like Dublin itself had decided to introduce us. He asked if…

Every Tuesday morning, I used to get off the Luas at St Stephen’s Green and walk down towards Grafton Street with the same tight feeling in my chest. My mam had an…