I decided I hated Conor within twelve minutes of meeting him. He was standing in the hallway of our shared house in Phibsborough, barefoot, eating toast over the sink because, as he said, “plates are for people with faith in tomorrow.” I had just moved to Dublin from Clare with two suitcases, a pharmacy job starting on Monday, and the kind of loneliness that makes you furious at strangers for breathing too loudly.
He was my new housemate’s brother, only meant to stay “a week or two” after a breakup. He stayed eight months. He left mugs everywhere, played old Christy Moore songs while cooking, and had a habit of asking questions that felt too direct. “Are you always this quiet?” he asked me one evening. I told him, “Are you always this annoying?” He laughed like I had given him a compliment.
Our house was narrow, damp, and full of people trying to become someone else. I worked late shifts near St Stephen’s Green, came home on the Luas with sore feet, and wanted only silence. Conor worked in a restaurant near Temple Bar, came home smelling of garlic and rain, and wanted conversation. We clashed over everything: heating, dishes, whose turn it was to buy toilet roll. Once, he used my oat milk and replaced it with normal milk, saying, “Milk is milk.” I didn’t speak to him for three days.
The truth was, I was exhausted from pretending Dublin suited me. Everyone at work seemed to know where they were going after their shift, which bus to take, which friend to ring, which pub had the best table by the window. I knew how to walk fast with my head down. I knew how to cry quietly in the shower. I knew the ceiling above my bed had a crack shaped like the Shannon.
One Friday in November, I got a call from my sister while I was on my break. My father had collapsed at home. The ambulance had taken him to hospital in Limerick. She said he was conscious, then she cried, and then I heard my mother in the background saying my name. I don’t remember finishing my shift. I remember standing outside the pharmacy with my phone in my hand, rain soaking through my coat, unable to decide whether to go to Heuston, call a taxi, or sit down on the footpath and disappear.
Conor found me there by accident. He had been sent to collect something from a supplier and spotted me near the corner, shaking so hard my teeth were chattering. I tried to say I was fine because hatred gives you pride, even when you have nothing else. He took my bag from my shoulder and said, very gently, “You’re not fine. Tell me what train we need.”
We missed the first one. On the next train from Heuston, I sat by the window and watched Dublin slide away in wet streaks of orange light. Conor sat beside me without making jokes. He had bought me tea, a sandwich I couldn’t eat, and a charger because my phone was dying. At some point, I started crying in that ugly, helpless way you try to avoid in public. He put his coat over my knees and looked straight ahead, giving me the dignity of not being watched.
My father survived. A small stroke, they said. Frightening, but not the end. Conor waited in the hospital corridor until nearly midnight, then drove me back to my parents’ house in a rental car because he said trains and fear were a bad combination. My mother, who had never met him, made him tea and asked if he was my fella. I said, too quickly, “God
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
