We met on a wet Thursday outside Whelan’s, both of us pretending we were grand with the rain while standing under the same useless awning. I had come from a late shift in a café near Camden Street, still smelling faintly of coffee and bleach. He had a notebook tucked inside his coat because he was afraid the pages would get wet. When I asked what was in it, he said, “A plan for when I’m rich enough to stop making plans.” I laughed, and that was the beginning of us.
His name was Eoin. He wanted to make films, not the glossy kind, but small honest ones about people waiting at bus stops or minding their mothers or buying flowers they couldn’t afford. I wanted to open a bakery one day, somewhere with mismatched chairs and a blue door, where people could sit alone without feeling lonely. We were both broke, both dramatic, both young enough to think wanting something badly was the same as moving towards it.
For nearly two years, we shared a life made mostly of small things. We walked along the Grand Canal when neither of us could afford dinner out. We split chips outside Leo Burdock’s and called it a date. On Sundays, we took the DART to Dún Laoghaire and walked the pier even when the wind slapped our faces red. He would describe the opening scene of a film he’d make one day, and I would describe the cakes I’d sell in my imaginary bakery. Lemon and poppy seed. Chocolate stout. Pear tart with ginger. He always said he’d shoot my first advert for free, as if either of us had any idea how to get there.
The trouble was, our dreams were beautiful when they stayed in the air. On the ground, they started to pull us in different directions. I got offered a place on a culinary course in Ballymaloe after months of applying for things I thought would never happen. Around the same time, Eoin was accepted onto a film programme in Berlin. I remember us standing in my tiny kitchen in Phibsborough, reading the emails again and again, both of us laughing first because it was ridiculous, then going quiet because it was real.
At first, we did what couples do when they are frightened. We made promises too quickly. He said Berlin was only a short flight away. I said Cork wasn’t the moon. We said we would visit every month, then every six weeks, then whenever work allowed. We said distance would be temporary. We said love would be enough, because saying anything else felt cruel.
But in the weeks before he left, something changed. It wasn’t a fight. That would have been easier. It was the slow sadness of two people trying to pack a future into suitcases that were already full. He became restless, staying up late editing old footage, sending emails, speaking German phrases into his phone. I became practical, buying chef shoes, checking train times, making lists. We stopped dreaming out loud together. We started preparing separately.
Our last evening was in St Stephen’s Green. It was early autumn, the kind of evening Dublin gives you once in a while to make up for all the grey ones. We sat on a bench near the pond with takeaway coffees we let go cold. He told me he had been offered a room in Berlin with two other students. I told him I had found a place to stay near the course. Then there was nothing left to discuss except the thing we had been avoiding.
He said, “I don’t want us to become something we resent.” I hated him for saying it because I knew it was honest. I wanted him to be selfish so I could be angry. I wanted him to beg me to come with him, or offer to stay, or make some grand declaration that would solve everything for ten minutes and ruin us later. Instead, he looked heartbroken and kind. That was harder.
I cried in a quiet way,
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
