For almost a year, I thought I was being loved in the most patient way a person could be loved. He would wait outside my office near Grand Canal Dock with two coffees, one always gone lukewarm because I was never out on time. He remembered the anniversary of my father’s death before I did. He walked me home through the rain after nights in Dublin pubs, holding his jacket over my head like we were in some old film. When I said I wasn’t ready for anything serious, he said, “I’ll wait. You’re worth waiting for.”
I was thirty-one and tired of men who disappeared the moment things became inconvenient. So his steadiness felt like kindness. We met at a friend’s birthday in The Bernard Shaw, and at first I found him too intense. He listened without blinking. He asked questions as if he was collecting tiny pieces of me to keep safe somewhere. My favourite place for a quiet pint, the way I hated coriander, the fact that I still bought my mother flowers every Friday from a stall on Grafton Street even though she lived in Galway. He made me feel seen, and I mistook being studied for being understood.
For months, he was perfect from a distance. He never pushed, not directly. But he was always there. If I posted a photo from St Stephen’s Green, he would text, “You’re close by. Want company?” If I mentioned I was anxious, he would arrive with soup. If I cancelled plans, he would say it was fine, then send a message at midnight about how much he missed me but didn’t want to burden me. I began to feel responsible for his sadness, which is a strange way for love to begin.
Still, there were beautiful days. One Sunday in Howth, we sat on a wall eating chips with wooden forks, the sea wind making a show of us. He told me he’d never met anyone like me. I laughed and said people say that when they want something. He went quiet, then said, “I only want the chance to prove I mean it.” I remember looking at him then, his face soft and earnest, and thinking maybe I had become too suspicious. Maybe love was not supposed to arrive as thunder. Maybe sometimes it came as someone willing to carry your bag home.
So I said yes. Not to marriage or anything dramatic. Just yes to being his girlfriend, yes to trying properly, yes to letting him in. We were on the Ha’penny Bridge when I said it, of all places, with buses groaning behind us and tourists taking photos as if the whole city had paused for our little moment. He kissed me hard and said, “Finally.” I should have heard the word properly. Not “thank you.” Not “I’m happy.” Finally.
The change was not immediate enough to make a clean story of it. It came in small revisions. The dress I wore to work was “a bit attention-seeking.” My friend Mark, who I had known since college, was “clearly waiting for his chance.” My Friday flowers for my mother became “a bit much when we barely get time together.” If I didn’t text back quickly, he would say, “You used to be so kind to me.” If I wanted a night alone, he would remind me how long he had waited and how patient he had been. His love had been a loan, and now repayment was due.
The worst night happened after dinner in Temple Bar. We had gone to meet two of my friends, Aoife and Niamh, and he was charming in the way charming people can be when there are witnesses. He bought a round, told a funny story, put his hand on my back every time I spoke as if pressing a button. On the way home, crossing Dame Street, he asked why I had laughed so much at Aoife’s joke. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. By the time we reached the Luas stop, he was furious, saying I had embarrassed him, saying I acted single, saying he had given me everything and I was still keeping him outside.
I stood there under the yellow light, people moving around us, and felt something inside me become very calm. Not brave, exactly. Just finished. I realised he had not loved me until I said yes. He had loved the chase, the version of me who was almost his, the woman he could imagine and worship without having to respect. Once I became real, with friends and moods and a life that did not orbit him, I became a disappointment.
I told him I was going home alone. He laughed, then looked frightened, then angry again. He said I was overreacting. He said I’d regret losing someone who loved me like he did. I remember thinking, if this is love, why do I feel smaller every week? I got on the Luas without him. My hands shook so badly I missed my stop and ended up walking back from Charlemont in the cold, crying in that silent way you do when you don’t want strangers to ask if you’re alright.
The next morning, I ended it over the phone because I no longer trusted myself to do it
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
