I knew I was in trouble the first time he made tea in our kitchen as if he lived there. It was a wet Thursday in Rathmines, the kind of evening when the windows sweat and every bus going past sounds like the sea. He was Aoife’s boyfriend, which should have made him invisible to me in that particular way other people’s people are meant to be invisible. Instead, I noticed everything. The careful way he warmed the mugs. The small scar on his chin. How he listened without waiting for his turn to speak.
Aoife was my closest friend in Dublin. We had met in a freezing house share off Portobello, bonded over mould, bad landlords and the shared belief that a good night could be rescued by chips from the takeaway on Camden Street. She was bright, chaotic, generous with everything she had. When she brought Cian home, I was happy for her. Truly. He was steady where she was wild, quiet where she was bright. I thought they balanced each other. I told her so.
Then her mother got sick, and Aoife began travelling back and forth to Galway. Cian would still come by the house to feed her cat or drop off things she needed. Sometimes I would be there, eating toast over the sink after a late shift in a pub near Wexford Street. At first we talked about ordinary things: rent, weather, whether Dublin had become impossible for anyone who wasn’t born into money. Then the conversations stretched. He told me he felt useless when Aoife was grieving. I told him I was lonely in a city full of people I knew but didn’t fully belong to.
Nothing happened for months, which made it easier to lie to myself. We never crossed a line, not visibly. We walked along the Grand Canal one Sunday because the cat had knocked over a plant and we both needed air. We stood outside The Bernard Shaw after one of Aoife’s birthday drinks, talking while everyone else smoked and shouted. We shared a taxi once and sat too close, our shoulders touching from Rathmines to Ranelagh, both of us pretending not to notice.
The night it changed was after a gig in Whelan’s. Aoife had gone home early, exhausted from hospital visits and the kind of sadness that makes your bones heavy. I should have gone with her. Instead, I stayed. Cian and I stood near the back while a singer with a cracked voice made a room full of strangers feel forgiven. Afterwards, outside under the red glow of the sign, he looked at me for too long. I knew what was coming and I still didn’t move away.
It was only a kiss. That is what I told myself for three days, as if the word only could make it smaller. But it was not only a kiss. It was a betrayal with a soft mouth. It was every cup of tea, every walk, every private confession suddenly revealed as steps toward something I had pretended was accidental.
Cian texted me the next morning saying he was confused. I hated him for using that word because I wanted him to be clear, cruel even, so I could make myself the injured party. But I was not injured. I was guilty. I had fallen for the one person I should never have let myself look at twice, and the worst part was that falling felt beautiful until I saw who it would land on.
I told Aoife before he did. I asked her to meet me in <a href=
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
