For three months after we broke up, we kept meeting as if nothing had happened. That was the strangest part. Not the breakup itself, not the crying in my box room in Phibsborough, not the way I deleted his number and still knew it by heart. It was the pretending afterwards. We were both twenty-nine, both too proud to admit we had become strangers, so we invented this civilised little friendship and wore it around Dublin like a coat that didn’t fit.
We had been together for four years. We met in a queue outside a comedy night near Temple Bar, both complaining about the rain, which is probably the most Dublin way to begin loving someone. His name was Eoin. He had a soft voice, a habit of leaving books face down everywhere, and the kind of patience that made you feel forgiven before you had even done anything wrong. I loved him in the ordinary ways first: sharing chips after last orders, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the Luas, buying him cough sweets when he pretended he wasn’t sick. Later, I loved him in the dangerous ways too, where your whole future starts leaning against another person.
We broke up because he wanted to move to Berlin for work and I wanted him to want to stay. He said it wasn’t that simple. I said it was exactly that simple. There were other things underneath, of course. He thought I was always testing him. I thought he was always halfway out the door. By the end, even kindness sounded like an accusation. The night we ended it, we were in his flat in Rathmines, and the radiator was making that clicking sound like a small clock counting down. He cried first, which made me angrier, because I had planned to be the tragic one.
Two weeks later, he texted to ask if I wanted my green scarf back. I said yes, even though I had three other scarves and didn’t care about that one. We met outside the GPO because it was neutral, central, and public enough to stop either of us from falling apart. He handed me the scarf in a paper bag. I said, “How are you?” He said, “Grand.” I said, “Same.” Then, because neither of us knew how to leave, we went for coffee.
That became the pattern. Coffee on a Sunday. A quick pint after work. A walk through St Stephen’s Green where we discussed weather, rent, office gossip, anything except us. We even laughed sometimes. People who saw us would have thought we were mature. I think we thought that too. We told ourselves this was what good people did after love ended. No drama. No bitterness. Just two adults respecting the history.
But the truth was, I was using those meetings like little doses of him. Enough to stop the shaking, not enough to heal. I would go home after seeing him and feel proud for about ten minutes. Then I’d replay every sentence. Did he look sad when I mentioned my weekend? Did he say “we” by accident? Was his hug longer than it needed to be? I was living on scraps and calling it friendship.
The night it finally broke was in November. A wet, shining sort of evening, the kind where the city looks like it has been varnished. We met near the Ha’penny Bridge because he said he had news. I knew before he said it. You can always hear the ending before the words arrive.
He had accepted the job in Berlin. He was leaving in January. He told me gently, almost formally, as if I were someone from HR. I nodded and asked sensible questions. Where would he live? Was the company helping with the move? Did he have enough warm clothes? My mouth was performing beautifully while the rest of me disappeared.
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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
