I used to think the best approach to love was to make yourself easy to keep. Don’t ask too much. Don’t show the nervous parts. Laugh when you are hurt, say “no worries” when there are plenty of worries, and never be the person who needs reassurance twice in the same week.
I met Cian outside St Stephen’s Green on a damp Thursday in March, the sort of Dublin evening where the city looks washed but not clean. I was trying to fix the strap on my bag with one hand and hold a coffee with the other. He stopped because my notebook had fallen open on the path, pages flapping in the wind like a small panicked bird. He picked it up and, instead of reading anything, closed it carefully and said, “I’d say that’s none of my business, but it looked dramatic.”
That made me laugh. Not a polite laugh. A proper one. We ended up walking down Grafton Street together, both pretending we were going the same way for longer than was believable. He worked in a bike shop in Rathmines, wrote songs he never played for anyone, and had a face that changed completely when he listened. I told him I worked in admin for a charity and left out the part where I cried in the office bathroom most Tuesdays because I felt like my life had become a room with no windows.
For six months, I was the best version of myself around him, or what I thought was the best version. I was calm. I was funny. I did not mention that my father’s illness had pulled my family into a permanent state of emergency. I did not mention that I checked my phone too much because silence frightened me. I did not mention that when Cian cancelled plans, even kindly, even with a real reason, some old part of me believed I was being abandoned.
We went for pints in The Long Hall, shared chips near Dame Street after midnight, sat by the Grand Canal when the weather turned soft. He said things like, “You’re very steady, aren’t you?” and I took it as a compliment, though it felt like being praised for holding my breath.
The night everything changed, we were meant to go to a small gig in Whelan’s. I had bought the tickets because he loved the band. That afternoon, my mother rang to say Dad had been taken back into hospital. Nothing dramatic, she insisted, which in my family meant it was very dramatic but nobody had the energy to say so. I left work early and went to St Vincent’s. By the time I got home, I was exhausted in a way sleep could not fix.
Cian texted, “Still good for tonight?”
I typed, “Of course.” Then I stood in my kitchen in Phibsborough, wearing one shoe, and started crying so hard I had to sit on the floor. The ticket app was open on my phone. My mascara was running. The kettle clicked off behind me, useless and cheerful. I remember thinking, with a strange clarity, that if I went to that gig and smiled through it, I would lose something in myself I might not get back.
So I rang him.
When he answered, I tried to sound normal, and failed immediately. I told him about the hospital. Then, because the first truth had opened the door, all the others came rushing after it. I told him I was not steady. I told him I was scared most of the time. I told him I had been editing myself since the day we met because I thought being loved meant being low-maintenance. I apologised, which was ridiculous, but felt necessary.
There was a pause long enough for me to imagine the worst version of every possible
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