I knew something was wrong before we even left Dublin. We were standing in Heuston Station with two coffees going cold between us, and Mark was scrolling through his phone with the same serious face he used for work emails. I remember watching a family nearby, the father balancing a buggy and a bag of crisps, the mother laughing because one of the children had chocolate all over his jumper. It was ordinary, messy happiness. Beside me, my boyfriend of six years felt miles away.
We had booked three nights in Dingle because I said we needed a break. That was the phrase I used: a break. What I meant was, I needed to see if there was still anything left when the bills, washing, commutes, and tired evenings in our flat near Stoneybatter were taken away. I thought if we had sea air, seafood, and a room with a view, we might remember how to be in love.
The train to Tralee was quiet. Mark put on his headphones. I looked out at fields passing in long green stretches and felt a strange embarrassment, as if everyone could see I was trying too hard. I had packed a nice dress, a book I knew I wouldn’t read, and the hope that the man beside me would reach for my hand. He didn’t.
Dingle was beautiful in that unfair way places can be when you are miserable. The harbour glittered. The pubs were warm and full of music. Our guesthouse had a yellow door and a woman at reception who called us “ye two lovebirds,” which made me smile too quickly and Mark not at all. That first evening, we walked along the water and I pointed out a seal bobbing near the boats. He glanced up, said, “Oh yeah,” and went back to checking the time for our dinner booking.
At dinner, in a little restaurant with candles on the tables, I tried. I asked him what he wanted from the next year. I asked if he was happy in his job. I asked if he still wanted to move out of the city someday. He answered everything politely, like I was interviewing him for a small local paper. Then he asked if I had paid the electricity bill before we left.
It wasn’t cruelty. That almost made it harder. If he had shouted, cheated, slammed doors, I could have named the problem. Instead, he was kind. Responsible. He carried my bag without being asked. He told me I looked nice when I came downstairs in the dress. But the compliment had no warmth in it. It felt like a receipt.
The moment that changed everything came on the second morning. We had planned to drive Slea Head. The weather was wild, rain thrown sideways against the windows, and I woke with a headache. Mark was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed tying his shoes. I said, “Could we stay in for an hour? Maybe get coffee later?”
He sighed. Not loudly. Just enough.
It was such a small sound. I had heard it hundreds of times at home when I forgot to buy milk, when I wanted to watch something he didn’t like, when I spoke too long about my day. But in that little room, with the rain hammering the glass and the holiday I had built up in my head collapsing around us, the sigh felt like a door closing.
I asked him, very calmly, “Do you still like me?”
He looked startled, almost offended. “Of course I do.”
“No,” I said, and I remember my voice shaking. “Not love me. Not stay with me. Like me. Do you enjoy me?”
He didn’t answer quickly enough.
We drove Slea Head in silence. 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
