I used to think a life could only fall apart loudly, with slammed doors and shouted truths. Mine ended with a kiss outside a pub on South William Street, under the weak gold light of a shopfront, while taxis moved past us like nothing important had happened.
I was thirty-four then, engaged to a woman called Niamh, and we had a small flat in Stoneybatter with damp in the bedroom wall and a basil plant on the windowsill that refused to die. We were saving for a wedding we could barely afford, arguing over guest lists, pretending we were not frightened by the idea of forever. I loved her. That is the part people never believe when I tell it. They think betrayal must come from emptiness, but sometimes it comes from cowardice, from wanting to feel like a different version of yourself for one reckless minute.
Her name was Aoife. We worked together in an office near Grand Canal Dock, where everyone drank too much coffee and used words like “alignment” and “deliverables” as if they meant anything. Aoife was funny in a way that made the day loosen its grip. She could imitate our manager perfectly and had a habit of leaving tiny drawings on sticky notes beside my keyboard. Nothing improper happened for months, but I knew I was stepping closer to a line every time I looked forward to seeing her.
The night it happened, a group from work went for drinks after a project finished. We started in a bar near Dublin city centre, then drifted towards George’s Street when people began pairing off into taxis and Luas stops. I remember the shine of the wet pavement, the smell of chips from a late-night takeaway, the way my phone buzzed in my pocket with a message from Niamh asking if I’d be home soon. I typed, “Leaving now,” though I wasn’t.
Aoife and I ended up outside on the footpath, laughing about something I cannot remember. That bothers me still. The reason for the laugh is gone, but the consequence stayed. She touched my arm, and I should have stepped back. Instead, I leaned in. The kiss was brief, not cinematic, not worth a song or a poem. It was clumsy and warm and over almost as soon as it began. Then we both stood there as if a glass had smashed between us.
I went home to Stoneybatter with the taste of someone else’s lipstick on my mouth. Niamh was asleep with a book open on her chest. I stood in the doorway watching her breathe and felt something inside me split. In the morning, I made tea, kissed her forehead, and said nothing. That silence was worse than the kiss. It grew in the flat, sat between us at dinner, followed me into the shower, lay beside me in bed.
Three days later, Aoife asked to talk. We walked along the canal at lunch, past cyclists and swans and people eating sandwiches from paper bags. She said she was sorry. I said I was too. She said we should forget it. I agreed, knowing already that forgetting was not the same as undoing. That evening, I told Niamh.
I had imagined confession as a noble thing, something that might hurt but also cleanse. It was not noble. It was me sitting at our small kitchen table, watching the woman I loved become a stranger in front of me. At first she did not cry. She only asked practical questions. Who was she? How long had it been going on? Had I slept with her? Did anyone else know? I answered as honestly as I could, but honesty offered no comfort. When she finally cried, it was quiet, which was harder to bear than anger.
She took off her ring and placed it beside the salt cellar. Such a small sound, metal touching wood, but it felt final. I tried to tell her it meant nothing, and she looked at me with more sadness than fury. “It meant enough,” she said.
The wedding was cancelled the next week. Deposits vanished. Invitations already sent had to be followed by humiliating messages. Her mother collected boxes of Niamh’s clothes while I stood in the hall pretending to be useful. Friends chose sides without announcing it. My brother told me I was an idiot, and I could not disagree. At work, Aoife transferred teams after a month. We never became anything. There was no grand romance waiting behind the ruin, only awkward emails and the knowledge that I had traded a home for a moment.
I moved into a room in Phibsborough above a shop, where the window rattled when buses passed. For a long time, I walked the city after work because I could not bear going back to that room. I crossed the Ha’penny Bridge, wandered through Temple Bar, sat on benches in Stephen’s Green watching couples lean into each other with the careless trust I had broken. Dublin felt full of witnesses. Every corner reminded me of a version of myself I no longer got to be
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
