The morning she left, Dublin was doing that thing where it can’t decide if it wants to rain or forgive you. The paths outside my flat in Phibsborough were wet, but the sky had a small blue tear in it, and for a second I thought maybe the day would be kind to us. She was sitting on my bed with her suitcase open at her feet, trying to close it with one hand while holding a mug of tea in the other. There were socks, letters, and a packet of Tayto she insisted on bringing to Australia “for emergency homesickness.”
We had been together for nearly three years, long enough that her toothbrush had become part of the bathroom and her laugh had become part of the walls. She was moving to Melbourne for a nursing job, the kind of chance people tell you not to waste. I tried to be proud in the correct way. I said all the right sentences. “You’ll be brilliant.” “It’s only a year.” “We’ll make it work.” But underneath every sentence was the same selfish thought: don’t go.
We took the bus into town because she wanted one last look at Dublin from an ordinary window. She leaned her head on my shoulder as we passed Dorset Street, then O’Connell Street, then the Liffey, quiet in a way she never was. Usually she narrated everything — the man cycling with flowers, the woman arguing with a parking meter, the pigeons with “pure notions” near the Spire. That morning she only squeezed my hand every few minutes, as if checking I was still there.
We got off near Trinity College because she wanted to walk a bit before the Aircoach. Her suitcase clicked behind us over the paving stones, a ridiculous cheerful sound for such a heavy morning. At Grafton Street, a busker was singing “The Parting Glass,” and we both laughed because it felt too on the nose. Then she started crying, which made me cry, and there we were, two grown adults pretending to look in a shop window while falling apart beside a display of runners.
For breakfast we went into a café near St Stephen’s Green. She ordered porridge and ate three spoonfuls. I ordered a full Irish and couldn’t touch it. We talked about practical things because practical things are a fence you can stand behind when emotions are too wild. She told me where the spare key was, though I knew. I reminded her to keep copies of her documents, though she had three. She gave me a small envelope and said not to open it until I got home. I put it in my coat pocket like it was breakable.
The worst part about saying goodbye to someone leaving the country is that time becomes visible. Every minute has a weight. At the stop for the airport bus, she kept checking her phone, then apologising for checking it, then checking it again. When the coach arrived, I lifted her suitcase into the hold and felt suddenly angry at the driver, at the wheels, at the whole idea of distance. She climbed on first and sat by the window. I sat beside her, and for the next half hour we watched Dublin slide away from us.
At Dublin Airport, Terminal 2 was bright and busy, full of people hugging, rushing, dragging bags, buying coffees they didn’t want. We found the check-in desk. Her suitcase was two kilos over, so she opened it on the floor and transferred a jumper, two books, and the emergency Tayto into my backpack. We laughed again, properly this time, and for
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
