IRISH LOVESTORY - False Hopes

 

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False Hopes

Once again, I felt like a stranger in my own country—an exile of sorts—at least until I dared to dream again of returning to Ireland, the land I had begun to believe was inscribed in my very destiny. Yet I carried with me a weight, a sense of something unresolved, something unfinished—and that something, inevitably, was tied to Jack. Life seemed always to conspire against us, tripping me whenever I reached toward him. And still, the bond between us endured, stronger than fear, stronger than the instinct to protect myself.

After the abortion—when Sunny had sent money for the procedure and then vanished without a trace—I attempted to refocus on Prague. I lived with my mother, working as an assistant in a law firm that, by sheer coincidence, occupied the floor just above the Irish embassy. So much for forgetting Ireland. The city seemed to pulse with memory; no matter how hard I tried, I could not resist its pull. Night after night, my dreams carried me back to the streets and rooms where I had once been happy. Deep down, I knew the day would come when I would return.

A year later, through the internet, I met a handsome Irishman from Enniscorthy who owned an architectural company. He had built, with his own hands, a home in the countryside, surrounded by gardens, dogs, and other animals. He tended it with care, and the vision of his life charmed me immediately. Quickly, he began to plan our meetings—and our future—with an intensity I had never dared to hope for.

He even came to Prague at my invitation, just before my departure, so that we could know each other better. At first, I allowed the relationship its chance; he was lively, adventurous, and fun, and my mother approved, supporting my decision to follow him to Ireland. It was, perhaps, the most spontaneous choice I had ever made, and I prayed I would not regret it too soon. My futile attempts to stop loving Jack often propelled me into reckless decisions, only to be met by the cold slap of reality.

Liam was clever, independent, and capable. He could cook, he could fix anything, and he seemed able to manage every detail of his life. Yet, perhaps that was what began to wear me down. He never let me help, never invited my presence into his routines, as if he did not trust me. We shared the tiny bedroom of his vast, echoing house, lying side by side each night in silence, waiting for some miracle spark to ignite—but it never came.

In time, I began to feel the absence of something essential between us. Whether it was lacking in me, or in him, I could not say. The chill that settled between us was almost tangible. Every moment together became uncomfortable, a quiet tension pressing down on us. And since he made no effort to bridge the silence, I assumed he felt it too.

I sought work near Enniscorthy, though the place felt foreign, unwelcoming, and impossible to love. I refused to rely on him financially, yet luck remained stubbornly absent. Day after day, I stared out toward the lonely greenhouse on the horizon, with no idea of what to do next. Returning to the Czech Republic would have felt like utter failure, and staying here felt increasingly hollow.

At last, I told him I needed a trip to Bagenalstown, to visit old friends. I needed to escape, if only briefly, from the weight pressing down on both of us—the weight of mutual disappointment, of unspoken longing, of a love that had slipped from us. He no longer cared what I did, and I no longer cared what he felt. For the first time, the distance between us seemed not merely physical, but permanent.