She Just Wanted to Know Love and to Love
She was innocent
She just wanted to touch the stars,
because she believed in you.
In you, she found constellations
copyright©2025
A Fateful Encounter
It all began years ago. Like so many girls my age, I was restless—hungry for change, for something new. Life at home had dulled into routine, predictable as the ticking of a clock. So, I quit the job that no longer stirred anything in me and boarded a plane to Ireland. A Czech agency had found work for a lucky few in a town called Carlow, about an hour from Dublin. That’s how I met Marketa—we barely knew each other, but we traveled together. Our future boss, Paddy, an Irishman with streaks of silver in his hair and warm, approachable presence, met us at the airport.
Bagenalstown was a tiny village in the green heart of eastern Ireland, no more than three thousand souls. From the moment we arrived, I was spellbound. The landscape was impossibly lush, greener than anything I’d ever seen. Sheep and horses wandered through fields like they owned the place. Every village we passed looked like something out of a storybook—stone cottages with brightly painted doors, brass knockers, and flower pots spilling over with color. I felt free. Untethered. No parents watching, no expectations weighing me down. Just me, my imagination, and the delicious sense that anything could happen.
The job, of course, was far from glamorous. We worked at Roosters, Paddy’s greasy fast-food joint on the square, serving up fish and chips, burgers, sausages, and curry night after night. I didn’t mind. I could adapt. The locals came in waves, often already tipsy from one of the town’s too-many pubs—especially Phelans, the spot where the younger crowd gathered. At first, we were novelties, the foreign girls behind the counter. I was naive, often chatting with strangers despite barely understanding their thick Irish brogue. I smiled and nodded a lot. Marketa, on the other hand, barely spoke to anyone.
As time passed, I began to find my rhythm. I started going to Phelans, especially when local bands played. I even made a friend—Kenneth, a kind guy introduced by a coworker.
Still, deep down, I was waiting. For someone. The One. I believed he was out there, searching for me just as I was searching for him. I imagined him clearly: tall, dark hair, soulful brown eyes.
I'd never had a real relationship—just fleeting crushes, as brief and wild as summer storms. I was barely twenty and helplessly romantic. The guys I met didn’t interest me. Maybe they were drawn to the mystery of me being foreign. But none of them felt right.
Because of our rotating shifts, Marketa and I rarely had the same day off, so I explored on my own. On Thursdays, I went to Lawlors, where older locals played traditional music—fiddles, flutes, bodhráns, and ballads that broke your heart a little.
Kenneth and I stayed in that strange space between friendship and something more. The most intimate moment we shared was a single kiss, just before Valentine’s Day, on a quiet hill outside the village.
And then one night at Phelans, everything changed.
I went to see a rock band at a pub that pulsed like a living thing. Bodies pressed close in the half-light, the air dense with sweat, spilled beer, and the kind of anticipation that crackles just before the lights go down. I didn’t know a soul, so I let myself dissolve into the crowd, trying to wear invisibility like armor.
That’s when I saw him.
He was seated at the bar, angled slightly away from it, as if the music were an afterthought. His long, dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail that spilled halfway down his back, and his posture was both relaxed and unreadable—like a man accustomed to silence in noisy rooms. His eyes, a deep, unsettling brown, were fixed on something I couldn’t see. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe he lived partway in this world and partway in another.
The moment I laid eyes on him, something shifted—subtle, seismic. The floor didn’t move, but I swear I felt it lean. I must have only stared for a heartbeat, but time buckled, stretched. The music fell away. The crowd blurred to ghosts. Even breath forgot itself.
There was something unsettling about his presence. It wasn’t just the way he sat or the silence that followed him — it was the darkness that clung to him like a living thing. A dark cloud, a dark aura surrounded him, casting long shadows even in the light. People instinctively kept their distance, sensing something they couldn’t quite explain — as if the air around him was heavier, colder, touched by something not entirely human. He carried a stillness that didn’t belong in a place like that—like a storm that had wandered indoors and was politely waiting to break.
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to get closer, or run. I didn’t speak to him. I didn’t even smile. But that night, I wrote him into the pages of my journal like a secret I wasn’t sure I was meant to keep. I didn’t know his name, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. Still, something about him stayed—like a song that lodges in your ribs, long after the last note fades.
A week passed. Kenneth, a police officer in Dublin, had promised to visit. I went to Mr. Long’s, a warm little pub owned by a cheerful man who liked to joke with me. I sat at the bar, sipping wine and half-watching a David Schwimmer movie. Kenneth never showed. Bored and a little buzzed, I wandered off to Phelans and claimed the last free stool.
As I paid for my drink, a few coins slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. I bent down to retrieve them—only to see another hand reach out, gathering them up and placing them gently on the bar.
It was him. The man from the other night.
My heart missed a beat.
He smiled, and in that instant, the room seemed to tilt just slightly in his direction. Mischief danced in his eyes, catching the low light like a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share. His wavy hair framed a face that carried an easy, unstudied charm—There was nothing of Irish ruggedness about him—he was more like a Spaniard, with a noble, striking nose and brown eyes so deep one could lose themselves in them. Long lashes framed them like the shadow of a delicate veil, and in that gaze lay something unspoken, something that beckoned you to draw closer and search further.
We started talking, and time—traitorous thing—slipped away unnoticed. Two hours vanished like steam on glass. He spoke of faraway places and the strange, scrappy jobs that had carried him from one to the next. Somehow, he remembered me—from Roosters, of all places.
His name was Jack.
He wasn’t intimidating anymore. In fact, he was a little shy, despite the leather jacket, the silver chain, the devil-may-care grin.
Then—disaster struck like a sudden thunderclap.
Somebody called my name, sharp and unmistakable.
“Teri?”
Joe Phelan stood behind the bar, phone in hand, his eyes searching.
Outside, Kenneth waited—waiting for me, so I was told.
My stomach twisted into knots, cold and sinking.
Jack glanced at me, confusion knitting his brow. I’d told him I was single—hadn’t I?
“We’re just friends,” I murmured, voice barely steady, already scoping for an escape route, some hidden back door.
How cruelly fate had intervened, shattering the moment I’d been yearning for—everything ruined in an instant.
Jack rose beside me without a word. We stepped out together into the chill night air.
Kenneth sat waiting in his car, headlights cutting through the darkness, glowing like distant beacons. I wanted to stay, to hold onto Jack just a little longer. In the end, we parted with a quiet reluctance and heavy hearts, not quite ready to let go.
Kenneth was silent at first, the weight of the moment pressing down. Then the questions came—soft but relentless. Who had I been with? I told him the truth: I’d just been talking to someone. His voice dropped, thick with something raw. He confessed that the thought of losing me was something he just couldn’t handle. He told me I was beautiful—not just in appearance, but in a way that caught everyone’s attention. That, he said, both surprised and scared him, because he worried about what that meant for us.
His sudden vulnerability shook me to the core. Until now, we had been nothing more than friends.
But my heart was no longer here; it had quietly slipped away to somewhere distant, beyond reach.
I comforted him with gentle words, urged him not to worry, but my thoughts raced back to Jack. Jack, who was like the wind—untamed, unpredictable, impossible to capture. Jack, whose presence ignited a fire within me, one I’d only ever dreamed of feeling. That electric mystery, that irresistible spark—I’d chased it my whole life.
Days slipped by. I tried to bury the memory. Maybe Jack had been nothing more than a beautiful mirage, a fleeting dream slipping through my fingers.
Then Kenneth appeared once again, this time dressed in his uniform, carrying a single red rose—a simple, sincere gesture. There was something about the way he stood there that caught my attention, quietly commanding the moment. A sudden pang of guilt stirred inside me; perhaps I had been too harsh, too quick to judge. Maybe I owed him the chance to show how much he truly cared.
And then came that wild, chaotic night at Roosters.
The bistro buzzed with relentless energy—a roaring tide of laughter and shouted orders. Every corner was packed, every voice competing to be heard over the ceaseless din. I stood by the fryer, flipping golden chips and calling out “Salt and vinegar?” for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. The heat and noise swirled around me like a storm. Then, in the middle of the frenzy, I looked up—and there he was.
Jack.
Standing there like a phantom summoned from a restless dream. Same black jacket, the same storm swirling in his eyes.
My heart thundered in my chest. I fought to keep my cool. He stepped up to the counter. The girls behind me giggled, their eyes flickering between us.
Jack lit a cigarette—indoors, of course, as if rules were made to be broken.
I pointed to the sign with a teasing smile. “No smoking!” He raised an eyebrow, surprised for a moment—then grinned, crushing the cigarette out on the floor. He leaned on the counter, waiting for me to meet his gaze.
“Did you ever make it to Cork like we talked about?”
“No, not yet… I don’t have a car,” I admitted, smiling despite myself.
He nodded slowly, contemplative.
Then he asked, low and casual, “I was wondering if I could take you out for a drink sometime.”
My heart skipped another beat. I hesitated. Kenneth flickered through my thoughts like a warning light. But deep inside, I knew—I couldn’t say no.
“Yeah, sure. We can,” I whispered.
Something lifted inside me—like a heavy door swinging wide open. Just a drink, I told myself. Nothing more. Kenneth would understand. We agreed to meet Thursday at Lawlor’s.
As Jack turned to leave, he faltered for a moment on the doorframe—his unsteady steps betraying the telltale signs of drink. Yet, I found myself unmoved by it; a quiet smile played on my lips. Inside me, a rush of warmth blossomed, like the thrill of a child waking on Christmas morning. I had never before experienced such pure, unfiltered joy.
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