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When I saw him again, it was like a photograph had stepped off the page. Smooth-shaven, lightly scented, perfectly dressed—he smiled at me, that same disarming, effortless smile, and my knees betrayed me. In that instant, a spark ignited deep within—a dangerous, magnetic mixture of hope and desire. I knew, immediately, that I was already in trouble.
We had so much to say, so much left unsaid. A small, foolish part of me clung to the hope that time had softened him, reshaped him, made him realize what he had lost. He seemed genuinely thrilled to see me, his eyes bright with eagerness. And just like that, we were together again. He moved into my new flat in Riverdell, speaking of his pain with a raw honesty that left my chest aching.
“It was the worst period of my life,” he admitted, voice trembling. “When you left… I hit rock bottom. I drank for weeks, saw things… demons.”
I knew exactly what demons he meant—I had seen them firsthand. I didn’t know the full depth of his torment, but I had witnessed enough to recognize the darkness he described. Now, sitting before me, he seemed intact—or at least, he had managed to exorcise the worst of it.
At first, it was intoxicating. We fell into the familiar rhythm of love, heady and effortless. For a few blissful days, I allowed myself to believe in happiness. But as quickly as the novelty arrived, it faltered. After a week, his questions began—about my fidelity during our time apart. I confessed, driven by some stubborn honesty.
“I missed you,” I whispered, shame curling my voice, “and I sought… a substitute.”
I expected understanding. Instead, he stiffened, a whine creeping into his tone. Unfair, he said, that he had remained faithful while I had not.
“You know what?” I said, calm but firm. “Go ahead—sleep with someone else, even the score. I won’t justify that we were apart, that I thought we might never reunite. If you can’t handle that, you know where the door is.”
He froze. For once, I held the upper hand. The argument ended there.
Riverdell became our shared territory again. Rent split evenly as always, though the lease was in my name this time. I managed the flat, coordinated bills, measured his presence alongside mine, a delicate dance I had come to master.
Summer arrived, bringing with it the rare, unpaid week off from work—a luxury I had never known. Seven years of labor without contracts, benefits, recognition. If Barry hadn’t granted leave, I had no choice but to remain silent. Jobs were scarce; survival demanded patience.
I suggested a short trip, anywhere within Ireland. Jack promised, but three days passed while work excuses bound him. Only a single day remained. I realized the trip would not happen. Frustrated, I made plans with Karolina—a day at the sea. Her face lit up. Together, we mapped the hours in eager detail.
That evening, I told Jack. He said nothing, disbelief flickering across his face.
The next morning, Karolina arrived, camera in hand, brimming with energy. Jack stepped forward, blocking the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing? I told you yesterday we’re going on a full-day trip!” I snapped.
I pushed past him, firm, fearless. “Let me go.”
He froze, stunned. He did not stop me—perhaps unwilling to humiliate himself in front of a witness. I felt a thrill: the intoxicating taste of freedom.
We took the train to Waterford, then a bus to Tramore. Karolina’s camera clicked endlessly, capturing the wild, uncontainable joy of escape. The Irish Sea stretched vast and untamed. On Tramore beach, the fair had gone, but it did not matter. We wandered along cliffs, waves smashing against jagged rocks below, laughter spilling over the edges of our voices.
We stopped for lunch at a small seaside pub, the wind tugging at our hair and carrying the briny tang of the sea. The warmth of the food and the chatter around us offered a rare sense of normalcy, though my phone buzzed incessantly. Jack wanted to know where I was, when I’d return. One calm text was never enough. I typed firmly: I’ll be home when I’m home.
Later, we stumbled across an abandoned rollercoaster, rusted and creaking in the salty breeze. We climbed into one of the trolleys, gripping the railings, and laughed so hard our eyes squinted, tears streaking our faces. The ride teetered and groaned beneath us, a wild, fleeting rush that stole us from the weight of everything else. At the exit gates, a freshly developed photo awaited us, capturing that very moment—two girls, wide-eyed and hysterical, holding on to the railings, utterly alive. I held the image carefully, savoring the lightness it carried, knowing such bursts of freedom were rare and precious.
We drove back to Carlow as the sun dipped low, my laughter from the day still echoing, only to return to a scene of destruction. The kitchen bore a gaping hole in the wall, plaster crumbled and edges jagged, a testament to his rage. On the floor lay the shattered remnants of a gift I had once given him, glass fragments glittering cruelly under the dim light. Jack had not confronted me; he had simply gone to the pub, drowned in drink. The stark contrast between the day’s fleeting joy and the ruin he left behind hit me like a physical weight, a reminder that even moments of freedom could not erase the chaos that shadowed my life.
Despite all this, life still offered small, sharp joys. One morning, we walked to the river, mist curling around the edges of the town, softening rooftops and cobblestones alike. I sat next to Jack on the riverbank, the soft grass and cool earth grounding me. He fumbled with a fishing line, muttering under his breath. No fish came, no triumph awaited—but the quiet, the gentle murmur of water over stones, and the slow rhythm of breathing beside him eased something tight in my chest. For a brief stretch of time, the world felt lighter, and my soul allowed itself to rest. That morning by the river, simple and unremarkable, became a fragile jewel amidst the storm of our days.
Jack’s gestures were often grand, clumsy apologies: gifts, flowers, oversized cards, borrowed money stretched thin. The chaos he carried was undeniable, yet even amidst it, there were tiny, fleeting bursts of beauty. The tensions never left, though; beneath each romantic gesture lingered a quiet storm, waiting, ever-present.
Life with him was a rollercoaster, not the glossy ride in magazines, but one that plunged into darkness, twisted violently, then soared unexpectedly into sunlight. Love, fear, joy, freedom, irritation, longing—all mingled, dizzying, exhausting. And still, I could not fully let go. There was something intoxicating in the chaos, something alive in the turbulence of our shared existence.
I learned to navigate it cautiously, to treasure fleeting moments of bliss, to brace for inevitable storms. Perhaps, in that strange, inexplicable way, it was enough.
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