The Greatest Love Story (That Never Happened)

They met in the most mundane and unromantic of circumstance, starting temporary jobs that were neither here nor there, he to supplement his writing, she to fund her escapist year in Dublin. It was made clear from the outset, he was taken, and she begrudgingly accepted that. But a bond formed between them nonetheless. There was a likeness in personality, in views, in spirit, really. And even as they met others in the workplace, made other fast friends, it was still always the two of them, at the end of the day.

There was always a time limit to their working days together, he was bound for London, following the girl that he loved, and she was, of course, always going to go home at some point. But that day when they would need to say goodbye always seemed so far off, not real. 

Then, just like that, it was upon them. Floods of tears, on her part. On his, confusion- 'Why are you crying? We'll be together again soon enough, you're moving to London in 8 months time, this isn't over. You're my girl.' 'No, I'm not.' 'Yes, you are, of course you are, you're my girl.' 'But I'm not.' 'Ok, you're my work girl, now stop your crying, because we'll be together in London and we'll always be friends.'

He leaves. She goes home, desperately trying to forget him, telling herself it was all a dream on her part, it could never have been, there was nothing there, it was all in her head, he is in love with someone else, he'll marry her, that's all there is to it. Move on, meet someone else, somebody like him.

Eight months pass. The memory of him is starting to fade, but he's still always there, in the back of her mind, and the fact that she will again be in the same city as him soon has started to sink in. 

London's calling. She arrives, establishes herself, there are a few quiet pints together, with others, always with others, she doesn't trust herself to be alone with him. The connection is still there, but it is not as strong, not as obvious. It seems the time apart has done its job, it has dulled what once seemed likely to shine forever, the fire is almost out. 

Other men come and go, fun is had, none are the elusive 'One.' Time slides by, as it is wont to do, and he is but a very small part of her life. Until one night. 

She is home alone, it is raining, not the type of weather you want to be out in. Her telephone starts to ring. It is him. Odd, she thinks, maybe he is at a pub near my house. She answers. 'Come downstairs.' He hangs up. She makes her way down the stairs, and there he is, soaked to the bone. 'It's you. It's always been you. Please tell me that for you, it's me.'

It's the two of them now. Together. And it feels right. It feels natural, as if it was never any different, as if this was always the case, and anyone who says otherwise is wrong. Nothing can tear them apart. 

Except love, of course. You can't be with someone who is almost exactly the same as you. Who holds most of the same views, who shares that same passionate, argumentative, tempestuous nature. It leads to volatility and resentment. Even when you agree, you disagree. The love is strong, but hate is lurking not far below the surface. There's a fine line, and you cross it almost every other day. As he once said before anything ever happened 'Being around you is like walking in a minefield, you never know when something is going to set you off.' And she feels the same around him. It is like walking on a tightrope with absolutely no support. You want desperately to make it to the other side, it feels like it is a life or death situation, but sometimes it is easier to let yourself fall, to not finish it. 

This never happened. 

B. J. Barnes

Love, Lust, and Loss in The Emerald Isle

Since being here I've come to the following conclusions about myself and, more generally, life:

• One night stands are fun for a certain type of person. I am not that type of person. I need more than a physical connection. I've also found that they tend to be rather sad affairs, everybody has baggage, and this baggage becomes pretty evident during one nighters. It's amazing the things that come out of the mouths of men in these situations. I'm going back to my previous policy from now on, no one nighters (unless Henry Cavill begs me to sleep with him, but can only do one night, maybe then). Having said all of this, I wouldn't take any of the three back, they were learning experiences. They taught me I'm not cut out for them.
• Never allow yourself to fall in love with someone that you can't have. It will tear you to shreds, and you will be terribly sad for as long as that love lasts.
• Running away does not really solve all of life's bigger issues, but it is a hell of a lot of fun. Escapism is still a huge part of my personality, and I will stubbornly refuse to get my head out of books or the vivid imagination they have contributed to. I will live here forever, and hope for the best.
• Honesty is still the best policy. Always be upfront with people, mainly men, even when they're not willing to pay you the same courtesy. At the end of the day you come out the better person who didn't need to resort to games to get their own way.
• Assess what you really want from a romantic relationship and accept the fact that no one person will ever satisfy your every whim. That's why friends and family are so important, they fill in the gaps in your life. 
• Don't settle for less than what you feel you deserve, but be open to the fact that the person that might be perfect for you won't necessarily be the most obvious one. And this leads to always giving people a chance. 

In summary, Irish men and their strange habits of courtship have led me to a realisation of everything that I value most in life, and how important these values are. Thank you to the men of Ireland for being strange, exotic, handsome, confusing and confused, sentimental, self-deprecating, romantic in the worst possible way, and, most of all, great craic. You've shown me the value of difference, but also made me look on my own more fondly. I think I'm ready for an Australian man now, I hope that one is ready for me.

B. J. Barnes

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

The Writer leaves Dublin soon. And so do I. I am at a loss, I am not sure what I will do when I can't see him everyday, hear the now familiar rise and fall of his voice. I am still in love. I thought for a time there that I had managed to overcome it, but I haven't, not yet anyhow. I know that in time it will fade, as all loves, even great ones, do, and that one day I will look back on this fascination as a very specific, but ultimately inconsequential, moment in time. But, at this stage, it is still there, tearing at my heart a little with each hour that passes. 

I met her the other evening, for the first time. I was bitterly disappointed. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't her. He is so vibrant, and passionate, and, well, different. She is so nice, and normal, and dull. There was nothing that I could see that made it possible that he has chosen her, and only her, forever. I feel like the worst person for even thinking such things, but it was impossible not to think them. It made me want to scream at him 'Why not me? Well as me as another.' We are the same, this I know. And it does not take copious amounts of wine to identify this, I know he sees in me a kindred spirit. But he also sees what I try so hard to hide from everyone, a hopeless, pointless sense of something better to come, but the ever growing fear that it will never eventuate. This manifests itself in a questioning nature, a lack of contentment, sometimes a feeling of isolation. It is too much of a headfuck for him, and he would be too much of a headfuck for me. I think we would ultimately destroy each other, because it could probably never last for long. It would not be better to have loved and lost in this case. It is much better that I never loved, or fulfilled such love, at all. 

So, where does this leave me? This leaves me in the unsavoury position of having to pretend like nothing ever happened. That I never met him, that I never loved him. But that is impossible. He is text inexorably printed on my soul, like a favourite book that broke your heart, but whose words will haunt you forever. 

He is for London, and I am for Sydney. At least for the moment. I will return to Europe, and most probably live in London, most likely at the same time he lives there. But will I see him? I don't think I should. It is too dangerous. I am too old for this painful, ridiculous, sorrowful longing. I'm not a teenager prone to flights of whimsy anymore, and I should behave accordingly. 

This was a moment, that is all it was. 

B. J. Barnes