I was a loud kid. Not in a charming way.. In the say-something-before-you-think way. Dublin made me like that, or maybe I was just born annoying.

When I moved to Cork, I noticed her straight away. Everyone did—even if they didn’t realise that’s what they were doing.

She was… unreal. Not in a movie way. In a this-is-unfair way. I remember thinking—at twelve, stupid and painfully sure of myself—that I was never going to see anyone that beautiful again. Like I’d peaked early and didn’t know what to do with the information.

And I hated that I noticed.

Because when someone looks like that, you start making assumptions. You assume they know it. You assume they’ve never been ignored, never been overlooked, never had to wonder where they stand. You assume life has always been kind to them.

So when I waved and she didn’t wave back, my brain did what it does best—filled in the blanks with nonsense that made me feel better.

Of course she didn’t. Why would she bother? I remember feeling stupid. Embarrassed. Like she’d done it on purpose. And because I was a kid and kids are idiots, I called her stuck-up.

She didn’t even react.

Gibsie told me later. Not straight away. A few weeks in. We were sitting around, messing, and he just went quiet all of a sudden. Told me about Caoimhe. About how my girl used to be loud too. About how after the funeral she just… stopped. I felt like I’d swallowed something sharp. I don’t remember what I said after that. I just remember thinking, Jesus Christ, I did that. I tried to fix it. Which was stupid. You can’t fix grief with chocolate bars and apologies. But I kept showing up anyway. Watching her like she might vanish if I blinked.

She let me sit next to her. That was it. We never talked. Not really. I talked. She listened. Or maybe she just tolerated me. Hard to tell at first. But she started nodding. Little reactions. A corner of her mouth twitching when I said something genuinely funny.

I learned fast. The way her eyes go flat when she’s overwhelmed. The difference between a nod that means okay and one that means leave it alone.

I don’t ask questions that might corner her. I don’t wait for answers. I tell her about my day like I’m talking to myself. Training. Matches. Gibsie being a menace. I don’t need her to respond. I just need her there, existing in the same space as me.

Some days I think she knows. Other days I think I’ve hidden it well enough. Because here’s the thing—I’m in love with her, and it scares the shit out of me.* Not in a dramatic, chest-clutching way. In a quiet, constant way. Like if I push even a little too hard, she’ll pull back and I won’t know how to get her to come back again. I still haven’t heard her voice. Sometimes I wonder what it sounds like. Sometimes I think maybe it’s better that I don’t. Like the silence belongs to her, and I don’t get to demand more than she’s willing to give. So I stay. I sit beside her. I wait for the nods. I read the quiet. I keep my mouth shut when it matters. If loving her means doing nothing most days, I can handle that.

I’ve been doing it for years.