Chapter 1: The Space Between
Caoimhe watched from the circulation desk as Dearbhla swept through the library, her south Dublin accent sharper than usual, pitched just above polite. The new guy trailed behind, not quite matching her pace, looking somewhere between composed and cornered.
For a tall man, he carried himself lightly, but he kept stooping to catch whatever brusque commentary Dearbhla was layering into the tour.
“You’ll settle in quickly…” she was saying. “What with the bit of experience you got in UCD last year. It’s not as formal here. We’re much more casual in public libraries than they are in the Academics. We’re one big happy family.”
The man gave a diplomatic nod, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders a little too tight to be at ease.
Realtín appeared beside Caoimhe without a word, radiating boredom.
“Here’s the new fella now,” Caoimhe said, tipping her chin in their direction.
Realtín saw him and froze. Her neck reddened first, then her cheeks. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She touched her neck lightly, as if trying to slow her pulse.
“What’s wrong?”
Then, quietly: “It’s him.”
Realtín had been noticing him for months: at lectures, launches, those dreary book events Dearbhla kept forcing her to attend.
Always hovering at the edge.
Always alone.
Always making something strange and restless move inside her.
She found herself watching for him all the time. Wanting to see him again, even if she didn’t admit that to herself properly. So, when she saw him at the public libraries conference, her body betrayed what she had been telling herself.
Realtín was three (maybe four?) white wines in. Bored of networking. The wine made her feel a little fuzzy at the edges, and gave her an undeserved self confidence.
He was standing near a high table, alone, turning a pint glass in slow circles, a familiar sense of quiet expectation as if he were always waiting for someone who might never arrive. A slight, inviting look on his face.
That familiar flutter began in her stomach.
She walked over before she could talk herself out of it. Her voice didn’t quite sound like hers when it came out:
“I’ve noticed you around.”
He turned, surprised, then delighted. Like it had made his whole night.
“Yeah?” he smiled. “Reckon I’ve noticed you too...”
And then it happened. He was too pleased. Like she’d just handed him something: a win, a kind of power. The way his shoulders lifted slightly, his smile growing wider, like he knew. And the sickening truth, the one she always fought, slammed into her: he did know. That she liked him, wanted him. Whatever it was, this feeling of being seen, of giving that satisfaction, it was suddenly unbearable. It always started like this.
She searched for a flaw to claw back some control.
“Oh,” she said. Sharp. Clipped. “You’re English?”
He blinked, his smile faltering now, the warmth draining from his face.
“Er... yeah?”
Her voice dropped, too dry. “That’s disappointing.” It was meant to be ironic. Lightly cutting. But it came out wrong. Too brittle and blunt. She watched his easy delight evaporate, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Good. He was off balance. She’d managed to prick the bubble. He laughed, awkwardly, still trying to find the joke in it.
She kept going.
“No offence,” as if that softened it. A desperate, nonsensical phrase, plucked from some half-forgotten protest, tumbled out:“Tiocfaidh ár lá, I suppose.”
He frowned, a bemused look on his face. “I beg your pardon?”
“Look, you can’t help being from London, I know...”
“Essex, actually.”
She nodded, pretending she hadn’t heard him. Her face was too warm. Her tongue too loose. She couldn’t seem to stop. Words tumbling out too fast, slightly slurred.
“It’s just... cocky Cockney really isn’t my thing.”
Silence.
She swayed slightly, rocked by the force of her own sabotage. It felt like being pulled under. Her brain couldn’t quite believe her mouth as it opened again.
“It’s a pity,” she said. “I was nearly interested.”
Then she turned. Too fast. Feeling unsteady, she walked away, her heart hammering. Outside, the cold air hit her like shame. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, fumbled with her cigarette carton.
What the fuck was that.
A sudden beep from the security gates snapped her back to the present. Caoimhe was still watching her.
“Well?” she asked. “Him who?”
Realtín let out a breath, half-laughing, half-resigned. “That guy who, for whatever reason, I drunkenly insulted for being English at the conference last year. Then I panicked. Then I ran away.” She winced. “Not my finest hour.”
Caoimhe raised an eyebrow. “You’re not usually such a staunch Republican when you’ve had a few.”
Realtín didn’t answer. She was watching him intently now. He was standing beside Dearbhla again, listening politely to whatever she was rattling off. But something in his posture tightened slightly, like he felt her eyes on him. He turned as if he’d already known who was looking.
Their eyes met.
It was brief. But full. That thrill washing over her body again.
He looked away first. Too quickly. Reaching for a clipboard Dearbhla was showing him as if it suddenly demanded his full attention.
Realtín exhaled, low and shaky, the burn of embarrassment rising again like it was fresh.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
George had taken Dearbhla’s suggestion to take a breather, the procedures binder splayed open on his lap. The morning had been full-on — names he was bound to forget, keycodes for every door, small routines that didn’t quite make sense yet. He felt weird here in the quiet break room, like he was in someone else’s kitchen. He ran a hand over his face, pressing his thumbs to the corners of his eyes. Then the door opened. He looked up, reflexively polite.
Realtín stepped in like she might step back out again, arms crossed tight against her chest.
“Hiiiiii,” she said, too casual, forced. George sat a little straighter.
“So...” she began, hovering, “I think we met at that library conference? Where I...had that very weird, inappropriate reaction to your accent.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused but cautious.“Yeah. I don’t usually elicit that type of reaction.”
She winced. “I’m sorry...it was rude. And weird. Anyway, I figured, if we’re working together...it’s best to clear the air.”
“Good to know where I stand, I suppose,” he huffed out a laugh.
“No, seriously,” she said quickly, “I am sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said, meaning it. “Honestly. Don’t worry about it.”
The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably.
“You still haven’t properly introduced yourself though,” he added.
“Oh right. I’m Realtín.”
He repeated it softly.“Rail-teen? I haven’t heard that before. It’s really nice.”
“It means ‘little star,’” she said; a little shy, a little proud.
He smiled. “I’m George.”
Their hands met for a handshake at the same moment. Fingers closed. Warm skin. A pause. Both reluctant to let go.
“Anyway,” she said, pulling her hand away and already halfway to the door, “see ya...”
He watched her go. She walked faster than she needed to, head ducked, hands twisting her sleeves into tight fists.
George looked back at the binder, but didn’t open it.
A/N:
Well. Realtín handled that with grace and dignity.
Anyway:
Have you ever felt an instant pull toward someone?
Why do we sabotage the things we want?
Why is being perceived by someone you fancy one of life’s worst experiences?
Come chat to me, I love hearing your thoughts 🤍
Helpful pronunciation guide for the Irish names:
Caoimhe = Qwee-veh
Dearbhla = Derv-la
Realtín = Rail-teen
Tiocfaidh ár lá means ‘Our day will come’ which is kinda a republican saying hoping for a united Ireland. Recently though, lots of people say it in a joking/ tounge-in-cheek way.
