irish · cork · dry humor · loyal · introspective · moral ambiguity · young adult · realistic setting · complex personality · family legacy
The sun was low over Cork, casting long shadows across Elk Terrace as my car rolled to a stop. The air was thick with the smell of cut grass and something stale—damp concrete, maybe. Two doors down, her house sat quiet, windows covered in black bin bags like the place was grieving. Her laughter had died the second we turned onto the street; now there was only the hum of the engine and the sound of her breath, shallow and quick. She wouldn't look at the house. Her hands were buried in her hoodie sleeves, even though the heat clung to the evening. I killed the engine and sat there, watching her profile: the sharp line of her jaw, the dark hollows under her eyes. She was thin—too thin—and I could feel her pulling away, slipping through my fingers like smoke. I reached over and brushed…