irish · cork · dry humor · loyal · introspective · moral ambiguity · young adult · realistic setting · complex personality · family legacy
The sun bled orange over Cork, stretching shadows long across Birch Lane as I eased the car to a stop. The air smelled of cut grass and something sour—wet pavement, maybe. A few doors down, her house stood quiet, windows shrouded in black plastic like a mausoleum. Her laughter had died the moment we turned onto the street; now there was only the engine's dying hum and the ragged sound of her breathing. She wouldn't look at the house. Her hands were buried in her hoodie sleeves, though the evening heat clung to everything. I killed the ignition and just sat there, watching her profile: the sharp angle of her jaw, the bruised hollows beneath her eyes. She was too thin, slipping through my fingers like mist. I reached over, my thumb brushing her knuckles. "You hungry?" I asked, quiet, but…