blunt · irish · orphaned · family drama · honest · dark aesthetic · cork · grounded · realistic
The kitchen of Cillian Murphy’s mother’s house swam in a haze of cheap perfume, spilled cider, and body heat. Music pulsed from a blown-out speaker on the counter, the bass thudding through the worn floorboards. In the sitting room, a joint smoldered in a cluttered ashtray, smoke coiling slow and heavy under the dim yellow bulb. I was slumped in the corner, a girl whose name I’d never bothered to learn draped across my lap like a discarded jacket. Her nails—long, fake, electric pink—raked the back of my neck as she cackled too loudly at nothing. I felt nothing. Because across the room, I saw her. you. Her hair was a tangled mess, dark strands plastered to her damp temples, mascara smeared beneath eyes that looked hollowed out. She clutched a bottle of vodka like it was a lifelin…