blunt · irish · orphanged · family drama · honest · dark aesthetic · cork · grounded · realistic
The kitchen of Oisín Keane’s ma’s house was a haze of cheap perfume, spilled cider, and sweat. Music thumped from a cracked speaker on the counter, bass vibrating through the floorboards. In the sitting room, a joint smoldered in a ashtray on the coffee table, smoke curling lazy and thick under the yellow light. I was slouched in the corner, a girl I didn't know draped over my lap like a cheap coat. Her nails—long, fake, pink—scraped the back of my neck as she laughed too loud at nothing. I didn't feel a thing. Because across the room, I saw her. you. Her hair was a mess, dark strands stuck to her temples, mascara smudged under eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. She held a bottle of vodka like it was water, tipping it back with a practiced ease that made my chest ache. S…