I have a few confessions tonight, the first of which won’t be popular - especially amongst a room of Irish Millennials.

I can’t stand the sight of Paul Mescal.

Audible gasps, I know.

But before I’ve lost you all already, let me give you some context.

Last year, I went back to Ireland for the first time in two and a half years. Being this far away, I was teary-eyed every time I thought about home for the two months leading up to my departure. I craved the embrace of my family and the proverbial warmth of our cold, cold homeland.

And then 72 hours back in my old room, the boredom set in.

“What am I going to do in Ireland for the next 6 weeks?”

So I did what any single, pent-up person my age would do: I went on Hinge.

In my jet-lagged daze, I lazily swipe through people I vaguely recognised from primary school, cringeworthy teenage disco hook-ups and an alarming amount of Salesforce employees. But fast-forward five weeks later and I am being picked up from the airport after a trip to London by a guy I’ve been on two dates with. We’re going away together for my last week in Ireland.

He’s from Laois. He’s got light brown hair and blue eyes. He went to Trinity but didn’t really fit in until he took GAA back up in his third year. He is understated considering how attractive he is; considerate, empathetic and kind. He is a primary school teacher now. The school year has just ended and he tells him one of the mums has gifted him a silver chain - but he’s convinced it’s nothing to do with Normal People. He also had a disturbingly similar name.

The main point of difference with this guy is that he’s not famous and he lives on a canal boat. We’re going to move the boat from Kildare to Shannon Harbour together for the next four days. I’ve told my friends about the trip (they’re very excited but have asked me to WhatsApp them at any time) but not my parents - mainly because women, men and canals have a lurid reputation. That and the modern dating scene is barely understandable to me, never mind trying to explain it to them.

He had bought the boat with his ex-partner and did it up mostly alone during COVID because she was working doing aid overseas. Since becoming single again, he said it put a lot of girls off. But he said his life had improved exponentially from living on the canal, so the right person would just have to be into it.

And I was into it. I love adventure. I love ducks. I love old worldly things.

The boat gave so much more away than anyone’s room or flat had to me before. He had stripped it inside and out, repainted it and built custom furniture to fit it. There were string instruments, cameras, books and art that his friends and family had made hanging from the walls. The detail and care for the space was so intentional. It felt tender to me.

I took photos when he wasn’t looking.

He’d spent the weekend before getting the boat ready and buying food I liked, and when we set off, he taught me how to drive it and how to go through locks. He told me about the tiny blink-and-you’ll-miss-them-only-a-canal-boat-moves-very-slowly-so-you-can’t-miss-them villages. He introduced me to his neighbours and the characters that were the lockkeepers. His old-man chat was impeccable.

We were at the same stage in life. We had similar values and social lives. We both wanted to move to the West of Ireland eventually. He was one of the few people who if you sent him a music or TV recommendation, he would actually invest time in watching it and give you feedback - a rare treasure in these times. He would check books for answers before Google. I guess he was kind of old-worldly too.

We had a lot of time to kill moving the boat so we did wholesome stuff together; we played music for each other - and with each other. We did the Wordle. We pointed out our preferred canal-side dwellings. We talked about deep things. We talked shit. We basically just got to know each other.

We also got to know each other. That worked too.

He wouldn’t let me go to sleep without having the chats. He asked me questions that I wasn’t expecting. He really wanted to know me, to create intimacy. This caught me off guard after years of what now felt like hollow dating experiences.

He was concerned I didn’t eat breakfast and made it for me anyway. He asked to make a picture for his bedroom, so I’d know he wouldn’t forget me. He told me I should write stories. His actions made me feel safe and seen.

I felt connected to him in every way.

He said he felt the same.

He said he wouldn’t let himself be sad when I left. He said that a few times. He’d put partners on pedestals before and he was trying not to do that again.

I cried on the last night, making a joke about it ‘being cool to cry on a third date, right?’. He didn’t want me to go to bed sad so he got me up, made me tea, gave me a purple Snack and played me guitar.

He seemed weary too, no doubt - but like he’d been there before, probably many times; the person who is at home, having to console the person who is leaving him. His last three relationships had ended up being long-distance and he was worried he was getting a complex.

In the car home he told me I could tell him anything. I told him he wouldn’t want to know what was going through my head after only four days together (like he didn’t already have a strong idea).

“You’re leaving me.” I said, not wanting to ever get out of the car.

“You’re the one leaving me. You’re going to Australia.”, he said. “Listen, we’ll keep in touch.”

I believed him.

He drove off and I thought to myself, “Nothing good happens at the Red Cow Roundabout.”

The day I got back to Australia, I got an email saying my visa sponsorship application had been rejected. This felt like a sign from the universe - a pivotal Rom-Com-esque moment. Should I give up everything and fly home to a country that thus far in life didn’t make me happy? Did he even want me to? Who would that even be fair to?

But then the messages started to become stilted. Time dragged waiting for responses that had, up until then been prompt. In fact, he’d always reached out to me. I wished I could have blamed the time difference and the jet lag but it just felt different. I was confused, I went down a well.

It came to a head a few weeks later. He just couldn’t do anything resembling long-distance because of his previous relationships, he needed to protect himself. Being so far away, I felt I couldn't do much to change this.

He said I’d always be welcome on the boat and that if I did actually get deported, to get in touch.

And so ensued something that I have learnt is so much worse than all-out rejection: silence. Silence coupled with a twinge of hope that he might change his mind. It felt like this soul-mate-status person had swooped into my life, changed everything and then (metaphorically) died. I mean, he could have actually died - I wouldn’t have known.

And his disappearance caused me to conjure up an exhausting array of scenarios, questions and the lethal ‘what ifs’ in my head.

People told me I wasn’t myself.

I did what I could to pick myself up, including joining a comedy improv troupe (if that isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is). I, of course, counteracted these positive things with the highly ill-advised re-reading of texts and listening back to voice notes. But my mood and outlook didn’t really feel within my control. I cried more than I ever have cried. I just couldn’t understand why he had given so willingly knowing he was going to take it away.

It’s a year later now and I have resurfaced. He is with someone else. He is happy. And although finding out that information was initially devastating, knowing that he’s moved on has been a massive relief. The hope and indecision was wearing me down, and to know all the cards are off the table has been helpful.

And I wish I could say I’d learnt something enlightening and profound about relationships; that I’ve reached the other side as a better person or that I now love myself more or something. But I’m not sure I have any satisfying revelations.

What I have learnt instead are a number of frustrating dichotomies. That real, true romance does exist out there for me - but it can be fleeting. That I need to push myself to be more vulnerable - but that is no guarantee of trust or reciprocity. That interest, commonalities and attention don’t equal commitment.

And mostly I have learnt that two people can experience the same thing, feel similarly - but not want the same outcome.

So tonight, I have a few more confessions (aside from not being able to wholeheartedly support the seemingly unstoppable force that is Paul Mescal on his cataclysmic rise to heartthrob super-stardom).

I confess that I am using the medium of Seannoiche for personal gain; that I need a punctuated end to my love-ish story and I’m hoping that by getting it down on the page and out in the world, I can bring it to a close for myself.

I also confess that I would do it all again. And that if he called me, I would still pick up. Because that time together was a little bit of magic - and nobody wants a spell to be broken.

And my final confession is to my parents. Mum and Dad, I’m sorry - I lied to you. I didn’t go away with Theresa last summer. I went with a stranger down the canal and you’re right, it is a dangerous thing to do.