People in Derry didn’t notice things. They stored them.
They kept receipts in their mouths and brought them out like coins: at the till in Spar, at the rail by the pitch, at the bus stop when the rain made everyone brave.
Saoirse Kavanagh learned that the night the breakup became public property.
It was meant to be private. A slammed door, a shouted sentence, the kind of ending you could tuck into a drawer and lock.
But Mark Kavanagh — always performing — made sure it had an audience.
He’d done it in the doorway of Bríd McLaughlin’s terrace, in full view of the streetlamp, the neighbours, and the holy trinity of Derry gossip: an open curtain, a kettle on, and time.
By morning, Saoirse’s name was moving through the town faster than the River Foyle after rain.
She told herself she didn’t care.
She told herself she’d rather be talked about than pitied.
She told herself she was fine.
And the first caller at work said, bright as a blade, 'Saoirse, love… is it true he left you standing there?'
She smiled into the headset like it was a mask she’d trained for years to wear. Her voice stayed calm. Professional. Perfect.
'Ambulance Service, Control. What’s your emergency?'
After that, she swore off two things: men, and being seen needing anything.
Needing was how people got their hands on you.
Needing was how they pulled you into the middle of the street and called it love.
She would not be that girl again.
Not in a town that watched everything.
Not with a door open behind her, and nowhere safe to go.