CHILL

Words by Kerry Graham.

“The Byronic Hero is an antihero of the highest order. He is typically rebellious, arrogant, anti-social or in exile, and darkly, enticingly romantic.’’

 He’s dark and brooding, but somehow you can tell that there’s a softness beneath. A brokenness. A…killer set of abs.

The mixture of floppy hair, tattoos and ripped clothing just seems to scream FIX ME. You want to get to know him, but you can’t let him know that. How will that work? You tell me, honey. You’re the one convinced that you’ve just met your knight in shining denim, working in this hip new record store (God Bless the Vinyl Revival).

It’s just good luck that last month you decided that discs were your new obsession, and you’re hoping that you’ll be his but not in, like, a desperate way. You’ll walk past the counter three times trying to catch his eye, but he’ll remain buried in his cheap paperback novel. What you won’t see is that every time you roll your eyes huffily, his eyes will flick to you for a millisecond, before resuming his uninterested façade. Eventually you’ll give up, and just before you walk out the door, you’ll look back and he’ll shoot you a lazy wink. OMG!

You’ll make a habit of calling into the store on the days you’ve got your eyeliner done to perfection. And you’ll browse longer every time. Some days he will ignore you steadfastly, some days he will make small talk with you for ages. The thrill of hot and cold begins to excite you. You’ll slowly build up a rapport with him, and eventually he’ll ask for your number to quote unquote “hang out’’. You’ll reply coolly, but inside you’re dancing.

You’re making progress, finally. Sitting by the phone for a week, you eventually get pissed. He must have just been messing with you, you’ll rant to your girlfriends. Then, on the day you decide to finally give up and find a new hobby to donate your hard-earned cash to, he’ll text. It’s almost like he could sense how close you were to being done. You’ll reply to his messages snidely and he’ll leave you on read. You’ll tell yourself you’re over it - you’re chill - but you won’t be. Then, disaster will strike. Your record player will break, and you’ll have to call into the store to get it fixed. How typical, you’ll think to yourself.

He’ll act perfectly normal, and you’ll give him daggers as he offers to fix your player free of charge…if you meet him for a drink tomorrow evening. You’ll snarkily ask what kind of game he is playing, and he’ll act wounded, before admitting that he’s

‘’not great at texting, but seriously, meet me for a drink? Just one, to say I’m sorry. Come on, be chill’’.

You’ll find it hard to stay mad as he smiles at you crookedly, and you’ll find yourself relenting. Twenty-two hours later, you’re sitting at the bar of a local pub, trying to look busy on your phone. You’re playing Animal Crossing, but the other patrons don’t need to know that. He’ll walk in, dead on time, and you’ll spend the next three hours listening to him wax lyrical about…something or other, you can’t really remember. It’s so hard to concentrate when he talks, you’re too busy staring at his mouth. Did he always have that lip ring?

He'll tell you about his family, three younger siblings and a toxic parental unit. He’ll tell you that the reason that he never brings girls home is because he

‘’doesn’t want the family to get attached, they don’t deserve to lose anyone else’’

and your heart will melt. He’s just such a good guy. You’ll hope this is the first date of many.

You’ll refuse to ask him about his romantic past because that’ll look desperate, but he’ll tell you all of it with absolutely no prompting. He’ll take you from his first girlfriend when he was fourteen, to the girl he stopped seeing last month, on his own terms of course. She definitely didn’t dump him, and he’s definitely not still mad about it. He won’t ask about your previous love life. It’s not that exciting, you’ll tell yourself. He’s lowkey it for you, anyways.

After a few more dates, you’ll start to see each other regularly. It goes from once a week, to twice, to him staying at your apartment three nights a week. You wonder if he’s your boyfriend, and one evening over a cheap bottle of wine, you’ll work up the courage to ask. He’ll scratch his neck (beard) and reply lazily that he doesn’t really -

‘’like labels, can’t we just be what we are, babe?’’

You never quite find out what you are, though. But that’s okay - it’s no big deal- you’re chill.

After a couple months of hanging out, sleeping together and even going grocery shopping together (the ultimate form of intimacy for millennials) he’ll stop texting you back. You’ll assume that he’s simply taken a mood, and let it slide for a day or two.

Then, nine days after his last text to you, you’ll snap. You’ll text him that you need to

‘’meet up to talk’’,

with the full intention of dumping his ass. He’ll reply and you’ll set a time and place for the following day.

You’ll go to bed that night filled with righteous anger, ready to cut yourself loose from his bullshit. Fuck staying chill when you’re being treated like crap. You’ll arrive at the café bang on time, assuming that he’ll be late. Every time the bell above the door chimes, you’ll look up in expectation, ready to give him the daggers he deserves. However, you’ll never get the chance. He won’t show. You’ll be more embarrassed than angry. You’ll head home with your tail between your legs.

A few days later, he’ll message you that he -

‘’just didn’t feel like having a serious convo that day’’

And you’ll scoff and reply that neither did you. Then, he’ll send a poetic paragraph summing up your time together and how it’s come to a close, with too many convoluted metaphors to count.

After throwing your phone across the room, you’ll reply in a super relaxed and agreeable manner, because he doesn’t need to know that you care enough to be mad, because according to him he always liked how relaxed you were about things. He’ll reply with a thumbs up emoji and that will be that.

You’ll call the girls over, and they will insist on having the requisite break-up ritual of throwing out anything that reminds you of him and drinking wine until you cry. You’ll get on board, then shamefully realise that he never actually left anything at your place to begin with –

‘’One foot out the door from the beginning’’,

you’ll slur at nobody as the girls all head home.

Over the next few weeks you’ll throw yourself into self-care, or work, or cleaning the grout in your shower. Anything to keep the self-loathing thoughts at bay. You know you didn’t do anything to deserve that behaviour from him, but you don’t like know know. After listening to enough Madonna and Kylie to power a queer bar’s playlist for weeks, you’re finally over it. Sure thing, honey. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

A few months later, after careful avoidance of the record store, you’ll be on a gander through town and stroll past accidentally. He’ll be inside at the counter, chatting to another girl and you’ll feel your stomach drop. You’ll keep walking, but you’ll know that in your heart of hearts that no amount of girl power anthems or pep talks from friends will give you the closure you so desperately need. You can’t go in and yell at him either, so you just keep on walking past every now and then, wondering if he’ll ever wave. He doesn’t.

It’s fine though. It’s not like you actually care - You’re so chill.

Kerry hails not from Kerry, but from Donegal. Following a BA in Classics and English at NUI Galway, she went on to graduate from an MA in Writing in 2019. Her areas of interest include comedy, contemporary life, sexuality and gender. When she’s not writing, sleeping or trying to compose the perfect viral tweet, she can be found over-watering her plants, attempting telepathic communication with her twin sister or listening to early 2000s emo music. A firm believer in aliens, she hopes they believe in her too. Her work has been featured in ROPES, The Galway Review and local newspapers.