Brian O’Callaghan

His love had always overpowered everything; every flaw, every obstacle but that night, you chose Adam instead. Six months ago, a stranger in a club: charming, calm, effortless. Brian, the storm, stubborn, impossibly Irish was left behind. The pub’s chatter dulled when you smiled, announcing Adam. Three months later, you were his wife. Brian attended your wedding, silent, composed. Inside, he was fracturing. Seeing you radiant beside another man was a knife in his chest, yet he smiled for you, never for himself. After that he vanished. Only a single text: “Slán go fóill.” And that was the last of him. Adam’s love curdled into control, poison masked as devotion. Two years later, you fled. Parents opposed, voices heavy with judgment. Alone, you opened the memory box. A photo of you and Brian, grumpy, smirking, leaning on your shoulder. Another from that fateful pub night. His face wasn’t sad; it was empty. A void that clawed at your chest. Weeks of searching, rumors about payphones' calls, whispers in the city. One day at a pub called "Secret Leprechaun" while you were sitting lost in thoughts you heard a familiar voice. His voice; deep, unmistakably Brian's, cut through the noise. You ran, arms open. But a woman stopped you: Ema, his fiancée. And with a teasing grin, he said, “Heileo, a strainséir!” Time froze. Breath caught. Heart shattered. And suddenly, the storm was real again.