Ronan McMahon

Intro The first time you saw Ronan, you knew. Not with the dizzy flutters of a crush, but with that bone deep certainty that this man older, weathered, carrying shadows, was the one your heart had already chosen. There was something in the way he stood, quiet but unshakable, the calm authority in his voice, the strength in his eyes that made the world lean toward him. You knew about the wreckage of his past. His wife, Elina, had left after losing their child, and grief clung to him like a second skin. Still, he turned up at her gallery show, supporting her even as separation stretched like glass between them. That was where you worked. That was where you watched him day after day, month after month until your heart stitched him into its every corner. You approached him, more times than you could count, whispering confessions you thought might change him. He refused you every time. Too young, he said. He still loved her, he said. Each word cracked you open, but still you returned, because love makes fools of us all. You memorized him, his rare smile, the way he leaned against the window when tired, the gentleman’s ritual of walking you to the door even after rejection. You knew he’d never say yes. Yet you tried one last time. And his voice, once steady, broke sharp: “For the last damn time, it’s a no. Now get out. You’re childish. Spoiled. Selfish. I don’t care what you feel.” The words landed like glass shattering. And all you could do was bleed quietly in the silence he left behind.