Chapter Text
A
/ I could be soft and sweet /
“Andy!”
Jon’s voice cut through the warm summer air like a slingshot, urgent and loud. “Mammy wants you back inside!”
Andrew looked up from the little fort he’d built out of sticks and stones in the garden. A beetle crawled lazily over the makeshift roof. He was mid-battle with imaginary bandits, his hands covered in dust and his knees scraped raw from crawling through the grass.
With a sigh, he dropped the twig sword and stood.
The sun had already started to dip toward the trees, casting long shadows across the yard. The air smelled like soil, warm leaves, and the faint trace of someone cooking something savory next door.
He jogged toward the house, slowing only when he spotted his mam standing at the threshold.
She gave him one quick look and reached down to wipe at his face with a damp corner of her apron. “Look at you! What’ve you been rollin’ in, Andy?” she muttered, though good naturedly, scrubbing his cheek with practiced swipes.
“We’ve got guests,” she added, her voice softening just a bit. “Try and behave now, alright?”
Andrew blinked up at her. “Who?”
“A new family’s moved in next door,” she said, stepping aside and nudging him inside. “Just now. The father’s a maths teacher, I think. Nice people.”
He followed her hesitantly down the short hallway into the living room, his feet dragging a little. He didn’t like the sound of “be nice.” It usually meant sharing his toys or being quiet when he wanted to make noise.
Inside, the living room smelled like tea and something sweet – mam’s scones, maybe - and felt warmer than outside, close and still.
Sitting primly on the edge of the couch was a girl. She looked to be around Andrew’s age, maybe a bit younger. Her golden hair was tied back in two ribbons, her curls falling neatly onto her shoulders like she was in a picture book. She wore a pale yellow dress with tiny white buttons and had her hands folded on her lap like she’d been trained to sit just so.
She looked up as he entered. Her eyes were wide and green and curious.
“This is Evelyn,” Mam said, placing a hand gently on Andrew’s shoulder. His Da, sitting on his armchair as he always was, gives a little laugh, “Be nice to her now an’ say hello, lad. She’s new here and doesn’t know anyone yet.”
Andrew gave a stiff nod. Evelyn didn’t smile, but she didn’t look afraid, either. Just… quiet. Watching.
“Why don’t you two go play outside?” The older lady, her mam probably, next to the girl added with a hopeful glance at both of them. “It’s still light out.”
Andrew hesitated, glancing at Evelyn, who stood up and smoothed down her dress.
He didn’t know what to say. She didn’t look like the kind of girl who liked beetles or mud forts or stick swords.
But she looked at him expectantly, waiting.
So, he said, “You wanna see a fort?”
Her face lit up just slightly.
“Okay.”
And without another word, the two stepped outside together, the door swinging shut behind them.
They stepped out into the fading daylight, the grass cool and damp beneath their feet. Andrew led the way, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Evelyn was still following. She walked carefully, lifting the hem of her dress slightly to avoid brushing it against the wild weeds by the path.
They reached the little clearing by the edge of the garden, where Andrew's fort - if it could be called that - stood proudly in its crooked, leaf-covered glory.
Evelyn paused, looking at it with a curious tilt of her head.
After a moment, she asked, “What do you do here?”
Andrew blinked. “Here? Where?”
“In the countryside.”
He scratched his head, curls flopping, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh, well... nothin’ much. We play games.”
“Oh,” she said, and it came out quiet, almost disappointed.
She stepped closer to the fort and touched one of the sticks gently, as if it might break under her fingers. “What kind of games?”
Andrew shrugged. “Made-up ones. We build forts, chase each other through the trees, climb things we’re not supposed to. Sometimes we catch frogs down by the stream.”
Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “Frogs?”
“Yeah,” he said with a small grin. “You ever held one?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. I don’t think I want to.”
Andrew gave a short laugh, but not unkindly. “They don’t bite or nothing.”
There was a moment of silence between them, filled only by the soft chirp of crickets and the rustle of wind in the tall grass.
“I used to live in a flat,” Evelyn said suddenly. “In the city. It was noisy all the time.”
Andrew didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded.
She looked up at the open sky. “It’s so quiet here. And the air smells like… grass.”
“That’s ‘cause it is grass,” Andrew said, raising an eyebrow.
Evelyn giggled, “You’re right, that’s true.”
They stood together beside the crooked fort, a lopsided structure of branches and old planks Andrew had scavenged over the past few weeks. He’d wedged a rusted baking tray into one side to serve as a “shield wall,” though it had since fallen over.
Evelyn studied it like it was a puzzle. “Does it have a name?” she asked.
“A name?” Andrew blinked. “The fort?”
She nodded.
He frowned, thinking. “Ehmmm, never thought of naming it, really.”
“All forts should have names,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were a rule. “Even in stories.”
“You read a lot, don’t you?”
Evelyn smiled faintly. “A bit. Mostly when we were packing. There wasn’t much else to do.”
She walked a little circle around the fort, eyeing it like an appraiser. “It should be something dramatic. Like... ‘Fort Wildthorn’ or... ‘The Watchtower of Bramble Hill.’”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “That sounds a bit grand for a lump of sticks and dirt.”
“It's supposed to be,” she said, lifting her chin a little, but there was amusement in her voice. “Forts are supposed to be grand.”
He thought about it. “Well, maybe we can call it that, then. Fort Wildthorn.”
Evelyn’s eyes lit up, just a bit. She stepped inside the ring of twigs and planks. “Does it have rooms?”
“Sort of,” Andrew said, following her. “That corner’s the lookout. Over there’s where I keep the secret stash.”
“Secret stash?” she echoed.
He reached under a loose slab of bark and pulled out a small tin box. Inside were marbles, two crumpled chocolate wrappers, a cracked magnifying glass, and a bird’s feather.
Evelyn knelt beside him, peering in. “You keep all this in here?”
“S’important stuff,” he said. “You never know when you’ll need a feather.”
She gave him a look, half-skeptical, half-impressed. “You’re strange.”
“Takes one to know one.”
She giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. Andrew smiled without really meaning to.
After a moment, she asked softly, “Do you like living here?”
He shrugged. “It’s all I’ve ever known. I guess it’s alright. Quiet, like you said. But there’s always something to do if you look hard enough.”
Evelyn looked around - at the waving grass, the distant fields, the fading sky that stretched wide and unbothered overhead.
They lingered beside the fort, Evelyn looking around in keen interest. Andrew shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious with Evelyn watching his fortress so carefully. It wasn’t much, really - just a pile of sticks and old boards he’d dragged from the shed and the woodpile over the past few weeks - but it was his.
“I’ve been trying to make it bigger,” Andrew said, “but it takes a lot of sticks.”
Evelyn crouched down to pick up a long, thin twig, twisting it between her fingers. “I think it’s perfect the way it is,” she said quietly, “It’s neat.”
Andrew smiled at that. “It’s more like a mess to Da.”
He heard his dad’s gruff voice from the kitchen, faint but clear through the open window: “Don’t make a mess of the garden, Andy!”
“See?” Andrew said, laughing. “He doesn’t get it.”
“My da would be fine with me making a fort,” Evelyn says, “But he’d be wanting to use real tools and real wood, Mammy would be mad at him.”
“Da can’t get out of his wheelchair much,” Andrew said, quietly, “But he plays the drums at the pub! I’m too young to watch but I’ve seen him play sometimes,”
“Oh,” Evelyn said, “That’s sad, I’m sorry.”
“S’not sad!” Andrew declared, “Mam says as long as everyone is healthy, we’re happy.”
Evelyn looked relieved, “So, what else do you do here? Aside from forts and frogs,”
“Well, there’s the stream not far from here. Sometimes me and my mates go fishing for tadpoles or skip stones. And there’s a big old tree near the edge of the field that’s perfect for climbing - even if Mammy says it’s too dangerous.”
Evelyn’s eyes brightened a little. “Climbing trees sounds fun. I’ve never really done that before.”
Andrew grinned. “You’d be good at it. You look like you could climb right up to the sky.”
“I bet I could,” She grinned back,
“And there’s the meadows,” Andrew continued, “where the wildflowers grow. You can pick bunches and make crowns or
necklaces. Sometimes bees buzz all around but they don’t sting if you’re quiet.”
“I like flowers, I’ve read loads of books on them,” Evelyn revealed, smiling secretly. “Bugs too,”
Andrew’s face lit up with genuine interest. “Really?”
Evelyn tilted her head, thinking carefully. “I could show you my book sometime, Da won’t mind if I borrow it.”
Andrew’s eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Yeah!” Evelyn nodded, eager.
From inside the house, the familiar voice of Andrew’s mam called out.
“Tea’s ready! Come in now, both of you!”
Andrew stood, brushing dust from his shorts and stretching his legs.
“Come on, then. Mam makes scones with jam if she likes you.”
“Seriously?!” Evelyn’s voice crackled through the phone, distorted by a shaky signal. “That’s insane!”
The connection dipped again, leaving only static. Andrew laughed, holding the phone higher as if that might help. He was pacing outside a café on a busy Dublin street, the autumn wind tossing his curls, a little longer because of neglect.
It was many years since they'd built forts and chased frogs in back gardens. Since childhood, since long afternoons in his backyard or hers. He had moved to Dublin for Trinity (where he’d dropped out after a year, wanting to pursue music more), she had moved to Galway to study, and made the trip up to watch important performances. Supporting him through emails and late night phone calls.
And now, after all his hard work, the small pub gigs and the relentless self-doubt, he had just signed with a record label.
A real one.
“Oh An—dee, I’m so proud of you!” Her voice skipped again, like an old tape. Still, the emotion in it carried through.
Andrew’s chest tightened. He pressed the phone closer. “Thanks a mil, Eve. I’m in shock, honestly.”
“I told you,” she replied, her tone bright even through the static. “I told you this would happen. You didn’t believe me!”
He grinned, breath fogging the chill air. “I guess I’m starting to believe it now.”
There was a pause. Then Evelyn’s voice, chipper and warm, “We should celebrate!”
Andrew leaned against a lamppost, letting the moment sink in. “Where? You’re in Galway.”
“We’ve got trains, genius. Or I’ll drive over. Just say the word.”
He hesitated, overwhelmed but glowing. “Are you sure?”
“I was there when you couldn’t afford guitar strings, remember?” she teased. “You think I’m missing this?”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
E
/ I could be hard and loud /
She wasn’t his girlfriend. Never had been. She was just there.
Their lives had once been tangled like roots underground, silent and unseen but inextricably linked. It wasn’t romantic—at least, they’d never said it was. There were no confessions, no kisses, no defining moment. Just late nights walking home under streetlamps, endless conversations about everything and nothing, and a growing space between them that neither dared to name.
And then the music happened.
One moment, he was Andy - barefoot in the garden, humming to himself, scribbling lyrics in the margins of old notebooks. The next, he was Hozier. The voice echoing through every radio, every speaker in every cafe, car, and corridor.
Jesus Christ, he was everywhere. She was so proud of him.
The world knew his sound now, deep, aching, raw. But not the quiet boy behind it. The one who moved through rooms like a shadow, who spoke gently and listened with his whole heart. The one who found poetry in weeds, who once called a tangle of twigs a fort, and meant it.
Evelyn tried to stay close. She clung to the edges of his new world, trying to thread herself into the fabric of his life as it unraveled and re-stitched itself into something dazzling and unfamiliar. But he was always gone - racing from studio to stage, plane to hotel, a blur of flights and cities that blurred into one endless, exhausting rhythm. Always moving. Always chasing something just out of reach.
The months he seemed to live in his suitcase, their conversations became scattered across time zones, filled with pixelated skype calls and tired voice notes.
He would laugh and say, “It’s mad, Eve,” and she would smile, but behind her eyes, something ached.
But eventually the calls came fewer and further between. The messages turned into voice notes left unheard, replies sent too late. She knew he wasn’t ignoring her. He was.. moving forward.
Just, without her.
He wasn’t cruel, never that, he became unreachable. He changed. Not all at once, but slowly, subtle at first, then undeniable. He was still kind, still soft in his own way. Just a little further away each day.
She missed the soft pauses between his words. She missed the boy who showed a rusted tin of marbles and feathers like they were treasure. The one who built forts out of branches and believed they could stand against anything.
His voice, once something only she had known in its purest, most unguarded form, now thundered through arenas. It filled stadiums. It brought people to tears.
But to Evelyn, it felt like a memory stretched thin. She couldn’t hear him anymore, not in the way that once connected them in low-lit rooms and rain-streaked windows. Not in the way that made her feel like the only person in the world when he sang.
Now, the silence between them was deafening. He filled the world with sound, but there were no words left for her.
If they were even for her.
Sometimes, when he called between shows, his voice hoarse, his face tired, she’d pretend not to notice the delay between her question and his answer. The hesitation. The way he seemed to drift in and out of the moment like a man always thinking ten steps ahead. And when she asked how he was, really, he’d laugh it off. “You know how it is,” he’d say.
But she didn’t. Not anymore.
There were moments she’d see him on screen, on talk shows or interviews, and feel proud, of course. But also like a stranger was staring back at her. He looked taller in those settings, somehow. Sharper. More composed. Like he’d grown into the image the world had made of him.
She wasn’t jealous. Not really. Not of the fans, or the fame, or even the songs that seemed to pour out of him now with ease. No, what Evelyn felt was more elusive. It was grief, in a way. Grieving the version of him that was only ever hers.
She remembered the last time she saw him.
He’d come home for a weekend, when she was home from university.
Brief, unannounced, his presence like a gust of wind slipping through the back door. They met at the stream near their childhood homes. The same place they used to catch frogs and build stories in the mud. He was taller, leaner, his hair longer. Tired. He smiled when he saw her, that same crooked smile that had once lit up entire summer afternoons.
They’d talked for hours. About nothing. About everything.
He told her about the label, the studio, the pressure. She told him about university, their friends, the irises blooming too early, the boy who flirted with her behind the counter of her favorite bakery in Galway. He didn’t say much about that. Just nodded, quiet.
When they left, he hugged her. Tighter than usual.
“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he’d said.
She didn’t believe him, but she nodded anyway, and sent him off with a smile and a "take care".
He called when he could. He always did. He tried. But trying didn’t close the space between them. He’d ask about her day, and she’d tell him - about the garden she was planting, the book she was reading again for the third time. She kept the conversation light, knowing how tired he sounded on the other end. Sometimes he would drift off mid-call, and she'd sit in the silence, the screen frozen on his sleeping face, and feel the weight of it all settle on her shoulders.
Her friends asked her why she held on. “Evie, it’s not like you two are dating, he’s probably forgotten about you!”
And she never had a good answer.
But the truth was, she loved him.
Sometimes she wondered if he noticed. If he missed the way she used to look at him. Like he was home.
She wondered if the man behind the music even remembered the life they had before the noise.
Or if, somewhere between the spotlight and the shadow, he’d finally slipped away for good.
Years later, sitting in the quiet of her new flat in Galway, surrounded by notebooks left half-open and photographs she’d tucked in between old books, Evelyn felt the absence like a shadow stretching long at dusk. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would scroll through old photos. The blurry ones. The ones taken with bad lighting and smudged lenses—the two of them grinning, tangled in each other on a hilltop or sprawled out in a field. Those were the images the world would never see.
She wasn't sure when the distance between them had become so permanent.