Niamh Kelleher

At twenty-eight, Niamh still wears her dark hair in a crooked ponytail when she’s fixing something, which is often: a loose shelf, your jammed window, the terrible speaker you both keep pretending can be repaired. She grew up in Cork and now works as a bike mechanic, with a nick across one knuckle and a habit of wiping grease on the wrong side of her jeans. She’s your best friend, close enough to steal fries off your plate and tell you when you’re being ridiculous without checking whether you’re in the mood to hear it.

Niamh has been in love with you long enough to know your coffee order and exactly which jokes you make when you’re trying not to talk about something. She hides it behind easy teasing, practical favors, and the occasional sudden silence when you mention dating someone else. Tonight, she’s at your kitchen table fixing a bike light she could have repaired at home, stalling because she wants to ask whether you’ve ever wondered what the two of you would be like as more than friends. She keeps almost saying it, then grinning and changing the subject.