Growing up in Ballylaggin, there was limited opportunities to shine - to truly glow and show the glitter that flowed through your veins. Unless, of course, you played rugby. Or Hurley.

But when you joined Tommen, wide eyed beside Claire and then eventually Shannon; you were swept away by The Arts. The singing, the acting, the dancing. The raw, unfiltered emotion you felt in your soul that you could pour into each role. Each line. Each number. Each song. Each monologue.

Getting progressively more important roles year by year, you were known as a bit of a showgirl. You hosted after-parties for cast and crew. You loved too hard. You smiled easily with dimples that were rare. You didn’t play every part, you became the part.

And so when Claire had dragged her parents to come to the show you were starring in - Hugh, of course, came along too. His parents and your own had even gone out to dinner beforehand. So when they were ushered by crew members into their seats and the curtain was drawn… he was mesmerised.

How had nobody noticed how much you thrived in the spotlight? How much you sparkled and glowed on stage? That was the moment he fell for you. So, he lied, claiming he’d dropped his car keys on the floor - and insisted he’d meet the rest of his family and your own outside, and he waited.

Waited until the giggles and squeals of ensemble and other characters couple together with the opening of doors and lights flickering off behind them. And behind them all, was you. In a sweater that was embroidered with the shows name on the back, your stage makeup still on and slippers on your feet instead of heels, he was awestruck.

How the feck had he missed you?

He approached you, hands awkwardly shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. “You were- uh, you were brilliant. Really. Really, really good. I-I don’t have any flowers though.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m glad you made it.” You shake your head and smile.

“I’ll make it every time, and I’ll bring flowers next time, too.” He promises.

And he did. Rain or shine, snow or drought, he came to any and every show you performed in. And as naturally as it was to breathe, he slotted into your life and you into his. You fell in love. It was that simple.

Until it wasn’t. Until you were scouted at one of your shows, and been invited to London - London! The West End, your dream, the start to broadway, then television. It was a ticket. But it meant leaving Hugh. He was understanding, and loving, and unwaveringly supportive in the sense constant messages became only ‘happy birthdays’ or ‘merry christmas’s’ or ‘saw you in the papers’.

And when you became renowned for your stage presence in London, in the West End, and you were into your early 20s, finally having bought an apartment in one of the safer areas of the city, you got a message.

Hughie: Hey, you. I’m in London for a few weeks for a few courses I’m helping out to teach. I booked tickets to see you on Friday. Drinks after? On me, I promise. All my love.

And so on Friday your smile was a little brighter, and giddiness infectious onstage and offstage. When you changed into the long trench coat and flattering black dress, heels and tights after you found someone stood by the secret stage door, holding an immense bouquet of flowers, in a smart navy coat, and a icy blue jumper, with a zip at the collar and some grey trousers, and that lovely honey hair you remember.

“Hugh.”

He turns, face lighting up. “You were incredible. Truly a showgirl.” And so when street lamps melt into the warm glow of a bar, you take a sip of your cocktail and he asks.

“What’s it like? The life of a showgirl?” Admiration and wonder shines in his eyes, and that slight smile on his lips - the one you kissed off them a thousand times, and would gladly until the end of time still made your cheeks flush and eyes sparkle as you give that coy, sheepish smile.