“Long-distance is easy—when the distance doesn’t scare you more than the closeness.”
Monday morning felt like a harsh slap of reality. The roar of electric guitars was replaced by the chime of the school bell. The sea of singing people was replaced by a sea of small faces looking up at her expectantly. Patricia was back to being Frau Schmidt.
"Frau Schmidt, why do you keep smiling today?" asked one of her round-eyed students, Lena.
Patricia, who had been daydreaming while staring at the blackboard, was slightly startled. "Ah, it's nothing, Lena. Maybe because the weather is nice."
But it wasn't because of the weather. It was because the phone in her pocket had just vibrated with a message: Morning. Have a good day. Be careful with the little monsters. C.
Her double life had begun. By day, she was a dedicated teacher. By night, after the students' homework was graded and the lesson plans were prepared, she crossed a digital bridge to Dublin.
Their long-distance relationship was built on a sweet routine. Short texts in the morning, a few memes or funny photos during the day, and the highlight was the video call at night. Patricia would talk about the drama in the teachers' lounge, or about a student's drawing of a five-legged dog. Cathal, back to his law school routine in Dublin, would complain about the boring cases he had to read or tell her about his real dog, who was always trying to steal his toast.
In those video calls, Patricia saw the real Cathal. Not the gloomy prince backstage or the laughing tourist in the Biergarten, but a smart young man struggling under the weight of expectation. She saw him run his hands through his hair in frustration while studying, or his eyes light up when they discussed a documentary.
"I don't understand this clause," Cathal complained one night, holding a thick book up to the camera.