We present another story from the RTÉ Short Story Competition shortlist 2025 - read It Must Have Come First by Sage Omar below.
The shortlisted stories will be broadcast nightly from Monday 13th October on RTÉ Radio 1's Late Date.
About It Must Have Come First, Sage says: "this is a story about how we concoct the strangest of fictions to avoid facing reality. It's a story about death and rebirth, about love, loss and loneliness, and, mainly, it's a story about a gigantic egg that takes over a nameless character's life"
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Moving to London was silly. Five years together and now he's leaving. He says it’s because you don’t know what you want, not really. You know what he wants and she’s blonde.
He tells you on a Monday in June and is gone that Friday. You have your first weekend alone. Normally, you’d both get a Gail’s croissant in Highgate and stroll without purpose down the Heath. This time of year, the grass is invasive, laden with insects. It grows over the paths; you have to tread it down as you walk.
And you hate Hampstead Heath – you really, really hate it. It’s too full. The truth of this weighs on you without him. How can you live in a city this busy and not know anyone?
Later, you find yourself at a market somewhere in East. It’s still too sunny. You buy yourself another croissant, chocolate this time. Beside the pastry stall is a smaller one selling eggs. There’s rows and rows of them and none look edible. They look like ornaments. But you’re still hungry, and you don’t know what for, so you buy yourself an egg. It’s only £10 because the lady at the stall says you look sad.
The shell’s smooth and a disarming shade of crimson. The instructions mention that it needs to be 'kept’.
You rush home, shielding it from the open sun, unsure if it needs to be kept cool. Then at home, you doubt yourself and wonder if it should be kept warm. You wreathe it in a blanket on his side of the bed and fall asleep curled against it.
Keeping it warm makes more sense to you. In the day, you leave it on the windowsill with the curtains open so it can drink the sunshine. And it grows and grows and grows. You finally buy the king-size bed he always wanted.
***
One night, you’re going through his things. In his hurry to get to the blonde, he’s left all his nice shirts. You lay them on the bed, next to your basketball-sized egg, and go back to the closet. When you turn around, the shirts are gone. You look around, unsure if you’re alone. Suddenly the house is so quiet, so empty.
Then you look at your egg. Of course you’re not alone.
You lay another shirt by the egg and look away again. When you turn back, it’s gone.
You remember his favourite cashmere jumper is folded in a drawer downstairs.
***
The egg doesn’t eat the way you do. Your hunger is complicated: you cannot think of a meal without thinking of restaurants he’s taken you to, dinners on anniversaries, recipes you tried to impress him with. Now that he’s gone, food doesn’t hold the same appeal. So, you stop cooking, and you stop stocking your cupboards.
Still, you dream of eating, and in your dreams you’re eating the blonde. Her limbs are so long that it takes some manoeuvring to slide them down your throat. When you wake, there’s drool on your face.
***
You stay inside much longer than you used to. There’s not much to do outside, not really. You sing to the egg sometimes, just to hear your own voice. Then, because you think it likes it. You know even if you had friends or some semblance of a social life you still wouldn’t leave the flat.
Not many people have called or messaged to check on you. A text from a work friend. A voicenote from your sister. You should call your mother and explain that he’s left but why remind her of your father?
***
Before sleep finds you, you stare up at the ceiling. You know the egg is resting as well, swollen like a balloon, but you can’t stop wondering. Why are you here? You moved because he wanted to, and you wanted him. Can it really be that simple?
***
Two weeks in, with an egg the size of a boulder, the question dawns on you: what will it become? The instructions make no mention of hatching. Only that the egg is the child.
***
When July comes, the egg is even larger. It reminds you of one of those planet installations you loved to stare at in science museums, a flat-friendly model of Mars. You wonder what your old physics teacher would make of it.
It’s a lot cooler outside the rare times you do leave the flat. The summer has started to dull: the sun is less intense, the days less bright. You wonder if this is climate change, and then you remember your old English teacher.
Something tells you it’s tied to the egg. The more light it absorbs, the more the summer shrinks. It’s taking up more than half the bed now, almost reaching the ceiling; the legs look like they’re sinking into the floor.
***
When you aren’t taking care of it, you’re researching it. One site says it’s a mythological dragon’s egg. A book at the library mentions resurrection and miracles. One woman on a forum says you’re a mother now.
***
You call your sister one afternoon to explain your theory. She sounds distracted, but when you repeat yourself, she stops what she’s doing. "I’m sorry, did you say your egg grows in sunlight?"
"Yes," you say. "Do you think it’s wrong for me to keep it?"
She’s quiet for longer than she needs to be. "Is this about Ilyas leaving?"
You go to caress your egg, and the shell’s as smooth as the day you bought it. "Why on earth would this be about him?"
***
You wake one morning much hungrier than usual. There’s not much food in the cupboards or fridge. You wonder if the egg is hungry, too.
You go into the living room to do the unthinkable and find the photobooks he spent so much time collating. You look through the pictures: you with him, with his family on holiday in Spain, with him and his work friends, his university friends. You hate how happy he looks in all of them. You hate how happy you look in some of them. A small part of you wonders if he’ll want to keep them, when he eventually comes round to collect his things.
Your stomach growls as you take the pictures out of their plastic wallets.
They all go into the egg.
***
It’s an evening in August when he finally returns. You open the door, and his shock is almost comical. You don’t know what’s wrong – you’re wearing clothes.
"Oh," he says. "You got a haircut."
Thinking of the egg, you don’t respond. He smiles a small smile, recovered, face slightly brighter than it used to be. You wonder if he’s using her cleanser.
"It looks nice," he adds. "Edgy." When he looks you in the eye, you remember why you moved to London.
"How are you?" you say.
"I’m well. Can’t stay too long." The smile droops in apology. "Just need my clothes." He gestures to the empty suitcase he’s holding.
You shrug, silent, and step aside. It takes everything in you to not turn around and watch him as he walks, to not call out. He disappears down the hallway.
Then he’s screaming. "What the hell is that?" you hear him yell.
The yelling gets louder; you close the front door and then lock it, chain and bolt. The screaming continues. All things aside, it’s so nice to hear his voice in the flat again, even at this volume.
Something leaps in your stomach. It’s your turn to eat as well. You go into the kitchen but the cupboards are still empty. You make a list of things you need to buy, speaking the words aloud so it’s almost like you’re having a conversation. Milk. Bread. Tea. Meat.
The screaming stops.
***
For a short while you avoid going into your room. You sleep on the sofa in unnatural lurches of time. You’ve drawn most of the curtains, afraid of anyone looking in. Sometimes you steal a quick glance but only at night. No one’s ever watching.
When you have the energy, you rearrange the entire flat. Really this means pushing all the furniture towards your bedroom and opening the door. The kitchen table, the small bookshelf that was once your grandmother’s. A charity-shop armchair. By the time you walk away, they’re gone.
Soon enough the flat’s almost empty, apart from your sofa. You can’t give it away – not yet. It’s a pale, blue two-seater he bought the week you moved in. The two of you sat and ate takeaway on that sofa. Afterwards, you slept on his lap while he read.
You push it deeper into the living room and lie down.
***
You wake in the middle of the day and suddenly you need to see her, to ask about your starving egg, to ask if any of this is normal. You’ve left the flat almost as soon as the impulse strikes, grabbing your parka by the door. London is grey and damp and for once you like it.
When you get to the stall, there’s no one there. It’s dark. It’s cold. She must have gone home.
There’s a short man waiting on the pavement when you turn around. He’s staring at you, and even in the state you’re in, something still flashes in his eye.
He sees you staring back and grins. "Alright love?"
"Do you want to come back to mine?" you say.
His mouth falls open slightly like he’s surprised, but then he’s grinning again. "I’d love to."
You try for a smile. Great. You can meet my egg.
He frowns. "What was that? Did you say egg?"
Now you frown. "Did I say that out loud?"
He looks you up and down slowly, his desire gone. He leaves you alone.
You’re almost sad to watch him go, knowing what waits for you when you get back. You could just not go. You could follow the man. You could spend the whole night walking the streets of London.
You go home.
***
Eventually, you sacrifice the sofa. You return to your room, pretending not to notice how much space the egg is taking, even when you start to sleep on the floor. Then, you have to squeeze against the walls to leave. You wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe, shell pressed against your ribs, breath caught at your throat. You try not to cry when you realise you’ll never be able to pick up whatever hatches.
But you can’t wait. You’re thinking of him and her more often, and what they’re doing together. If the sex is better. And you find a sharp knife and cut out a circle in the egg. The relief is immediate: warm, golden light spills out and you see where summer’s been hiding. What else is there left to do but crawl in?
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About The Author: Sage Omar is a writer from North London studying the MA in Creative Writing at Queen's University Belfast. He writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry that often explores themes of identity and belonging. Currently, Sage is working on his first novella about a haunted council house and the blue Somali family who live there.
Listen to the RTÉ Short Story Competition 2025 stories nightly on Late Date from Monday 13th October (full broadcast schedule here). Tune into Arena for interviews and updates, and join us for the live Arena/RTÉ Short Story finale in the Pavilion Theatre in Dún Laoghaire on Friday 24 October - tickets are on sale here
