Roula 1995 -

Later, she took the photograph. I don't remember the camera or the flash. I only remember the way she turned her face slightly away from the lens, as if already half-gone. As if the girl in the white dress was a decoy, and the real Roula had already boarded the plane. August came like a fever. We swam at a rocky beach near Varkiza, where the water was so clear you could see the shadows of fish moving over ancient shards of pottery. She taught me to dive off a concrete pier. I nearly drowned. She pulled me up by the wrist, laughing, and said, "See? You cannot even leave the water properly."

The photograph is warped at the edges, a casualty of humidity and haste. It shows a girl with dark eyes and a white dress, standing on a balcony in Athens. Behind her, the Acropolis is a blur of gold and dust. The date is scratched on the back in faded ink: July 1995 . Her name was Roula. Roula 1995

She laughed—a real laugh, cracked and unguarded. "Yes. That is the point." Later, she took the photograph

"I am."

I wanted to say something beautiful, something that would pin her to this moment, to this rooftop, to me. Instead, I said, "That's far." As if the girl in the white dress