“You know we can go up to the stage again,” I say once I’m sure Flávia is out of earshot. “It’s not like there’s a rule you only get to go up once!”

“I … I know,” Priti says, some of the fight gone out of her now. “I just … wanted to go up together. I’ve never heard you mention her before.”

“I told you, we went to school together. A long time ago,” I say, feeling deflated. And we probably won’t see each other for a long time again. If ever. “Well, do you want to go up then?”

Priti looks so huffy that for a moment I think she’ll say she really doesn’t want to. But she nods, even through her pout. I have to smile because it’s kind of adorable. I even mumble an apology as we step up to the stage again, taking either side of the bride and groom.

After the photographer has clicked away for a few moments, Priti rushes toward her—heels clicking loudly—and hands over her phone.

“Can you please take a few on this?” Her voice is all sugar and sweetness.

The photographer looks a little exasperated, but nods. It’s as she clicks away with Priti’s phone that I realize how ridiculously forgetful I’ve been.

Why didn’t I do this when I was with Flávia? I had the perfect opportunity to document the moments we spent together—fleeting and out of the blue as they were. But I was so busy telling Sunny Apu about Priti being in the bathroom doing her makeup that I missed my chance.

“Wow, these are definitely going up on Instagram,” Priti says, flicking through the photos on her phone as we step off the stage. “You look really nice.”

“I doubt it.” After all, I didn’t dash off to the bathroom with Priti to touch up my makeup. I haven’t even looked at myself in a mirror in hours. I can’t imagine what all of those helpings of food has done to my makeup.

“You do. You look even happier than Sunny Apu in this one. Look!” She holds the screen up in front of my face. It’s zoomed onto my smiling face. I don’t look half bad, even though my urna is half falling off of my body.

“Wait. I’m sitting next to Sunny Apu here. But I was sitting next to Dulabhai?”

“Yeah, in the picture with me. This is the one I took of you with … you know, that girl.”

“Her name is Flávia …” I mumble. I can’t really mean it as a reprimand when Priti has done what I naively forgot to do. I feel a strange flutter in my stomach that I know too well but don’t want to know at all. “Did you take many photos of us?”