Instead of social media, I flicked through the few photos I’d taken, and the ones Patrick had airdropped me on the flight, stored in my private and unpublished archive, for my pleasure only. If a memory isn’t shared online, did it ever really happen at all? I decided yes, and that it was even sweeter that way. I scrolled up my camera feed to start from the beginning, where the photos were mainly selfies and snaps of my passport next to a glass of champagne, and an image of the view out of the plane window. It was so interesting to see, though, because as the trip went on the photos became less of ‘stuff’ and more of Patrick, or me and Patrick. There he was in his robe at the villa, so much paler than when we finally headed home. Then, the first beach trip, our glasses clinking at the wine tasting, a video of him driving us to the music festival. There were a sequence of shots from the night we’d canoed out on the river – a series where I was caught unaware, then turned to see him, then laughed, and another where I was covering my face.

I paused on the next one: the final one he took before I’d demanded he stop. My hair was loose and windswept, and I had golden freckles across my nose. I was laughing again, forcing a double chin and revealing the crooked front tooth I’ve always said I’d one day get fixed, and gazing off camera, just above it, my pupils as wide as the rest of my eyes. I was looking at Patrick, and it was a look of … Not love, but definitely something close. How early had I fallen for him? He’d walked into my existence at such a crucial moment and made it feel – almost, just maybe – like everything else was worth it. I dreaded to think how sad I’d be without him brightening up my days and making me believe the bad days were over.

Maktub.

It is written.

Without overthinking it I made a photo of us on the last day of the trip my phone’s background wallpaper so I’d see it every time I picked up my phone.

Let me know when you’re up, I texted him. I’m thinking about you.