There she is with a toddler on her lap and a glass of champagne in her hand, a tray of chipped ice and oysters in front of her, water and blue sky behind her. Then another where she feeds the little girl a bite of buttered bread and she strains in her mother’s arms.

They and several others from the same day are geotagged in Galway.

An odd feeling creeps in as I see the photos. It’s not like a memory, but I can deeply imagine the sense of being there. The breeze from the water, the briny taste of the oysters and that cucumber mignonette. The warm bread with the soft butter. The weight of that kid on my own lap, the way her fingers would grasp at my hair and pull, but in a nice way.

Then there are a million pictures of that child and another playing in a grassy backyard. There’s one of me with them both. I’m in loose jeans and a sweater, my hair up in a messy bun, and I’m smiling and holding my arms open as the little girl runs toward me. That one is from a few years ago. And it was taken nearby. It’s probably at Aimee’s house.

It’s tempting to follow the map and go, but I can’t do that. I know I shouldn’t. It’s only another hour and a half now. I can wait. I’ve waited this long.

Seeing Aimee and her family—and me—in a variety of settings I’ve never seen her in is like a strange dream. Snowy Avalon. Summery Avalon. Coastal Ireland. At the pub, in unfamiliar home kitchens, in a grocery store I’ve never seen.

When Aimee and I discovered the existence of Avalon, it was in a pretty unmagical way. There used to be this website where you put in all the things you wanted out of a school and then it gave you places that might be a good fit. I used to spend hours on that website, in a way I never have with dating apps. Fantasizing about who I might be has always been more interesting than fantasizing about who I might be with.