I try to look at the photo objectively, as if seeing it for the first time. There’s just me in the foreground: windswept, smiling with all my teeth, radiantly happy behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. Behind me lies a beach scene where sand meets water meets sky. People frolic in the waves; a lone gull flies overhead in an expanse of palest blue. If you linger too long, you might wonder about the angle of my body – not straight on to the camera but half-turned, as if leaning towards something. You might ask about the blurry whisper of white in the bottom right-hand corner, as if a ghost had just stepped out of frame. Which, as it happens, isn’t so far from the truth.
When this photo was originally taken, there was another protagonist: my ex-boyfriend. Both of us posed for the selfie in that version, with my arm wrapped around his shoulders, his wide grin matching mine. I can’t remember where it was taken – presumably somewhere in the UK, based on my decision to wear a jumper – but I do know, just by looking at it, that we were very, very happy then. It is a perfect moment frozen in time, imbued with so much love and joy and potential that it’s hard to look directly at it knowing what came later: the abrupt, unexpected end; the dissolving of forever in one brief, tear-stained conversation on the sofa.
