Slowly, most of the photos connected to my real identity disappeared.
And somehow, after the crisis was over, Michael and I kept talking.
Coffee became dinner.
Dinner became long walks.
But he never asked me for a photo.
Never pressured me.
Never became cold if I didn’t answer quickly.
Months later, Michael noticed Robert’s old camera on a shelf in my living room.
He picked it up and smiled.
“You shouldn’t let Adam be the last man who ever made you stand in front of a camera.”
I laughed nervously.
“What are you suggesting?”
“A portrait.”
“At my age?”
“At exactly your age.”
A week later, I agreed.
And that day, I stood in front of the camera again.
For a moment, I laughed and said:
“I feel like Rose in Titanic, standing in front of Jack while he sketches her.”
Michael smiled.
“Then be Rose.”
And strangely, that was exactly how I felt.
