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She just knew.

Sure, she was the sun to my shadow. No one noticed me when she was in the room.

Butshesaw me. Mom told me when we were born, we’d hold each other’s hands in the bassinet, sleeping face-to-face like we couldn’t bear to be separated.

And now she’s gone.

“God, it’s so beautiful out here, isn’t it?” Rhys sighs happily and bumps my shoulder.

Smile. Flirt back. Here’s a man who notices me and wants to know me better. I should be excited.

“Yeah, Olive. I’m so disappointed in you,”Mia quips in my head again.

Shut. Up. You don’t get to be disappointed in me.

Ever since I boarded the cruise, she’s been in my head all the time.

I’ve spent years studying the brain and emotions. I know you never really get over the loss of a loved one.

This is grief.

It ebbs and flows like the currents rippling the ocean.

There’s no time limit to grief. It can be a few months, a few years, or a few decades.

But this trip is putting it at the forefront.

Everything I’m doing now—talking to a handsome doctor, strolling through winding alleys, admiring the hanging flower baskets, iconic blue doors against white-walled homes—is things I was supposed to do with her.

Process the pain, push through to move through. That’s what I’d tell my patients.

Why is it so hard? And why wasn’t I brave enough to face it until now?

Releasing an exhale, I unhook the Leica around my neck to adjust the aperture and shutter speed before taking a few shots of vendors hawking their wares, two little boys chasing a Jack Russell Terrier, a priest in flowing black robes crossing the plaza.

Mia would’ve wanted to be in the center of these photos, grinning at the camera while stuffing her mouth full of olive-oil dipped bread, striking a pose in a spot she spent ten minutes choosing for the perfect lighting.

But I love these quiet moments. These regular vignettes of people living their lives, unassuming yet unflinchingly honest.

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” Rhys asks.

I smile as I click away. “It’s a hobby. I like to—”

Screams suddenly erupt nearby.

I turn, the crowd shoving me.

Then I stumble. My heel catches on the cobblestones.

A loud roar quakes through the square, and I finally see them.

Two motorcyclists dressed in all black barrel toward us. The first one snatches my camera from my hands before I can react.

No! My Leica from Mia.“Stop! Give it back!”

Without thinking, I chase after the man. They can take anything—my purse, my money—but they can’t take the only thing Mia left me.

The second motorcyclist brushes past me and beelines toward Bree. She stands alone, her face blanching, clearly petrified.