My feet are filthy. Even wearing runners, I feel the grit inside my shoes, working its way through my socks to the sweaty skin underneath. I know instinctively these socks will be trash when the day is done. That’s something they don’t tell you about Rome - how dirty it is. Thousands of years of dust and grime swirl on these ancient streets. You can literally feel the sands of time grind between your toes as you walk through piazza after piazza in search of the next scene from The Da Vinci Code. In the movies, Rome is all wine and romance and beautiful architecture. In reality, it’s just another major city with noise and pollution and way too many people. The tour guide stops at a church, I think. It’s hard to tell with all the scaffolding and construction sheets draped in front of it. Another thing they don’t tell you about Rome - it’s constantly under construction. It seems like all the major architectural marvels are getting restored at the same time so you get to hear a lot about them from your tour guide, but don’t get to see very much of them. I hear the guide say Da Vinci Code and tune out. This is number five for DVC spots. I don’t remember the tour description saying this tour was for Dan Brown fans but I’m starting to think I should’ve read it more carefully. As the group listens to Paolo, the guide, I let my eyes wander. I admit - Rome is beautiful. With the bright Italian sun overhead and pale stone buildings surrounding the piazza, I feel like I’m in a painting where the artist finished with a translucent layer of ethereal white. Even the throngs of other people in the square seem to glow. I spot a shockingly blonde head amidst the crowd. With the sun shining down, his short hair is a beacon in a sea of dark-haired Romans and hatted tourists. I inch backwards out of the protective huddle of my tour group to get a better look. He’s tall and trim, a runner if I had to guess. White sneakers that, even at this distance, I can tell are tinged with gray from the dusty streets. Blue polo shirt, blue jeans. I bet you wear blue to bring out the colour of your eyes. He turns and looks my way. I’d inched my way into the open space between my group and his. I can see his eyes are as stunningly blue as his hair is blonde. And, somehow, familiar. He’s staring at me staring at him. I smile slightly, just a woman admiring a good looking man. Nothing weird. He frowns and turns back to his group. Ouch. Ok then. But I’m still standing in the open, now staring at a profile that is gnawingly familiar. Where do I know you from? I flip through my mental image catalogue, going through ex boyfriends, friend’s brothers, coworkers, classmates… School. I know you from school. Not recent school. If I knew you in high school or later, I probably would’ve tried to date you and would remember that. It has to be before high school. It clicks. Elementary school. You were a year older but the school was so small we all tended to play together anyway. What is your name? “Kris!” I call to him as his name pops into my mind. His head jerks up and he stares - no, not stares. Glares. The furious look lasts a heartbeat and then he snaps his attention back to his group. Oh it’s definitely you. I open my mouth to call out again when something else thuds into place, reverberating through my chest and pulling me down with a heavy, sinking weight. We went to elementary school together, yes. It was high school when you went missing. The newspapers were all over it. Weeks of articles as the entire city searched for you. Your dad went on TV begging for you to come home. But you never did. The searching stopped. We all assumed… you were dead. “Kris,” I croak. “Kristoffer Nilsson.” He flinches, ever so slightly. The girl beside him raises an eyebrow and whispers something, but he shrugs. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets as he walks towards me, though the look on his face barely conceals the rage underneath. A tight smile as he says, “Are you talking to me?” Up close, there’s no denying it’s him. “It’s Kris, isn’t it?” “I’m sorry. You have me mistaken…” I hold up a hand. “Don’t. It is you.” I lean in and whisper, “Everyone thinks you’re dead.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve mistaken me for someone else. Have a good day.” I grab his arm as he turns to leave. I don’t know why, exactly. He may look like Kris Nilsson, but it can’t be him, ten years later and definitely not dead. It doesn’t make sense. So why am I stopping him, as he sears me with those crystal blue eyes. Just like your father’s when he pleaded on TV for you to come home. “But your dad. Your dad. He thinks your dead. He can’t keep thinking that… You can’t let him…” He rips his arm from my grip so fast I think he must’ve dislocated his shoulder and suddenly I’m staring into icy pools inches from my face. “Let him,” he hisses. “Let him think I’m dead. Seeing me here, alive, did you stop to wonder why I didn’t come back? I left for a reason and I intend to stay gone.” He takes a few steps away and then, slowly turns back. “Please.” The venom in his voice is gone. “Please, don’t say anything. It’s not - it’s not your choice to make.” He walks back to his group. I stand alone in the open square, covered in ancient dust and the weight of a decision I don’t know how to make.