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You are a newborn infant, swaddled in clean blankets. As you open your eyes to the world, everyone around you coos and you empty your lungs, screaming. Your mother rocks you, shushing you as your father perches by the side of the bed. A nurse snaps a picture of your small, newly-formed family. Your eyes are tired, wrinkled slits, the expression on your face puzzling at this new, brighter, louder environment.
“Welcome, Julian,” says your father, beaming. “You’re going to grow up to be a good one, aren’t you?”
You are five years old. The waves wash in and out, their crests foamy like toothpaste. You’re standing on the edge of the beach where the sand meets the sea, the wet sand clustering around your legs. The evening sun casts light and shadow on your face. Your gaze is distracted. Looking back, you’re not very sure what exactly you were looking at. Perhaps it was a colourful beach ball or something.
Your father is the one behind the camera this time, your mother sitting a distance away in the shade. Afterwards she comes up to you and throws a warm towel across your shoulders, which are caked in sand.
There’s not much you can remember about that experience, except that you got the flu for a week afterwards.
You are seven years old. Your smile is wide, a toothy grin (with your front tooth missing). A conical hat is placed on your head, for it is your birthday. You sit in the passenger seat of a shuttlecraft, your eyes glimmering with excitement like you’re going on a great big adventure. Your eyes shine like the thousands of stars outside, and the window casts the reflection of your mother, who’s behind the lens. You’re technically supposed to be in school now, but your parents have pulled you out to go somewhere. Oh well.
Kukalaka sits in your lap. He wears a patch on his leg, indicating where a previous accident has happened. You fixed him, and for that you’re proud. I’m going to be a doctor one day, you say, with ambition. But I’m still scared of them for now.
You are twelve years old. You stand proudly on stage aside all the other students who have done exceptionally well for that school year. You’re holding the biggest plaque because you’ve topped your class. Topped your level, even. You’re still shaking with excitement from when you had the chance to shake the headmaster’s hand. The weight of the plaque feels comfortable in your hands, balanced and solid as a rock.
But you’re not so adept at grooming yourself. Your left sock is higher than your right, and the left side of your school uniform collar has flipped up. Your parents were proud of you that day, but as they snapped a picture of you, you swear you saw their expression change. You’re puzzled as to why they look slightly dismayed. Did I not do well enough? Are they angry at me for looking messy?
And it shows on your face in the picture. Your smile is wavy, and looks forced even.
You are eighteen when you graduate from high school. You refuse to smile or look at the camera this time - your face a mask of pity. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to be here and I know it.
You do well enough to get into Starfleet Academy. You’ve earned a scholarship. And that’s what’s going to motivate you to go. But deep within you, there’s a conflict that threatens to burst out. You want to scream at the world, that I’m a fraud, just a big fraud and I don’t deserve a scholarship. Not at all. I don’t deserve a place in this society. Society hates me, and it’s not even my fault at all.
When you look back at that picture, you wonder if your eyes are full of tears.
You are twenty-seven. You’re front and centre in your class graduation photo, all smiles. You’re well-liked by your peers. You’re surrounded by friends. You’ve graduated second in your class (this is deliberate), and you’re now on your way to achievement.
Your class remembers you fondly. They remember you as the clever, witty lad who’d go to parties and flirt with the guys, charm the girls, and banter with everyone in between. Constant socialisation and frequent romantic flings were part of your life as much as your academic studies were. And how do you do it, wonders everyone? How do you balance everything?
You don’t tell them the real truth behind your success. You smile, and shrug, like you always do. ‘Pretty Boy’ Bashir, they call you. And you take it in your stride graciously.
Your smile in your graduation picture is bright, but there’s something in your eyes that wavers. You’re hiding your shame and guilt behind that dazzling smile of yours, but your eyes give just a bit of it away.
Don’t let them know, you order yourself. Don’t let them know.
The next few years pass in a blur. You’re suddenly thrust into the deep end, on this lonely little station in deep space. You have authority. And it might be a bit challenging to keep up with things, as the youngest senior officer on the station.
But it’s the people here that made your time so, so worthwhile.
Jake, the son of the station commander (later captain), is the one behind the camera. It’s a hobby of his and a great source of inspiration, he says. Sometimes you wonder if his novels are based on real-life events and people he knows from the station.
Sometimes you even wonder if he’s written anything about you.
Just before you leave the station, broken after a long war, he sends these pictures to you. You spend the whole journey to Cardassia flipping through the pictures on your PADD.
There’s the one of you and Jadzia, enjoying a good drink at Quark’s. Jadzia, though a good friend, was always devious. This was the time she made you try real alcohol. For science. Quark’s in the background, egging you on. The taste of the liquor was familiar, but the sensations you felt were unfamiliar - you’d never had a drop of real alcohol during your academy days. You earned yourself a terrible hangover the next day but it was absolutely worth it. It’s a brilliant way of forgetting things you want to forget, you notice.
You and Jadzia share many other brilliant moments together, but it seems that they’ve gone unnoticed by Jake. No matter. Sometimes, you don’t feel that Jadzia’s ever been gone at all (not because of Ezri). You close your eyes and imagine her cheeky smile, and the way her blue eyes shine.
There are the ones of you and Miles. An assorted collection of snapshots detailing your holosuite escapades. You find yourself missing Miles, who is currently back at home on Earth. Your eyes glance over every single one of those pictures Jake took at Quark’s, relishing in the memories. There was the time you went kayaking together and he dislocated his shoulder (again). There was the time you fought valiantly in the Battle of Britain and mourned the loss of a holographic friend. And yes, there was that silly secret agent program where you didn’t let him play Falcon any more because it got very, very awkward - maybe I do regret playing alone. That leather looks very attractive on him - oh, I mean Falcon. Or Miles. Maybe both, but I would probably die before i admit that to him.
There are snapshots that capture you on a date. You remember that evening with Melora, at the Klingon restaurant (by the way, how is she doing now?), that brief period of time when you were with Leeta (that was a short period of time, but a sweet one), and finally you with Ezri, taken just days before. Ezri’s always been more like a friend to you and you’re absolutely glad you broke up with her amicably. You can still feel the satisfaction. She’s probably going to go for Kira now. I’m proud of her.
There are a few pictures of you and Garak together. Your expression is one twisted up in a heated debate as you have your spoon in your mashed potatoes and your fork jabbing at the air in front of Garak, strongly stating your point. Garak sits there, perfectly composed, but his eyes wide open as he thinks of his response. There’s another picture of you and him coming out of the holosuites after a round of that secret agent holoprogram again (God, memories of that program are the best and the worst at the same time.)
The last picture depicts the whole crew at Vic’s for the last time. Your eyes flit from one face to the next, refusing to stop for too long. It’s been too soon. Too soon.
You refuse to let yourself dwell too long on the fates of your friends, and you shove your PADD back into your satchel. You take a nap for the remainder of the trip.
You are thirty six when you and Garak bring your ten-year old daughter home for the first time. The ground is dusty, as it is everywhere, and the sky a burning orange. Arys stands at the centre of the frame, and you and Garak stand behind her, your shoulders touching. Everyone’s dressed in their finest casual wear, but nobody is smiling. It hasn’t been very long since the war has passed and you know that within your little family, there are bound to be problems. Occasionally you hear phaser fire when there really isn’t any. Garak’s claustrophobia is mostly under control, except when memories of the internment camp hit again. And there will continue to be problems. Problems that will be overcome by love and understanding, your optimistic side likes to think.
For now, everything is uncertain, but you’re glad you moved out of your comfort zone on Deep Space Nine to be with the man you love.
You are forty when you and Garak are finally married. (Even married, he is still Garak to you, and very rarely Elim. Elim is a name reserved for when you whisper sweet nothings in his ear in the early hours of the morning.) Your small party stands in front of a backdrop of lush bushes and flowers that bloom as beautifully as stars. To your left is your husband, and to the right is your best friend Ezri, who has crossed light years of space to get to you. She celebrates this milestone with you. You’re appalled at how young she looks, but she is far older and wiser.
This time, everyone is smiling. You find yourself looking at that picture often, your thumb caressing Garak’s face. He has on the most sincere smile you’ve ever seen him give.
This picture brings back joyous memories of you and him. That night, the air is just right as you fall into his bed for what seems like the thousandth time and you make sweet, sweet love to each other. When you lie on your side afterwards with his arms tenderly coiled around your waist, you finally understand how love can be infinite, truly unconditional, and long-lasting.
For as long as you both may live.
You are fifty as you leave your office at the clinic for the very last time. Fifteen years of watching Cardassia heal has passed, and you’ve seen the injuries and scars that come along with it. And it has been fulfilling, but your youthful ambition is returning and you know you want to do great things. You’ve found yourself a position on the research council at a university in the heart of Cardassia City, and are determined to continue your love of research there.
In the picture, your desk is clear, all the belongings placed into cartons and ready for shipping. Your tired smile shows the toll your work has taken on your body. You’re not as young as you think any more, with silver starting to creep into your receding hairline and slight creases appear around your eyes when you smile. People usually get these indicators of aging taken care with, by undergoing cosmetic surgery, you remember telling Garak. But you’re not going to, because you wear each crease proudly as a reminder that one, time passes faster than you think, and that two, you’ve been through a whole lot and that makes you stronger.
Arys cheerfully clicks the shutter on the camera. She’ll be graduating from university in two months.
You are sixty five as you hold your first grandchild in your arms. You’re the first to hold the infant only after Arys. She hasn’t decided on a name yet, so she invites Garak to name him. Tolan, Garak suggests, after the man who raised him.
The child kicks and screams, puzzled by this brighter, louder environment.
“Hello, Tolan,” you whisper, bouncing him in your arms. “Welcome to the world.”
A nurse snaps a picture of your family and its latest addition.
And you know there’ll be more snapshots to come.