High Heels. The dream of girls to hurry up and grow up to wear their mothers' heels. To sway rhythmically walking on the cobblestones of their island, gaining a few inches from the heels and the pride that truly made them feminine.

The story you are about to read is true and portrays my classmates with whom I grew up in Lefkada during my childhood and teenage years.

The first heels we tried on were those of our mothers, and we secretly swore that we would always sway in heels. We nailed wooden heels to our plastic flip-flops and walked around the neighborhood making a deafening noise, provoking the anger of the adults. Only Athena refused to wear high heels because she was tall and felt awkward adding more height to her life. She stubbornly remained attached to her loafers, even though we tried to lure her into the vanity of high-heeled shoes.

Life scattered us in different parts of the horizon, but we faithfully came together every summer and winter on the island, depositing our devotion to each other, but more so the thousand and two situations that changed us and sent us on different paths, different from the ones we had dreamed of.

Because female friendship should be honored as the pinnacle of female existence.