I was hoping that the contacts would make people stare less. I was wrong. 

Every time I look up, I see someone, or several people looking at my eyes questioningly. At, not into: there is no personal connection. Their stares send chills up my spine, the discomfort almost painful. It shouldn't bother my, but it does. By lunchtime, I find myself in the bathroom, washing my hands and taking it out. By the end of the day, I've never been more relieved to get home. 

I almost fall over the threshold as I attempt to get in, my ankles entangling with one another. Anxiety and chronic clumsiness is never a good thing. Luckily I catch myself and stand up straight to turn around and lock the door, leaning against it as I allow myself to relax. 

“You okay?” I hear him ask from the couch. I knew that he was there — he always sits there and waits for me — but I didn't acknowledge him until now. I was too tired.

No. 

The word is on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to slip out, but for once, I stop and think about it. I always complain about the way that he ignores me, how he makes no effort to talk to me. While it is true that he is the one who partially severed our once strong bond, I am now realising that if I want something, I need to actively try to attain it. I need to talk to him. And in order to do this, I need to tell him the truth. 

“No.” The nervousness is audible in my voice but I'm too set on my goal to be embarrassed by that. He stiffens, and I know why. He asked me simply out if politeness. He didn't expect me to initiate a conversation. He remains silent for a few moments, as if he has no idea what to do. 

This is the part where you ask me what's wrong. 

“What happened?” he questions, finally coming up with an appropriate response. 

“I feel judged,” I blurt out, my inner self coming to the surface. Three words, three simple words, but they are so significant that they carry the weight of an elephant. Slowly, I walk over to the couch to sit beside him, not because I'm physically tired, but because I'm tired of having this distance between us. 

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, as if trying to read my mind. Once up on a time, it was as if he could. 

“You took out your contacts.” It's not a question. It's simply a statement, and I instantly know that he figured out what happened. 

“I'm sorry, Em,” he mumbles. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know how to say it without hurting your feelings. But you've been going to this school for years now, and even if they don't know your name, they'd at least know you as “that girl with two different coloured eyes”. It's probably the first thing that they'd notice.”

It takes a while for what he's saying to sink in. Once it does... I don't know whether or not I should be absolutely livid. 

“You knew that this would happen.”

“Em, I didn't know what to say. Think about it,” he continues when I open my mouth to interrupt him, “would you have listened to me anyway?” 

He catches me there. 

“No” I admit. “I wouldn't.” 

If I've learned anything in the past few minutes, it is that he still knows me, he just doesn't talk to me. It's both a relief and a disappointment, because if he knows me so well, why wouldn't he try to reach out to me? 

“You're beautiful, Em,” he tells me. The statement hits me like a wrecking ball. The sudden sense of nostalgia that is evoked within me Is fierce. 

“Ugly duckling. I remember,” I reply in a detached tone. 

“It's more than what I told you before, though.”

What the hell does that mean? 

“I told you when you were younger that you were beautiful on the inside. Well, you're beautiful on the outside, too... at least, in my opinion, which I think is a good one. You became a swan, Em, heterochromia or not.”

That.. I don't even know what to say. He has never told me that I was physically beautiful before. I guess because as a child, he wanted me to focus on “inner beauty”. Apart from that, I wouldn't have believed him, and when I feel deceived, I stop listening. What he just said, though... it just made my life. 

“Thank you,” I mumble, because I don't know what else to say. 

“You don't have to thank me for being honest, Em.” 

We then sit, looking at each other, the awkwardness slowly returning. This is the longest conversation that we've had in a long time, and we don't really know what to do anymore. 

“So...”

“Yeah, I'm going upstairs.”

“Wait,” he stops me. I look over at him, just as I'm about to get up. I realise that my bag is still on my back, that I haven't put it down. 

“I, uh, know that you like to read and write.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I got you a new book.” 

As a young child, I sometimes thought that our minds were in sync because of the way that we did things together. I'm getting that feeling again, right now. He used to buy me books all the time when I was younger, but for the past few years he has only bought them at my request. It is obvious that he did this to try to become closer to me, presumably on the same day that I reached out to him. 

“Thank you.”

“It's in my room, on my bed. You can go get it.”

These are some more things that he remembers about me:

I hate it when people see my reactions to their gifts. I'd much rather open them in private. 

Do not, under any circumstances, go into my room without my permission. 

Has he forgotten anything? 

I make my way upstairs, backpack still on, and enter his room. It's strangely neat, almost obsessively neat. The book is on the bed, with the title clearly printed:

THE TALES OF BEETLE THE BARD

When I pick it up, it feels thin and light, but the significance of it makes it so heavy. I turn to leave the room when my eyes wonder to a book sticking out from under the bed. I didn't notice it at first, but it sticks out particularly because it is the only untidy thing about the room. I kneel and lift up the side of the bed sheet to inspect it further. I realise that it is actually several books, scattered on the floor underneath his bed. Each one is covered In dust, as if they haven't been touched in years. Most of them are reading books, and some look like text books, but there is one notebook. 

Before I can think about what I am doing, I am dragging the book out and flipping through the pages. At this point, almost anything that gives me a clue into his head can be rationalised. As my eyes skim over the pages, I realise exactly what I am looking at: it is a diary, a journal. My conscience tries to guilt me out of what I am about to do, but what if I find out exactly what happened to him? It's not uncommon for leo going through traumatic events to write them down, feeling a sense of catharsis by doing so. 

Despite the “Good Emma” on my right shoulder, that is what makes up my mind. 

After putting everything back in place, I leave the room with my book and my brother's secrets, my conscience burning a hole in my heart.