I don’t remember what I look like. I don’t think you do, either. I never thought it would be a problem; I thought I would always remember. I’m so sorry, brother. I can’t remember my own face, and I can see it hurts you. I can see the sadness in your smile and the anguish in your eyes when you turn to face me. Or rather, when you turn to face who I am now. Who I seem to be.
Who am I? I don’t know how to answer that anymore, other than as your brother. I was blond, I remember that. I remember mother used to get us muddled up as children, or pretend to. We always treated it as some joke. I don’t remember how much I looked like you, because I don’t remember how much control I had over my powers back then. I don’t think I had much. I think we must have looked alike, very much alike. I’m not sure if we still would, if we still do. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.
But I do know that we weren’t identical. I know because I loved everything about you, and I hated my face. I practised so much by the riverside, watching my reflection change in the water. I wanted to be different from you. It wasn’t that I loved you any the less. I hope you never thought that, though I’m sure you must have done at some point.
You must understand though, that it was just so difficult to wear your face. I wanted to wear my own, even if it wasn’t. I looked almost the same as you. I felt like my body had been born pretending to be you. I wish I could believe, even now, that I wasn’t born an accidental imitation.
I wish I could find as much worth in myself as I find in you, brother.