Page 20 of Deranged Imposter

“You couldn’t tell us apart,” he reveals, that velvety baritone dominating the murmuring patrons.

Mikah and Zico had identical faces, same mannerisms, and similar habits. After one year of being friends with them, I still couldn’t tell them apart.

I never thought he would take my words to heart. I was young, attention splintering every five minutes, and I was forgetful. I hardly distinguished the adults apart if it weren’t for hair color and identifiable things about them.

“Zico was gone by then,” I whisper, dread reciprocating the stiffness on my tongue. “You didn’t have to do that.”

There’s no use for unique marks when there is only one of them left. Perhaps he wants an identity of his own, nothing relating to Zico.

Mikah wouldn’t do that.

He loves his brother no matter how much they pissed each other off. He wouldn’t erase Zico like he never existed. Their bond is strong, evidently seeping into his life with discrete changes.

What was once their favorite hideout was invaded with mimosa trees. Mikah avoids his favorite holiday, Christmas, and prefers to spend it with his head on my lap. However, he urges me to keep celebrating because it makes me happy. So, we compromise and alternate every other year.

As time goes on, I realize it’s more than an aversion to Christmas itself. It's about the colors: green and red. When he was fourteen, he almost lit a match under a painting of me sitting in a red chair on a grassy landscape.

He’s tamed when the colors are separated, but seeing them together has his form recoiling with snarling ferociousness.

“What’s the matter?” he asks as he pushes his unfinished plate to the side.

The food is good, but not as outstanding as it looks in filtered photos. At least right now, it’s bland and dry as the last piece wriggles down my throat.

“Nothing, just thinking about how much you changed,” I say while staring at the laminated menu like it’s a captivating riddle. “It’s not really a surprise.”

Zico. September. Hail.

September is a sensitive month for me, but it became a dull ache once I got older. We don’t live in a place where storms are common; not once did it hail during all four years of me studying here.

My lungs burn in heavy exhales as I calm the frantic heartbeats with his composed expression. I’ll be lucky if I get a read on him when Zico is mentioned, so inevitably, his eyes gate his thoughts.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

Tattoos, Zico, or the Septemberincident—I don’t know which one triggered the indifference on his face.

“Change is good,” he begins, absently tracing his forearm’s ink with a thumb. “Grief takes me nowhere.”

I uncurl my fingers from my palm and impulsively reach over the table to place it atop his. A spark of light twinkles in the dusky swim of his eyes, foolishly thinking it’s perched in the starry sky rather than a distant void.

“Do you miss him?”

“I think about him a lot.” His response comes instantaneously, but it sounds too practiced.

“I do, too,” I admit meekly, fizzy heat broadening on the side of my face as my peripheral notes a server stealing glances at our area. “I wonder where he would be now and if he’d have become a pro-athlete yet.”

He withdraws his hand, shoulders tensing as his brows mimic his glower. An apology darts to the tip of my tongue, my heart seething endlessly while an insult berates my insensitiveness.

“Do you think you’d—” Mikah clenches his jaw, a hesitant response to his thoughts.

I hurl another scolding at myself for making him think he can’t share his feelings with me. He has enough trouble opening up already, and it has taken psychologists months to make a broad assessment.

“I’m competing with someone who isn’t here,” he whispers, his hand finding comfort with mine.

I haven’t totally lost him to his demons. I’ll make sure this mistake isn’t repeated and be careful in the future with how I phrase things. Zico is not better than Mikah, and I don’t have a favorite.

They’re both very important to me.

“I don’t know,” I say, distracted by his long finger caressing the back of my hand. “I don’t know how things would’ve changed or stayed the same if he was here.”

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