SECRETS WE TELL THE STARS

xxi

My cousin is good at hiding his problems from everyone. Sure, I am well known for my struggles, especially as of more recently, but Julian's are hidden secrets. He does not speak of them often. And when he does, they are bare whispers, considerate and careful. He too fears what he does not know.

When we lived in the city, Julian did not have many people there for him. His father was anything but there for him. He had his own family and own set of children. I did not hear about Julian's mother a lot either. She was there but never there.

He stuck by himself. If he wasn't raised the way he was then I don't think we wouldn't have made it as far as we have.

What I am trying to convey is that Julian does not rely on many people. There is me and now there is Ryan. He cannot reach out. He is used to doing things by himself. He demands control. Maybe we are more alike than we think.

Julian researches a lot during the day. When he isn't editing or searching, he's trying to fix my problems. He writes them down in a small notebook that he won't let me see. He likes jotting things down. He has always been this way. In his small room in the apartment, he used to live in, there had been papers stuck to the ceiling and almost glued to the floors. An organised mess, he would name it.

He has changed too. He is cleaner now. His papers are stacked carefully. His pens are lined up neatly. He keeps his book of bird facts neatly hidden in his cupboard; the pictures carefully lined with his jotted expressions in order. He works on it a few days after our conversation. He sits on the porch and listens to the sounds of the evening. He remains in wonder.

As I watch him from the doorway, my mind is taken back to who Julian once was, who I remember him to be. Back when our problems were worse, and our struggles were a lot louder. Back when we thought we didn't have anyone else.

Julian's hair is slightly longer compared to then. His eyes are darker. His freckles have almost disappeared.

He knows I'm staring. He always senses me. "Are you thirsty?" he asks.

"Why would I be thirsty?"

"You usually come to me this time of day–" he takes a subtle glance at his watch, and then continues writing "–to ask for tea."

"No, I don't," I say, but I do. Julian makes tea better than I can. He puts just enough sugar and milk for me to prefer it over anyone else's. "I'm just bored."

"When I was younger, my mother used to tell me to unpack the dishwasher whenever I said that."

"We don't have a dishwasher."

"Then do the dishes?"

I groan. "I don't want to."

"Sometimes I forget you're seventeen."

I find something to throw at him. As I pick up my shoe that lies lazily on the porch, Julian slams his small book closed.

"Fine," he says. "Let's go on a walk."

It is a colder afternoon of summer. A reminder that summer will soon be over. Julian forces me to wear a jacket. I refuse the scarf. He says I have a weak immune system but I disagree and he tells me to stop fighting with him, and soon we are out the door and down the narrow path.

At first, our steps are slow and hesitant. Julian shoves his hands in his pockets and watches the nature carefully. He is so appreciative of everything, whilst I stare at the dying roots and wonder what good he can really see. Though our backyards stretch for miles, they are dead and poor quality. The path is chipped and rocky. I almost trip, and Julian says I have two left feet. I argue more. Luckily our arguments have been meaningless. We haven't fought much.