Sometimes I look into my mirror and see you looking back at me. The first time this happened, I was so shocked that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Sometimes we talk, voices in harmony as before, about how much I miss you- how hard it is to carry on.
Sometimes we talk about how now you have an ear missing like me- how that must have hurt- like it did me.
Sometimes we laugh about how mom couldn't tell us apart anymore if she knew you were back. But we can't tell anyone. No one else would understand.
Sometimes we cry over what could have been.
But most of the time, we just sit in silence, staring at each other with one hand pressed against each other's- and remember.