Dear brother.

I remember when we were little, and you used to braid my hair. You used to wobble around in Mum's high heels only to prove that you were better than me at walking in them.

You used to draw me pictures, and help me with my homework, and we used to get into fights every single day. You would say some cheap, mean insult just to get a rise out of me and I fell for it, every single time.

I would scratch you with my nails (you still had the scars, even years later), and you would punch me and I would go back to my room and cry my eyes out. I hated fighting with you.

There's this photo- I have it on my nightstand. It's when I was only a toddler, so I can't remember it, but then again, neither can you. You have your arms around my shoulders, and I have a large, toothless grin on my face. I only reached up until your shoulder, even back then, but I like it. I like that we were friends (not just loving or hating each other) when we were kids, so not all of my memories of you are bitter.

Of course, there were the good times at the end, too. There were times when you would come home from school with a huge grin on your face, and even though I knew it was for your girlfriend or some test you scored 80% on, I would pretend it was for me. That I was making you smile, and maybe you thought about me during the day and maybe you talked about me to your friends.

I know I would talk to my friends about you- I would tell them about how you talked in that cheap valley girl accent, and how my mum told you off.

I would tell them if you got a new haircut, or that you thought your feet were smooth and spent a whole day rubbing them and how you were always asking me for fashion advice.

Then again, you probably never talked to your friends about me. I was just the annoying little sister who glared at any of your friends when they would ask how I was, because I hated how they sucked up to mum and they looked at me in a way that made my spine prickle, and you didn't even notice.

I remember the bad things, too. I remember how you would come home and slam the door shut behind you without a glance at me, and I remember how after a particularly nasty fight with mum and dad you would run outside and bang the old plastic baseball bat on a tree until it was torn and mangled.

I remember the crying of mum, the shouting of dad and I hate how I whimpered every time you said a nasty word. I remember crying alone in my room, listening to you cry though the wall. I remember your first girlfriend, and the one after that, and the one after that. I remember catching you sneaking out at one in the morning, but not telling anyone, because I was scared you would hate me even more.

I remember being the only one to notice your scabbed knuckles, or the tattoo of a snake on your side, or the strange shaped bruises you would get on your neck.

I remembered watching you grow up, remembered how you started listening to screamo music and cursing just because you thought it was cool and spending more time looking at your muscles than looking at me.

I remembered that one time when I had a friend over, and you greeted her but walked past me without a second glance.

I remember how I would hug you and you would recoil, as if I had some sort of disease.

I know without a doubt you loved me; I just wished you weren't so subtle about it.

I remember the night of the accident- I was sitting on my bed, listening to a sad song because I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me and staring out into space. I hadn't even thought of you- I was seeing a lot less of you lately, but that was fine, because I was growing up and spending more time with my friends than anyone else- but I thought of you immediately when the cops knocked on the door.

At first, I was worried you had done something illegal- it wouldn't be the first time.

But then I heard the words 'accident' and 'drunk' and 'I'm sorry', and my heart froze and the next thing I knew was I was in the white room, listening to the sound of your heartbeat. It was slow, and I found myself counting the mechanic beats, wondering how long it would take until you woke up.

Because you would wake up, right? I knew you would. You were invincible- my invincible older brother.

But this wasn't a video game. Once you die, you're dead.

Dead.

I remember how the beeps eventually stopped coming, how I couldn't possibly understand why you would ever do something so unbelievably stupid. How I thought you would wake up and give me that cocky smirk and I would yell at you and we would fight, one last time.

I remember sobbing next to your bedside table more than once, and how it was so unfair that your friends were driving but it was you who died.

You died.

And I hate you and me both for it, because maybe, if we had payed a little more attention to each other, we would have noticed our problems weren't that different.

And than maybe, we could have healed together.

It's been a year. And I think I'm finally starting to heal by myself. My therapist told me to write this, like a farewell letter or something.

To be honest, I said goodbye to you in the hospital one year ago. But you were still haunting me, along with the heavy burden of guilt. I don't know why I felt so guilty, or why it took so long to get over it. You were my brother, though. I loved you. I still do.

But I'm going to keep living life, like my parents never will. I'm going to go to college and university and get a job because even though you died, I'm still living. And even though I love you, I'm moving on.

I'm moving on.

(But I will never forget you.)