Theodore,

Now, it's been five years. Five years since our parents were taken, and for five years I've been living without you. I'm starting to ponder whether it's still appropriate to call you 'Theodore', or if I have always been mistaken. Maybe I should start calling you Hershel? Would that be fine, given that it would look like I'm writing to myself?

...How ironic. I can't believe I'm thinking that. Of course I'm writing to myself! I've been doing so for what seems ages, now. I have always been a coward—or a cautious young man—who refuses to let all those letters go their way. I hope, one day, I will act as courageously as I could today.

Something happened in class. Today was… different. I didn't feel like staying silent anymore. I wanted things to change, I wanted to show the others I was here. It didn't mean much, really.

Last year, I started attending a French course. I don't regret my choice: for a strange reason, I've always wanted to study this language. Though I am not really fluent in French, I have some notions, and I am capable of understanding basic sentences in a document. Today, I have discovered a really interesting character, one I had never heard about before. The teacher decided we should study a piece of French literature: it was a résumé from Victor Hugo'sLes Misérables.

Many of my fellow students protested, because they were sure they would fail. I think I will never understand people like them – how can you be so mean to others, while being so vulnerable yourselves? Failures scare them, but they act tough nonetheless. Trying something new is always rewarding, for you get to discover areas you've yet to learn, and by doing so, you become aware of your weaknesses, your limits, and your skills. I wanted to explain that to them, but the words wouldn't get out of my mouth. I wanted to say so many things to them, but none I could voice.

It suddenly changed—I still don't understand why—when our teacher asked us to tell him about what we had gathered about the main character of the novel.

"Pouvez-vous me parler de Jean Valjean ?*" she requested, in her native language. The whole class fell silent. The teacher had such a desperate look on her face, I couldn't be quiet any longer. I longed to talk about this fascinating character.

I did not forget her demand, because that's when something changed in me. I raised my hand quietly, and the teacher immediately allowed me to talk.

"Desmond! What a pleasure to see you taking part in this class!" She started, but was interrupted by some laughs and tauntings from the rest of class. She didn't mind, though, because she immediately added, "I'm sure you have an interesting answer to offer us. Please, go ahead."

When I started talking, there were still some laughs. I didn't mind it—well, I tried to. It was harder than I thought, but I managed to explain what I wanted. I managed to say that Jean Valjean was a complex character, well-written and well thought out. I told them all his redemption was the main focus of the story, though his path towards it was long and hard. I focused on the fact that he hated societyso much that it didn't seem likely that he would, one day, feel the need of being reintegrated into it.

Whenever I was talking about Jean Valjean, I was thinking about us—about me, about how much I blamed society, injustice and evil in men's hearts for what it did to us. I couldn't take my mind off it. The weight of many years of relentless loneliness and solitude and rejection and abandonment and—

I was interrupted by the feel of tears forming at the corner of my eye. I couldn't tell whether it was because of the look of malice on my classmates' faces, or because, for but a moment, it had eased the unbearable burden I was carrying.

By now, I still don't know the answer. The only thing I know is that I did right. I was courageous, and I was right.

Tomorrow will be different, surely. They will undoubtedly make fun of me, even more than before. Some day, it may become unbearable for good.

But for now, I did what I could, and I am proud of myself.

I know you would be, too.

Your courageous brother,

Desmond Sycamore