Our DNA is special my brother reminded me. But why is mine special? You were the special one. I was mediocre. I had no big dreams. No big hopes. No wish to be any celebrated. I was the practical one. I was realist. Ah I was the realist.

I had nothing cooking inside. Nothing packed in. I had nothing to let out. I had nothing to melt away. No stories. No poems. I loved to hear. I loved to listen when he talked. I loved to believe in his logics. His philosophy. His theories. They were relieving. They were so free. They were beyond the doubts of true and false. Of right and wrong. Of DOs and DONTs.

So much I loved to share his dreams. To believe that all his dreams will come true. I loved to be spectator if he could be on the stage. I did not dream of stage for myself. I did not dream utopian. I was the realist.

I was the realist. Oh so selfish!

I was a parasite. I lived on to his dreams. Portraying the realist oh so well. I was a liar. I loved those dreams. Every bit of it. To death. But I was coward to take the hit. I was as coward as I am today. I feared the hurt of broken dreams. I feared the pain of struggles. I feared the judgements. I was too coward to be the one dreaming. I just sucked on to his dreams. Portraying the supportive sister. Portraying the perfect confidant.

Time and again, I convinced him, begged him to never stop believing. To not give up on his dreams. I did not even realize I was begging for my freedom to dream. I was begging for my utopia. He was just playing the character, the story, it was all mine.