I don’t have to ask what he means. I know. His stare is different from mine. When I look at him, it’s because he’s here. Living, breathing, complicated Noah. When he looks at me, it’s because I remind him of someone who’s gone.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not as often as before.”
The first year after Elena passed, it was constant; people waving, calling out her name like nothing had changed. The worst part? They looked happy to see me. Then I’d have to tell them, over and over, “No, I’m her sister.” A correction that always made their faces fall.
I lost count of how many times I said it. I never cut my hair. Never dyed it. Not because I wanted to look like her, but because I didn’t want anyone to think I hated looking like her. And if I said that, it would be like saying I hated my o
