My Brother, The Stranger

Monday – Night

I woke up because of a faint scratching sound, and Alfie was in my room, standing by the window. He was just climbing over the sill, . He looked like a dark smudge against the night sky, his new long, black school coat looked like a shadow stitched with buttons. He looked taller, different. His eyes glowed; not bright, just soft and steady, like the oven clock when the kitchen is dark, probably just the light from his phone screen reflecting on them as he checked the time. He came closer and knelt beside my bed, and his breath smelled cold, like outside air. He whispered, “Don’t speak, you’ll wake Mum” and I didn’t, even though my heart was trying to escape my chest. He chuckled, a low, secretive sound. “I’m your brother, I had to use your window, it’s the only escape route” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m different now. I’ve gone over to the dark side.” He gave a sly vampire-movie grin, his teeth looking sharp in the gloom. “You have to promise not to tell Mum I snuck in. If she asks, say you had a weird dream where I told you I was a creature of the night.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to ask what kind of dark side, but the words stayed stuck. He told me to keep it secret. Not just from Mum, but from everyone. He made me promise to say it was a dream, even though I clearly saw the window open wide, and then he slipped out, smooth and silent, like he was in a hurry to get to his own room.

I didn’t sleep after that. I just lay there staring, trying to remember the sound of Alfie’s laugh before it changed, and wondering if growing up always feels like someone you love turning into something you don’t understand.

Tuesday – Morning

Alfie was eating toast at the table, like everything was normal, but it felt too clean, too careful. His hair was wet from the shower, his eyes were brown like always, but he didn’t sparkle the way he used to. He also smelt different. He wore his new coat with the collar turned up. He reached for the jam and pushed the garlic Philly away without saying anything, like it was just a boring choice and not a clue. Mum noticed I was quiet and asked, “Leo, did you have a bad dream?” I didn't answer. Alfie looked at me and smiled, not a genuine smile, more like a pretend one you wear when you’re trying to look busy, and he said, “Weird dreams, huh?” I nodded, and then he added, “The pizza must have been the cause,” as if pepperoni could explain the strangeness of the night. I wanted to shout, “It wasn’t a dream!” but I didn't. Because I promised. Because Alfie asked me to. Because maybe keeping his silly secret is the only way to keep him.

Wednesday – After school

I asked Alfie to build the Lego castle with me. The one we started forever ago, the one with the tiny flag and the secret trapdoor. I dragged the huge box of bricks into the living room, but he just stood there.
“The one with the drawbridge?” he asked, his voice flat, like he was looking at an artifact from a past life. I nodded quickly, trying to inject some excitement back into the idea.
“Yeah! You said you could build it so fast I wouldn’t even see your hands move, remember?” He smiled then, but it wasn't the silly grin I remembered; it was a quiet, knowing smile, like he already knew how the next few seconds were going to play out. He shrugged and sat down beside me on the carpet, where the scattered Lego resembled a colorful, exploded ruin. I blinked, watching him. But before I could even settle properly, when I opened my eyes, he had finished an entire section of the castle: a huge stretch of walls, two towers, even the tiny flag on the highest turret, all perfect, all in place. It was like magic or memory, so fast it defied belief. Alfie was sitting still, his hands resting on his knees, looking completely relaxed, like he hadn't moved at all.
“How did you...” I started, my voice thin with disbelief. He reached out and ruffled my hair, distracting me. “Told you I was good at Lego,” he said, but his eyes held that distant, unnerving glow I remembered from that first night. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the completed section. It was too fast, too perfect. He had performed a feat of superhuman speed, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. I felt a cold knot in my stomach. The speed, the quietness—it all confirmed my fears. I felt it. Like the night hadn’t left him at all.

Thursday – Evening

Alfie didn’t come home until late. Mum said he had “revision club,” which is what she always says now when he's out. It’s like that word is a spell that makes everything sound normal even when it isn’t. I stayed in and finished the Lego castle myself. It looked wobbly but real, with crooked towers and a drawbridge that didn't sit quite right. It was better than nothing. When Alfie finally walked in, he glanced at the completed castle. His eyes immediately went to the section I'd done. He stiffened, and his lips pressed into a thin. He didn't look at me, just at the wobbly towers. “Nice job,” he said, the words flat and meaningless, like he was forcing them out. He then went upstairs without touching it, without asking about the trapdoor or the flag, and without even stepping near the box of leftover bricks. I stared at the drawbridge for a long time. It didn’t move, didn’t glow, it just sat there, quiet and still. I miss when Alfie used to argue about whether dragons could beat robots. Now he doesn’t argue. He just disappears. He's too focused on his new secret life to notice the old one, or maybe he's angry that I dared to finish our game without him.

Friday – Night

I had a dream last night, or maybe it wasn’t a dream. I was standing on a high, rocky ledge, and the world below was dark and misty. The trees in the woods were taller, darker than they should be, reaching up like bony fingers to cover the sky. Alfie was there, but he was standing on the very edge of the ledge, and his coat was longer than before, billowing out like a giant wing in a wind I couldn't feel. His eyes were red again, glowing softly like they remembered me, and his face was turned away. I knew I was supposed to follow, to reach him before he stepped off, but every time I tried to move my feet, they felt heavy and numb. I wanted to call his name, to ask why he was leaving me down here, but when I opened my mouth, it was full of leaves, dry and crumbling, and no sound came out. I woke up with my pillow wet, not sure if it was tears or just sweat from the effort of trying to move.

Saturday – Morning

Mum made her special garlic mushrooms for dinner, the kind Alfie always used to sneak off my plate even when he had his own. I watched, waiting for him to reach over and steal one, but tonight he didn't. He looked at the dish, and then with a slow, deliberate movement, he pushed his plate away like they were something dangerous instead of delicious. I frowned.
“You love mushrooms,” I said. He just shrugged, already picking up his orange juice glass.
“Not anymore,” he mumbled, like it was no big deal! Like tastes change, and people change. I watched him sip his juice. He drank it so carefully, so slowly, his eyes darting around the table, checking everyone’s face. It was like he was rehearsing how to sit and sip and smile so no one would notice the difference; so no one would notice the new, strange habits he’d brought back from the night. I thought maybe his change is just a clever disguise, a careful performance he has to put on every morning to pretend he's still my brother.

Saturday – Evening

I found Alfie’s coat on the stairs. I picked it up, running my hands over the rough fabric of his long sleeve. I turned it over, checking the collar and the pockets, trying to find some sort of sign that the coat knew where he’d been, or what he'd been doing when he was gone. Suddenly, Alfie was there. He came down the stairs two at a time and saw me holding his coat. He looked furious, the same kind of cold, intense look he gave me the night he snuck in.
“What are you doing?” he snapped. His voice was sharp and low, the new, older voice he uses now. “Put that down! Don’t touch my stuff.” I dropped the coat on the stairs like it was burning my hands. I saw the anger in his eyes, but it felt like more than just being mad at his little brother. It felt like fear. I realised he must be scared that the coat would give away his secret; that it held some invisible proof of him being a creature of the night.
“It’s just a coat,” I whispered, but he didn't even look at me. He snatched it up, folding it tightly against his chest, like he was protecting it. It was just fabric, just the same coat, but the way he reacted made it feel heavier, like it was holding something invisible and very important. He didn't say anything else, just marched past. I wanted his anger to mean something, to be proof that everything was fine, that he was just a normal, cross teenager. But sometimes scary things don’t leave clues, they just leave feelings. And the feeling I had was that he was trying to hide something that the coat knew all about.

Sunday – Morning

Alfie didn't come to church today. He used to come with us every week, mostly because Mum made him, but he’d always sit beside me and draw little cartoons of the vicar looking like a hedgehog or a wizard, and we’d pass them back and forth. It was our secret game. This morning, Mum was calling him from the bottom of the stairs, all dressed up and holding my hand.
“Alfie! Time to go! You’ll be late for Sunday School!” I looked up, waiting for him, but he just shouted back,
“I can’t. I have revision.”
Mum sighed. “On a Sunday morning? You need a break, sweetie. It’s only an hour.” There was a long silence, and then Alfie came halfway down the stairs, but he stopped halfway down. He was only in his boxers, which was odd. I hadn't seen him walk around like that before. He looked down at Mum and then at me, and his voice was different again, low and firm.
“I just can’t. I have too much work. And honestly, I hate the smell of that old building.” Mum gave up, rubbing her forehead.
“Fine, but you are staying here and studying, not sleeping. And for goodness sake, put some clothes on!” We left without him. I sat in the pew, staring at the big stained-glass window, which was full of colours and bright light. I thought about Alfie, sitting alone in the dark house. The church felt full of people and light and the smell of old wood and flowers. And then I thought about what he said: “I hate the smell of that old building.” And I realised. Of course, he hates the smell. The incense and the holy water and all the light. The whole place is practically shouting about good things and daylight. No wonder he wouldn't come. Creatures of the night can’t stand being near anything sacred or bright. And he was still in his boxers because he hadn't planned on moving all day. He must have been sleeping all morning, like the time when he said he was a creature of the night, trying to avoid the sun. I looked at the window again. The light was so bright it almost hurt my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, thinking of Alfie's eyes, the way they glowed red that night. Maybe he wasn't studying at all. Maybe he was just trying to stay away from the light, hiding somewhere that felt more like the dark side he joked about. The absence of him felt huge, like a hole in the seat beside me. He's not just skipping church to study; he's skipping church because he's different now. And I'm the only one who knows.

Sunday – Afternoon

Alfie helped me with my maths homework after tea, sitting beside me on the dining table bench like he used to, except this time he was different. Mum asked him to help because he wasn't doing 'revision' after all—she’d found him just staring at his phone and asked why he didn’t just call that girl he’s always texting. I immediately understood: he didn't go to church this morning so he could stay home and talk to her without us around, maybe trying to convince her of something important. He agreed to help me right away, but I could tell he was annoyed. Maths is one of his favorite subjects, but he hates having to slow down and explain it to me. I slid the worksheet toward him—fractions and multiplication, the stuff that makes my brain go fuzzy. He didn’t even glance at the questions properly. I’d read the first one out loud: “If a train travels three hundred and fifty…” and before I could get to the word 'miles,' he wrote the answer down. Not just the number, but the little working-out steps too, all neat and fast.I looked at his handwriting, then back at him.
“How did you do that?” I asked, pushing the paper toward him. He just shrugged, his whole body shifting with a smooth, too-smooth movement, like he was made of liquid.
“I’m just clever, Leo. It’s not hard,” he said, his voice laced with faint impatience, like he was annoyed I even asked. It felt like he was always this fast, this sharp, this sure. But he didn't use to be. He used to chew on his pencil and sigh. Now he didn’t guess. He just knew. I tried a harder one. He got that too, faster than I could tap my pencil. It was like the numbers weren't puzzles for him anymore. They were just facts. I stared at the page, and the numbers didn’t look like numbers anymore; they looked like teeth, sharp and white and waiting, like they were smiling at me in a way that didn’t feel friendly. I thought about how he wouldn't go to church this morning because of the smell, and I realised he was spending his stolen time talking to his new girl. But if he really is different, if he's fast because he's a creature of the night, full of strange, new powers; then maybe this is one of them. Maybe he can see the answers before I even ask the questions. I gathered up my papers quickly. I didn't want him to touch them anymore.

Sunday – Night

I tried to tell Mum, not everything, just a little, just enough to see if she’d notice what I noticed. We were in the kitchen, and she was washing the last of the Sunday dinner pots.
I said, “Do you think Alfie’s different?” She didn’t even look up from the washing-up, just kept her hands in the soapy water.
“He’s growing up, sweetie,” she said, like that explained everything; the late nights, the moodiness, the way he hates the smell of garlic and church. She sounded so sure, like 'growing up' was a spell that fixed every strange thing.
I pushed back. “But what if he’s not just growing up?” I wanted to tell her about the cold window latch, and the speed, and the red eyes I think I saw. She paused then, finally turning her head, though she kept her smile fixed. She laughed; not meanly, just the kind of tired, gentle laugh grown-ups do when they think you’re being silly. She lifted an eyebrow and said,
“What else would he be, Leo? A pop star? A wizard?” I just stared at the bubbles clinging to her hands. I knew the funny, scary word I wanted to say, but I couldn't make my mouth form it. Not in the bright kitchen, not with the smell of leftover roast dinner in the air. I wanted her to say, "He's still your brother," even if she didn't believe it, because maybe if she said it, I could believe it too. But she didn't say anything like that. She just went back to the washing-up, happy that she’d solved the puzzle with two simple, grown-up words: "growing up."

Monday – Morning

Alfie left early this morning, before I even came downstairs, before Mum even finished making toast, and his chair at the table was empty. It felt like a ghost had eaten breakfast, like someone invisible had sat there and pretended to be him, only to vanish into the dawn. I kept staring at the plate he didn’t use and the glass he didn’t touch, hoping they would explain something—a clue, a mark, anything that wasn't just this cold, silent empty. Mum didn't say much, just that he had “revision,” like that single word could fill the cavernous space he left behind. She said it like a mantra, trying to convince herself more than me. But the empty chair felt bigger than just him leaving early; it felt like a space where he used to be, a space that was now cold and strangely permanent, like a missing tooth. My brother is vanishing, bit by bit, right in front of us. He's leaving without saying goodbye, not with suitcases or shouting, but quietly, slowly, like steam fading from a mirror. It's the silent kind of leaving that scares me the most. Even though he’s still technically my brother, sitting upstairs or just around the corner, I know the real reason he's gone before the sun is properly up. He's not running toward something, he's hiding from it. He is now something that needs to stay away from the morning light.

Monday – Evening

I built something after school, but it wasn't a castle with flags or a silly spaceship. I dismantled the old Lego fort we started ages ago—the one with the secret trapdoor. I took all the pieces and built a different structure: a solid, windowless bunker. Just a plain, squat building, block by block, slow and careful. Like I was building something that could actually hold back the night. I didn’t want it to be pretty; I wanted it to be strong, thick, and sealed. Alfie walked past while I was finishing the roof. He paused, looking at the low, grim shape of my creation. I saw his face shift, just for a moment, a flicker of something sad or maybe just tired. He tilted his head, pointing a finger at a section near the base.
“Hey, that corner - that’s the rampart we made for the siege engine, isn’t it?” he asked. Then he tapped another section, where I'd layered two different colours.
“And those grey pieces? That was the drawbridge mechanism.” He recognised the exact parts of our old game, now repurposed and buried in this new, heavy wall.
“Nice wall,” he finally said, but his voice was flat. I looked up and said,
“It’s not for you,” because it wasn’t. It was a shelter for the part of him that was still my brother, or maybe a cage for the thing he was becoming. He just gave me that new, strange frown, soft and distant.
“I know,” he said, like he understood exactly that I had destroyed our old game to make this impenetrable box. He reached out and ruffled my hair, and I didn't flinch this time, but I didn't smile either. I just sat there, guarding the cold, heavy shape of the bunker. He didn't ask why I'd wrecked the fort, and that indifference was worse than a fight. He saw the pieces of our past game built into a wall against him, and he just accepted it. It showed he really was too far gone to care about our old games. I just sat there, hoping this concrete, blocky structure would be enough to keep the strange, dark things—the things he now seemed to like—outside.

Tuesday – Late

I couldn't sleep. The shadow of the bunker I built felt like a heavy secret in the corner of my room. I got out of bed and padded down the hall, where I found Dad in the living room, reading. He looked up, smiling, and patted the sofa next to him.
“Hey, bug. Couldn’t sleep, huh? Bad dreams?” he asked, folding his book. I shook my head, sitting down. I knew this was my chance. I had to ask, without saying the word.
“Dad,” I started, picking at a loose thread on the cushion. “What… what happens when someone just totally changes? Like, they start getting really fast at things, and they don’t like old smells, and they just disappear all the time.” Dad looked at me seriously for a long moment, not laughing like Mum did. “Ah, you’re talking about Alfie, aren't you?” I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. He pulled me closer.
“Well, Leo, when someone is turning into a teenager, that’s exactly what happens. It’s like their whole world flips inside out. Suddenly, things they loved, like old board games or maybe even going to church, they decide are boring or childish. He’s trying to figure out what kind of person he wants to be now, and sometimes that means being moody or quiet, or even having secrets and sneaking around a bit.” Dad paused, his face softening. “And you know, you building that bunker out of the old fort pieces? He noticed that. He was actually quite hurt, Leo. He didn't want to show it, but he was. That fort meant a lot to both of you, and when you tore it down to build a wall, he probably felt like you were building a wall against him, too.”
“But the knowing things, Dad,” I insisted, ignoring the part about the fort. “And the red eyes I saw that night, and the coat moving like smoke—” Dad chuckled softly, running a hand over my hair.
“Ah, the red eyes. Was that part of the dream you told us about? He’s probably just tired. And the fast maths? He’s in a different world at school now. He’s learning complicated stuff, so the basics feel like slow motion to him. He’s not supernatural, Leo. He’s just changing. He’s pulling away from us, trying to find his own space, and that can feel like he’s turning into a stranger.” He was explaining everything away with simple, boring reasons. He was telling me that the speed was just cleverness, and the disappearance was just being a teenager. But it didn't sound right. It sounded like a distraction, a grown-up story designed to keep me from worrying.
“So you think he’s still… Alfie?” I asked.
“He is absolutely still Alfie,” Dad said firmly. “He’s just finding out that being a person is complicated, especially when you’re changing so much. He’ll come back, just maybe not for Lego forts anymore.” I nodded slowly, letting him think he’d convinced me. Dad thought he’d solved the puzzle, but he was wrong. He was just shielding me from the truth.

I’ve decided something. Maybe the thing Alfie joked about really is true. Or maybe my brother is turning into someone I don’t recognise, and my dad can't see it. Maybe those are the same thing. The secret is safe. I said it was a dream. I promised. But I’m not sure I’m safe. Not inside.

Wednesday – Afternoon

Alfie didn’t come to the park today. It was sunny, and the grass was dry, perfect for kicking around the ball we used to call the moon. Mum said he had “revision.” Again. It felt like that word was a shield she held up every time I asked where he was. So I went with Dad instead. He tried hard. He brought the ball, and we kicked it back and forth, but it felt slow and floppy without Alfie running with his long, fast legs and arguing about space rules. I kept watching the shadows under the big oak trees, half-hoping to see a long, black coat step out. After a while, Dad stopped the ball with his foot. He crouched down, wiping a smudge of dirt off my cheek, and his face was kind and tired.
“You miss him, don’t you, Leo?” he asked quietly. “You miss your pal.” I just nodded, pushing the toe of my shoe into the grass. “Look, I know it feels strange,” Dad said, tossing the ball gently in the air and catching it. “He’s got his head down in books now, and he’s probably thinking about that girl he mentioned. It feels like he’s stopped needing us, doesn’t it?” He sighed, standing up and looking out at the empty field. “But that’s just what happens when they get older. They pull away for a bit. It’s not that he’s gone forever; he’s just… busy becoming something else right now.” He was trying to make me feel better, trying to explain the vanishing with simple, grown-up words like 'busy' and 'older.' But I just watched the way the sun made the shadows long and thin. I think he’s wrong. Alfie’s not just busy becoming a teenager. I think creatures of the night don’t like parks. Or maybe teenagers don’t. Or maybe they’re the same thing.

Thursday – After bedtime

I heard Alfie talking on the phone late last night. His voice was low, careful, like he was trying to sound older, smoother, like someone rehearsing a version of himself he hadn’t quite become yet. I crept down the hallway and stopped outside his door. It was closed, but I pressed my ear against it. He said,
“No, it’s fine. Everyone’s asleep,” then he dropped his voice even lower. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about, Amanda. I know it’s a big deal.” He sounded nervous, like he was about to jump off a high building. Then, after a long pause, he whispered, “I want to try. I think I’m ready to take things further. You know... all the way. The first time.” I didn't hear the reply, just the faint buzz of the connection. Then he added, “It'll be different after, won't it? A change. But I want to.” There was another long silence, filled only by my frantic heartbeat. I tiptoed back to my room, heart thudding like it was trying to warn me. My skin felt cold, like the window latch. He was talking about Amanda, and about a huge "change" and 'taking things further.' I thought about the night he snuck in and told me he was "different." I thought about how fast he moved, and the red glow I remembered. He sounded so serious about this 'change,' and about 'the first time.' I realised what he meant. He was planning to initiate her into the dark side. He was going to make Amanda like him; a creature of the night. That's what "the first time" meant. It would be a huge change for her, the final step in joining the life he now lived. The silence still felt strange. Like something had shifted. Like something dangerous had begun.

Friday – Morning

I was already halfway through my toast when I heard the thunder of feet on the stairs. Alfie usually just slinks out now, so the noise was startling. He bounded into the kitchen, dressed quickly in his school clothes, his hair still messy from sleep. He didn't sit down.
“Morning, morning, gotta fly!” he announced, grabbing a banana. There was a spring in his step—a restless, energized movement I hadn't seen in days. His eyes were wide and bright, and he looked happier than he had all week. Mum looked at him, surprised by his rush.
“What’s the hurry, sleepyhead? You’re early.” He grinned, an actual, genuine grin that made him look like my old brother for a second.
“Big day! I’ve got that mock exam this morning, remember? Need to get there early.” Mum paused, tilting her head. She glanced toward Dad, who was reading something on his phone.
“Wait, I thought his mock wasn't until next week, Dan? I don’t think he had any exams today.” Dad just mumbled something from behind the screen about the schedule changing, but Alfie cut in smoothly, already halfway out the door. “No, it’s today! Urgent last-minute change. Wish me luck!” He was gone before Mum could ask another question. I knew he was lying about the exam. That frantic energy wasn't about algebra; it was about Amanda, and that conversation I heard last night. I didn't let it go.
“He didn’t take his coat,” I said, looking toward the door. Mum waved it off.
“He doesn’t need it. It’s mild out.” But I knew that wasn't true.

Saturday – Evening

I woke up because of a faint creak on the floorboards, and Alfie was in my room again, standing near the window like that first night. He didn't look like a creature of the night; he looked like a person who hadn't slept, carrying a heavy weight. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was pushed back, and his face was both pale and flushed—it was a quiet, stunned kind of tired, like he'd just run a marathon or survived a big event. His eyes were brown, but soft and distant, like he was holding onto a secret so private it took up all the space inside his head. He came closer and knelt down by my bed, just like he did that first time. He didn't have his coat on, but the air around him felt cold.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered, though I wasn’t going to. He saw the bunker I’d built on the floor. He didn't look mad; he looked sad. Then, Alfie did something unexpected. He reached out and gently smoothed my hair back from my forehead, the way Mum does when I’m sick. His touch was warm and real, and it made my confusion even worse. “You built that?” he asked, nodding at the bunker. “Good job.” He let out a deep, heavy sigh. He just started talking, his voice low and weighted, almost conspiratorial, trying to pull me into his new, overwhelming secret.
“Do you remember all those forts we used to build in the living room? With the blankets and chairs and that old lamp Mum hated? I liked being inside them because they were secret. They were ours. It felt like we were somewhere else, where the grown-up rules didn't matter. But you know, that kind of secret, the innocent kind, it has to end. You can’t live in a blanket fort forever.” He looked at the bunker, then at me, his gaze strangely intense. “That’s what your wall is for, isn’t it? To keep things out. But the truth is, Leo, sometimes you let things in without meaning to. You open a door, and suddenly the line is gone, and you can’t pretend it wasn’t there.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was pink and slightly chafed above his collar, and I saw a tiny scratch on his jaw. He was marked. “I was with someone tonight, yeah. A girl. Amanda. And we’ve been talking for a while about... about taking that final step. And tonight, we did it. And now...” He ran a hand over his tired face. “God, it was intense. I feel so different. Like I took a huge step I can’t go back from. I left a piece of myself out there, but I came back... more. Not bad, just profoundly, irreversibly changed.” He leaned in, his whisper echoing the first night. “You ever feel like you’ve crossed a line, Leo? The biggest one there is? And suddenly everything from before; childhood, games, all the easy stuff; it all feels so small and far away? Like when you smash a Lego piece and it doesn’t fit the pattern anymore? Yeah. Exactly like that. Everything feels brand new, and old at the same time. That’s what it means to be changed, Leo. That’s what it means to be different now.” He stood up, his movement slow. He looked down at me again, and for a moment, he just looked like my big brother, full of sorrow and love. He put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You should keep building things to keep the night out,” he advised, and then he slipped out the bedroom door, quiet as a shadow.

I just lay there, my heart thudding. The affection—the warm hand on my shoulder and the gentle way he touched my hair—made no sense. How could he show me that much love right after telling me he'd become something monstrous? He had completed his dark transformation, and now he was saying goodbye with a hug. I’m still not sure what kind of 'different' he really is, but I know he's never coming back to the way things were.

Leo,

I read it. All of it.

I'm FUMING. I am absolutely bloody livid. I feel like ripping every single page of this stupid notebook into confetti. You think I wouldn’t notice the way you stare at me? Like I’m some kind of freak? Like I’m not allowed to change without it meaning something terrifying for you? You catalogued my entire existence: my coat, my eyes, my voice, the fact that I don't eat garlic Philly anymore, and my new girl, Amanda!

You didn't just write a diary, Leo - you manufactured a conspiracy theory. You took a stressful week of late nights and tough choices and turned me into a VAMPIRE. You took my being knackered and having dry contacts and wrote about glowing red eyes. You genuinely think I'm bunking off church and dodging an exam just to avoid holy ground and sunlight! Don't be ridiculous.

And here’s a tip for your detective work: the garlic and mushrooms thing isn't about some ancient curse. I stopped eating them because Amanda refused to kiss me afterwards because my breath smelt funny. Simple as that. It's about being a bloke who fancies a girl, not a bloke who fears a wooden stake.

You even analysed the bunker you built. I saw the ramparts and the drawbridge pieces, and yeah, it hurt. You consciously smashed up our best fort to build a wall against me, and I had to stand there and pretend I didn't care.

I’m telling you this now: I am not your mystery. I am not your monster. I am not your proof.

I’m dating Amanda. That’s why I’m late, that's why I'm distracted, and that’s why I was talking about crossing a line on the phone. That's why I came home looking shocked and utterly shattered after finally taking that huge step with her. It was the most confusing, incredible, terrifying thing I've ever done, and you documented it like it was a ritual sacrifice. You wrote down my life like it’s yours to explain, like I'm a puzzle you get to solve!

You want to know how much I needed you after that night? When I left Amanda's house and was walking home, still shaking and feeling like the world was spinning, you were the first person I wanted to see. I came straight to your room, I knelt by your bed, and I told you I was different because I was, but I still wanted my little brother there, you’re still important to me.

I was ready to throw this whole book in the fire and wait up to give you a piece of my mind. But I showed this to Amanda - I had to explain why I was so cross- and she spent an hour calming me down. She listened to all the ridiculous things you wrote and just laughed.

You want to know something else? Amanda really wants to meet you. She does. I talk about you constantly -how funny you are, the stupid games we play, the forts we built. But right now, no. You don't get to meet her. You don't deserve to meet her until you realise she’s a real person, not some hapless victim I've initiated into the "dark side."

I don’t know what I am—a busy student, an exhausted boyfriend, a bloke who worries about his breath, or just a human who is finally changing. But I know I’m still your brother.

Even if you’re not sure.

Alfie