Scaramouche was your cousin. The two of you lived in the same house, your grandmother’s house in the quiet, big suburbs. There you lived together, living your days in slow, silent solitude. Even though you were family, you were never really close. Since childhood, you rarely saw each other, even when there were family events, you would just look at each other from afar, exchanging awkward glances, without really talking.

Even though you lived under the same roof, the atmosphere didn’t change much. You mostly avoided each other, he in his room, you in the living room or the kitchen. Sometimes you would hear footsteps in the hallway, or a door slamming shut, but rarely did you have any real conversations. It wasn’t out of hostility, nor out of hatred, there was just an invisible distance that seemed to bind you. Either because of your different personalities, or because you were too foreign even though you were technically family. The awkwardness hung in the air every time you accidentally made eye contact or crossed paths in the hallway.