My Cousin

My cousin and I have always been weirdly alike. Before his voice cracked and before his shoulders became more jacked, we were almost mistaken as siblings. Strangely enough, we have the same olive complexion, the same sandy blonde hair and the same facial shape. When we were younger, I would shout downstairs to my mom, only to have his mom respond, “yes, Pascal?” When one of us called our grandma on the phone, she would have no idea who was calling. When we realized our uncanny uniformity, we loved playing tricks on those that couldn’t distinguish us. To everyone around us, we were one and the same person. 

Our similarities lay everywhere: we lived in the same city, liked the same things (yes, he got me into wrestling and Tekken), and loved spending time together. To both of us, we were the sibling that we never had but always wanted. Because we are the only cousins in our family, we would spend numerous vacations together at my house in Spain, or travel to Dubai together so I could have a play buddy and brother. My brother - that’s what he is to me.

Now, although we couldn’t be more different and our locations couldn’t be further apart, we are still as close as ever. He smokes and I don’t. His nights consist of getting drunk with his friends at a rundown pub, whereas I will go clubbing with my friends. I live in Los Angeles, he never left Dusseldorf. I am going to graduate school, he didn’t even finish high school. I have all the luck, and he struggles to get by. My parents are still together, his divorced when he was three. He’s the dgaf lone soldier, and I’m the one that stresses about everything.

Yet, he’s still the one that I call when I need advice about the stupid boy that broke my heart, when I got into an argument with one of my roommates, or when things in my life are just not right. He puts things into perspective for me, saying that I’m the lucky one. And I agree - I’m lucky to have the best cousin in the world. 

- Beatrice