He finally looked back at you
Evan Rosier always holds his notebook in a tight clutch whenever he leaves the house - or the castle or the dorm-room for lectures – anywhere he goes, he takes it with him. On the rare occasions that he leaves the leather-bound folds of paper behind, he feels like he is missing a limb. It’s a strange kind of phantom pain, the sort that doesn't fail for a second to remind you that you have forgotten something, lost something, that you’re not yourself right now. He feels it during the meetings his father makes him attend of recently. Since his brother died, that is. Because Evan Rosier was never supposed to be the heir. He was too young, too thoughtless, too much in the clouds with his thoughts. And still – here he is now, sitting in the same chair his brother sat in just a few days ago, when Evan was still at school finishing his term papers in a rush because he didn't think of starting them on time. He had been occupied with a side quest then, searching through the few muggle books in the library to find the answer to his mathematical problem. Because he found out in second year that the formulas in Arithmancy, which he wanted to take in his third year, resembled the muggle formulas, he stumbled upon in one of his mother’s hidden books, to a suspicious extent. Since then, the easily comprehensible books on muggle mathematics have become his personal cheat-code to excel in his classes.
Regulus and Wilkes became more and more suspicious of his sudden excellence back then and started to follow him around to find out his source of information. At first they accused him to visit one of Lupin’s study groups – an absurdity – he’d have been dead the moment he’d exited the classroom on the first lesson. It was a known fact, the rivalry between their houses and Evan was not stupid, to contrary believe. No, he acquired the knowledge on his own, in the dark closing-hours of the library and he didn't intend to let his friends in on the secret that was his utilisation of muggle books. Slytherins were weird that way, he had come to find out in first year; they wanted to know everything, but rejected the research of muggels with a burning fierceness that resulted in physical attacks if ever brought up in conversation. So, Evan became cautious of his words, designed an unfailing filter that kept him out of harms reach and frequented the muggle section of the Hogwarts library in solitary from very early on. He made sure that no one ever saw him there as well, kept hidden behind the shelves and took a detour before continuing on his actual path in the late hours.
Evans original plan had been to become a scientist and writer - a profession that would have gone nearly unnoticed by his family, once he would have finished his education. As the last born son to the Rosier line of pure blooded wizards and witches, it would have also been realistic in theory – no one really pained him that much of a mind - he was the quiet one, the forgetful child, a dreamer – the one that would go unnoticed in every room he ever set a foot in. His father overlooked him at family dinners and never included even the thought of him in his political rants. That had always been his brother Pierre. Pierre with his respectable ambitions and tendency for hard work, his early marriage plans, his reasonable pure-blood favouritism – in total: the perfect son.
Sometimes Evan wonders how Pierre and him could have even come form the same parents. They couldn’t have been more different: When Pierre had been five years old he already involved himself in their fathers political rants, asked follow-up questions and did his own research on the different topics – whereas Even had pointedly ignored the conversations completely, occupying himself with the different kinds of spiders and butterflies in their garden, talking animatedly with Pandora about the creatures and their fascinating habits and anatomy – it had been also the time, when he had started drawing them together with his sister. The two of them became inseparable over their shared interests and hobbies , took the same classes with their mother from an early age and with every passing year they slipped further and further from the attention of their father – the second son and only daughter, insignificant in political perspective and precious in the kind eyes of their mother, who supported them wholeheartedly in their dreamy nature and curious tendency to unravel every last secret on abstract and poetical topics. She would sit in their shared room – which they had out of choice rather than need, because it made it easier for them to store their stashes of supplies and work on their projects together – and read them stories of phantastical beasts and herbs of the magical kind – sometimes she would even smuggle in a muggle book, read it to them in secret and store it under an illusion-charm to keep it safe from her husband.
So, Evan’s tendency to dream of the best possible outcome had begun early. The plans he made with his sister, to open up a makers’ space in the muggle world didn't seem too far out of reach for the both of them and over time their caution wore away – they became comfortable with the idea, dreamed together in the Ravenclaw common room, sprawled over the covers of the comfortable sofa cushions and discussed the details animatedly. What Evan didn’t see coming for all these years, was the unexpected death of Pierre.
Not only did he lose his brother, but his whole future over night. The funeral had been a quiet affair, family only, gathered in the south of France where the family had their headquarters – The Rosier mansion. It was a cold house with too many rooms and a perfectly maniquired garden. During the entire time it took for the funeral to be held, Evan asked himself where his brother was in all of this – the eulogy had depictured Pierre’s work at the ministry, his accomplishments and every single title of the laws he set up during his short time working alongside their father – but not once anyone mentioned, that they would miss him – Pierre, for the person he had been - the studious politics-enthusiast, the headstrong teenager, the innovative mind behind their father’s campaign. Not a single tear fell and it was then, in that cold, white room with too many golden decorations on the furniture, that Evan realised his own fate.
He realised that in taking Pierre’s place, he didn't only set himself up for a career in a field he was not interested in, but also for a life of being nothing but his accomplishments. And Evan has not stopped struggling since then. The grieve, the loss and the enormous pressure – they piled up, left him sitting beside Pandora with a tight lipped expression and carefully constructed unfeelingness, while his sister cried against his shoulder in private.
The meetings with his father followed shortly after. And Evan knew exactly what he had to do. Because as the last born child, even though he was the last remaining son, Pandora would have been the one to fill in Pierre’s place - get married off, forming an alliance with the best standing house inside the sacred twenty-eight. And Evan couldn’t have that. Yes, she was older than him, but only by a year and the more free spirited one of them both. To the outside world at least, because Evan had learned early on, to guard his innermost thoughts, his interest, his beliefs from the prying eyes of the people around him - the Slytherin common-room did that to a person. Solely his sister and mother knew of the true extent of his personality, the thoughts he kept hidden behind his silent presence and rarely visible actions. They knew that Evan and Pandora were just different sides of the same coin. And knowing this, Evan had acted fast, took the meeting with his father instead of Pandora and proclaimed great plans and beliefs he didn’t for a second of his life ever shared. But it had worked in the end, the way Evan shifted his agreeable nature towards the statements he had heard inside his common-room shared by his friends.
The fight with Pandora lasts since the announcement their father made over dinner a few days ago and with that Evan is completely trapped now. His mother won’t speak to him and neither does his sister. he know they do it out of their own insecurity and better wishes for him, but still they left him feeling lonely and isolated, with only his stoic father as a companion.
The meetings with his father take hours at a time and he grows progressively tired with every new burden that he gets loaded onto his shoulders. His only remedy is the scheduled meeting with his friends and their fathers on the upcoming Wednesday and he counts the hours until then, periodically tracking the progression of time on the ancient clock on their study’s mantelpiece.
On this particular meeting though, something in his tired mind snaps. It’s the usual monologue of his father, containing the abomination and threat muggles represent – and its not in Evan’s general nature to speak up, but still a sigh escapes him as his father pressures the topic to a newly lengthened extent. The procedure is short – a second-long crutiatus curse is cast and then Evan is kicked out of the house for the day.
And concerning his fight with Pandora and the week-lasting silence of his mother, Evan is almost glad of it.
Clutching his notebook tightly through the fabric of his thick wool-coat, he makes his way towards the city centre. Now that he thinks of it, is the punishment nothing but a sliver of freedom, of which he will see less and less if he intends to execute his plan correctly. He decides to savour it instead, to enjoy it while it lasts.
Luckily he doesn't look too much out of place today, the ankle-long black coat of the finest wool money could buy, in combination with black leather shoes, a dark green jumper over his dress-shirt and the muted black of his dress-trousers, make him blend in with the busy crowd on the street almost strategically. He takes the usual turns, rounding a block of houses twice just to shake off a possible tail, which his father probably didn’t even think of sending after him, but he stays careful just in case.
For nothing in this world he would like to endanger the destination he is heading to – An oasis of poetic freedom, the first true inspiration of Pandora’s and his future plans, where he met the most curious people over the years he began to frequent the dingy pub in the middle of London.
The first time he had stumbled into the back room of the pub it had been by mistake. He had strayed too far from his family in Diagonalley where they had taken him shopping for his first year of education at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. He had left the magical street by accident, wandered further in a stubborn attempt to find the way back on his own, but ended up in the dingy pub instead, which he mistook of the entrance to the magical world.
Determinately he had wandered off into the back room, in search for the red brick wall he had seen his father tap on just a few hours before he got lost. Instead a gathering of oddly dressed people had greeted him in silence. They had been scribbling with weirdly shaped quills on top of too dark paper and with that, captured Evan’s interest immediately. He had stayed with them for a while, watching in awe how their conversations carried on from one absurd topic to the next. Some of the people had been close to his age as well, which reassured him immensely once he awoke of his trance and involved himself shyly in one of their conversations. Evan had never met a muggle before that day - least to say a whole bunch of them in one place - but from the information he gathered, they were just like him. Of course they didn't understand what he was talking about for the most part, took him for a funny little kid and soon enough Evan adapted to their topics of conversation to avoid confusion and their condescension. He left about an hour later, found his fussing family and never mentioned his discovery to any of them, not even Pandora, to keep at least one secret to himself for once. He was scared of their opinion as well, lied through his teeth, when they inquired him about his whereabouts once he had lost them. But Evan kept resolute, hid his secret well enough, so that no one knew where to find him, once he found himself in the position again to wander off alone.
The poet’s-gatherings became his new obsession and sometimes he had shared the paragraphs he wrote there with his mother. She was entirely supportive of his interest, just like she had always been, suggested topics and shared her experiences on them with him. They talked for hours and hours and when Evan slipped away and visited the little gathering he would talk with its willing participants about them. He grew less and less shy about his projects, shared them deliberately with the group and happily incorporated their feedback. They never asked him about his life, focussed entirely on his work and he relished the anonymity of it. The obvious connection he had with then and their simultaneously present respect for his privacy.
So its just natural, that every single time Evan pushes open the splintered wooden door of the pub and inhales the first breath of smoke-infused air, it feels like coming home to him.
Equipped with his notebook and a spare pen he walks over to the bar counter with long strides, shaking off the stiffness in his back from the crutiatus, pulling his lips into a silent smile, as he greats the bar man – Joshua – with a small nod, “How do you do, Josh? Did anything interesting hapened today?” The bar man only shrugs in that noncommittal way of his, but Evan can see the twinkle in the old man’s eyes and that is enough for him to continue his way to the secluded room next to the bar with a warm feeling in his stomach.
With everything going on in his life right now, Evan didn't get the chance to slip off to the little pub over the break this summer, hence he is especially looking forward to sharing his most recent poem and forgetting his troubled life for the span of a few hours. With his mother and sister currently not speaking to him there hasn’t been a chance to talk about it and the need for feedback has already started to gnaw at him over the past few days.
So Evan is in a hurry to pull out his notebook from the inside pocked of his long coat, when he eagerly pushes open the door of softly stained cherry-wood. Barely with a foot in the door though, his gaze collides first with a peculiar set of eyes Evan knows he won’t ever be able to forget in his entire life.
They’re the warm colour of hazel, the colour of sunsets over freely growing grass fields, the shade of honey over splintered green glass bottles and the very first word he had ever used in a poem when he was eleven years old and sitting squished between his friends on the train to Hogwarts. Not brown, but hazel. Hazel, like Remus Lupin’s eyes.
The same set of eyes that was pulled into slits right now, as he stood in the doorway, dumbfounded and suddenly way too nervous.
And the topic of Remus Lupin – a topic he never discussed with anyone, just like the poetry gathering – that he kept safe and sound in the privacy of his own mind, that he never put to paper in a too obvious way – is a whimsical one to Evan. He has spent a couple of hundreds of hours thinking, writing and watching, on Remus Lupin in the short four years he has known the other boy. Their interactions could be counted on one hand and still, something in Evan resonates so deeply with the taller boy, that he has yet to find a way to put it into the right words - to figure him out completely so that he could free his mind finally from the thought of him. He can’t put his finger on it, had been incapable of doing so, since the first day he has set his eyes on him. But that has not kept his mind from the enigma that was Remus John Lupin in the slightest. If anything, it had made the boy more of an interesting subject to Evan. Every single one of their few interactions replayed in his mind when he went to bed – and when he sat in the great hall, absentmindedly picking through his food, he watched the older boy from across the room.
He had picked up a few things about him over the time he had spent watching him: He ate a lot – like really – Remus ate like a starving soldier, who laid eyes upon real food for the first time in months. On other days though, he didn't eat anything at all, drank his tea with his brows knitted together and his torso hunched over the table.
Evan noticed the changes for the first time in December of his first year – how there was an almost too accurate punctuality to the changes in Remus’ eating patterns – and then of course his absences. It had taken Evan two months and a trip to the library to confirm his suspicion – Remus Lupin was a werewolf – and the teachers were in on his secret, kept excusing him and ordered his friends to take notes for the proclaimed ‘sick’ boy. This revelation explained another cluster of Remus’ strange behavioural patterns to him – the pained way he walked – because of course, he was in pain after the full moon – the way he held his head on some days and the energy and magical potency he radiated on others – even his tendency to react aggressively on small taunts in the hallway made sense to Evan. And then his friends – they picked up on his behaviour soon after Evan did, kept running after Remus in the hallways and then stopped halfway through Evan’s second year – he found them in the hospital wing, huddled around a bed with drawn curtains once, when he brought over a bucket full of potions for Madame Pomfrey.
Then he heard the stories about Remus’ dyslexia – which he couldn't believe at first, as he watched the boy from across the library staring down into his book, scribbling notes and scratching his head absentmindedly – the study group was another argument against the rumours – but on one of his research rounds Evan had seen it – how Remus subtly leaned on his wand and murmured an incantation, before opening one of the books on the table.
And then, the thing with Sirius, Regulus’ older brother: It had been a day after the full moon and Evan hadn’t expected to see anyone of the four Gryffindors at their usual spot in the great hall, but Sirius had shown up on that particular day anyway, with a haunted expression reigning his usually incomparably beautiful features. This had captured Evan’s attention immediately so he had kept tabs on it, and when Remus finally entered the great hall again a few day afterwards, him and his friends had sat down as far away from Sirius as they could. Snape disappeared around the same time as well and when Evan connected the dots, painting a probably overly dramatic picture of the whole scene, he had gotten irrationally mad at Sirius – Not that he knew the older boy, or Remus for that matter. Still, the uncomfortable sensation boiling in his stomach distracted him. And then the picking on Remus got worse – it had always been quite bad, but there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, when Snape and his gang of followers started to attack Remus in brought daylight – which had let to one of their more awkward encounters. Because Evan somehow couldn’t stand the blue marks beneath the scars on Remus’ face.
It had happened only a few months ago, when they both walked down the same corridor to the library and Snape intercepted the boy walking ahead of Evan, Mulciber and Avery lurking around a corner close by. The hexes came out of nowhere and hit Remus square from the side, making the older boy wince and fire back a few curses after a short moment of recovery. Evan had acted before he could think of an intelligent way to handle the situation that day, positioning himself in front of Lupin, subtly stumbling over a hex that wasn’t supposed to hit him. The others had bolted then, knowing him as a friend of Regulus and Barty, which none of the other Slytherins ever dared to cross, if they wanted to live the rest of their life’s unscathed. He had sat on the floor then, his growing legs sprawled out underneath him and looked up at Remus, who had his wand still raised in the air, watching the corridor with attentive eyes and a fist clutched at his side. When the older boy did look down on him then, he had felt his heart stop in his chest, anxiously watching Remus’ wand, that was directed with its tip pointing at him. But after the passing of an intense moment, that Evan questioned his previous life choices, the taller boy had dropped it eventually, helped him up and regarded him under the scrutiny of scrunched up eye brows and a mean twist on his lips, before he continued down the corridor, leaving Even behind without a second glance.
Evan had noticed other little things about Remus - an abundance of them actually - and decidedly ignored the way his thoughts always seemed to return to the older boy, or the amount of poems kept piling up between the pages of his notebook, when his mind drifted away from him and his hands acted on their own accord.
To see him here now, did something to Evan though – It is outside of his quiet observations, outside the safe walls of the castle grounds and entirely out of Evan’s depth. Of course he had kept track of the other boy’s academic comeback, had silently cheered for him as the study group gained more interest and followers over the last month of the school year, but to find him here, inside the one building he thought he would always have only to himself – it was unsettling. The confidence fades from Evan now, leaving him stiff and still, remaining between the familiar room and the outside-world and he is unsure where to turn to.
Maria’s blue eyes fixate on him then, pulling his attention distinctly away from Remus’ hostile expression and in the end the scales tip and he settles for the room. With unsteady steps he approaches the table, feeling the burn of hazel eyes on his back, as he settles down next to his friend, “I was wondering, when you’ll show up, its been a while.” She exclaims in that airy tone of hers, sliding over her notebook for him to look at, while Evan struggles to find a comfortable position, entirely too aware of the attention of the other boy sitting right behind them.
They have done this a few times over the years, Evan knows that, but he can’t seem to shake the uncomfortable knowledge of Remus’ presence, looming just a few meters from him and burning holes into his skull with undeniable anger in his eyes.
Maria must have sensed his discomfort, judging from the way she is pulling her eye brows up at him now, smiling encouragingly at him, the kind of smile Pandora had always directed at him, when they were sharing thoughts and Evan had been too self-conscious to voice his own. He shifts on his seat, a swelling sensation of dread and the pressing urge to flee rising up in his stomach until he feels like he cant breathe anymore. “I – I know its been quite an extraordinary amount of time since we have seen each other, Maria – But – I guess – yeah, Ill have a look at this later if you dont mind – I need some air-”
He rushes out of the room with so much speed, that he fears he might run somebody over on his way out of the pub’s door, in the blink of an eye. Frantically leaving his safe haven behind, Evan puts so much force into his steps that he nearly topples over from his breathlessness when he reaches the next corner of the already darkening street. He catches his breath there, ignoring the prying eyes of passer-by’s and rubs his hands in jerky motions over his face, trying to get rid of the unsettlement cursing through his bones.
It’s entirely irrational - he knows this - it’s not as if Remus could curse him with so many witnesses present, but still - still. It is one thing to watch him from a distance, to formulate his thoughts in the privacy of closed curtains and overanalyse every single interaction they ever had - its another thing entirely to have him right in front of himself - looking, observing, thinking about him. It is too much - and, everything. And if Evan is honest to himself - honest as always - it is everything he ever wanted and thought he’d never get. But not like this. Not now. Not when he still has to shake off the aftermath of his own father’s crutiatus curse inside the one safe place he has ever known, where he had shared too much of himself already. It makes him vulnerable in a way he knows that he shouldn’t be while facing Remus John Lupin for the first time in a real conversation that wasn’t born out of a situation where one defended or cared for the other after an attack - because Remus had defended him once. Yes he did. And Evan has written so many poems about it - and its the last thing he should be thinking about right now if he ever wants to get rid of the swooping sensation in his stomach - But Remus that day had been nothing short of magnificent - a sight to see - firing curses at students a couple of years older than them - and cussing them out when they hit him. He had worn the black-eye with pride the next day that Evan saw him sitting at the Gryffindor table in the great hall - and he had nodded at Evan - a second-year of no significance to him, had raised his glass at the Sixth-years sitting a few paces over from Evan with a wicked smirk on his chipped lips - and naturally Evan has never forgotten a single second of it, the whole thing way too deeply etched into the folds of his long-term memory to ever get erased.
He is struggling with his breathing now, focussing on the soft hum of the lanterns surrounding him, desperately trying to calm his heartbeat. Too much - it’s just too much right now, the attention, their obviously shared interest - the flood of new information. Evan can’t handle it. It’s too disturbing, too enticing. he has to get away from the street as fast as possible, has to put as much distance between them as he can.
A thought climbs to the edge of his mind, clawing through his embarrassment and panicking, reaching him in the exact moment a light tap on his shoulder makes him turn around and shatters his plans, “I left my notebook-“
His eyes find Remus’ before he can finish the sentence and another wave of unsettlement rushes over him at the physical contact between them. The older boy only eyes him with a guarded expression, entirely unaware of Evan’s panicking, stares him down intensely, as if he – Evan Rosier – would be a mystery to him, a keeper of valuable secrets the taller boy wants to discover. And Evan doesnt know what to say as the other boy hands him his leather bound notebook wordlessly, his gaze still fixed on the younger boy with a steady unreadable expression etched into his angular features.
Nearly fumbling the little book, Evan tries to hold the stare, but fails flinchingly as he stores his most valuable possession in one of the little pockets of his coat. He tries desperately to think, to find something fitting to say to the other boy - to calm the anger in his eyes, to settle the suspicion radiating from him in unbearably palpable waves - but he can’t seem to find anything, avoids the intelligible hazel eyes of the taller boy intently as he stares down onto the pavement between them. They’re standing too close - too familiarly close - as if they know each other - anyone around them will think that they know each other, that they talk regularly, that they are friends - and they most definitely are not - they are fellow students, not even housemates - they’re not even in the same year - Remus is a fascinating werewolf with anger-issues and fierce loyalty and Evan - Evan is the quiet kid in the corner - a soon to be death-eater - everything he never wanted to be - and they don’t fit, they shouldn’t be even talking to each other. They-
Remus doesn't take his eyes off of Evan the entire time they keep the silence ringing between them like an enormous church-bell, angling his head while he crosses his arms tightly over his chest, “We are going to have a quick chat, you and me,” the older boy finally states, looking down his nose at Evan’s forehead. His deep voice, directed straight at him confuses the younger boy so much, that he initially doesn't realise what is going on when Remus turns on his heel and heads back into the direction of the pub.
At the corner of his comprehension Evan realises that he could leave, could flee and never return, that he could act as if this whole interaction never happened – but his feet carry him after the taller boy anyway, as if on their own volition, while his thoughts keep running wildly in his head and his heart nearly implodes inside his chest.
Trailing behind the wiry frame of the dark haired boy, a quiet voice raises in Evans ear - his secret, whispering back at him from the farthest corner of his mind, he had pushed it into all of these years ago: He finally looked back at you.
Hazel
Hazel eyes – the colour of autumn in the golden light – and I don’t need this to rhyme. Because you don't. You’re all edges and colour – I can see that. you’re not as invisible as you think you are – I would know. You have scars that glow, all silver lines, crossing each other like the routes of a maze I don’t understand yet. But I saw the way the sun looked at you – how it unraveled you for me to see – only a minute – the shortest minute I’ve ever experienced. You’re poetry, do you know that? Has somebody told you? Have they explained the concept to you or are you already familiar with it? You probably are - I hope you are. It’s the way I know your eyes are hazel even though I have yet to see them. Will you use them to see me – or will something else capture your attention first?
I hope you’ll do it – see me. The way I saw you – the way I couldn’t make myself look anywhere else.
#1 E.R.
Lavender. You like it in your tea when you wake up after a moon spent clawing at yourself – I know you do, I’ve read about it. It speaks to me in the most horrible way possible. How you claw on your skin the way I do at my mind – altering it to a version that fits in – that reaches the standard of conversations and sociability. You don’t. You claw at yourself and drink lavender in your tea afterwards – tossing out the same rude comments as if you’re entirely untouched by it – and I know you aren’t, can’t be, even if you sometimes manage to make me believe otherwise – your scars betray you – it is as if you wear them as a cosmic reminder of your own destructibility – and it speaks to me how you find your way with them – bare for everyone to see – because you are bold – bold in colour, in bursts of aggression, in the way you sometimes storm off without anyone able to find you - you’re bold where I can’t be, where I can only watch you and recognise my own scars which nobody sees.
#25 E.R.
The wolf in red
On the edge of the forest, a wolf in red - surreal and irrational - so far out of safety, lost in a world of rage and dread. Unseeing, unapologetic- colourblind and restless - reckless to the extent of unseeing - unsettling to watch as it branches forward, takes steady steps into the unknown - but known by so many - how long will it take them to discover you? Where will you go if they do? Bravery is the pitfall of a vulnerable soul with too much to lose. Unknowingly, unflinchingly throwing away all repercussion and safety nets - unaware, unseeing - but how long until they see you? Like I do
#25/1 E.R.
Watching you watching him
I watched you watching him the other day – the loud kid in your group – my best friend’s brother. You kept your head down the entire time – the way you always do when you dont want anyone to notice you – and, impossibly, they didnt. Not a single one of them – they kept up their antics, while you had only eyes for him – the entire time – you didnt take them off him, while he flicked his hair, drank his tea, made faces – you watched him like I watch you and I wonder: is that what we are supposed to do? Watching people never noticing us? I wonder if you engrave him into pages as well, if you wonder about him. You probably do, if that is what we are supposed to be doing. Me, here, writing words about you – scary and too intense – what am I even doing – you, over there, watching him.
#27 E.R.
The crack
I saw it. See the moment it happened, right before my eyes whenever I close them now. You. Watching your tea. Your friends. Everything – everything but him. Hazel on grey – hazel on nothing – hazel everywhere I can see. Your head held up high for performance. You don’t mean it, do you? The way you look away? You don’t mean it.
#46 E.R.