At this point, none of us are sure why we fight. We’re sisters. We need no good reason to fight, even though we have plenty of them.

My sister and I are so close that we finish each other’s sentences and often wonder who’s memories belong to whom.

You are blood. You are sisters. No man can break that bond.

Imagine: you could say nothing, do nothing, eat nothing, touch nothing, love nothing without the other knowing.

We didn’t want to admit it then, but we were friends. Best friends.

The knowledge of death seemed present in both sisters—it was something about the way they carried themselves, something that had broken too soon and had not mended, marking them in spite of their lightheartedness.