Sometimes, they even finished each other’s—

—sentences. At least in the beginning, when they were young and new. The world named them Twins, and kept them together, one unit, sharing clothes and beds and hearts. As they grew they named themselves individuals, sisters, plural. Still close, so close. Sometimes, they even finished each other’s—

—fights. They faced the world together, fought together and loved together. This became a problem, later, when the object of their love saw them as individuals and chose only one. At least, that was what he said, but in his secret heart he thought he could have them both. They traded him back and forth, one unsuspecting, one overcome with guilt but unable to help herself. Still, they remained close. Sometimes, they even finished each other’s—

—wedding vows. Things were different after that. Nobody could pretend they were a unit anymore. The pain was all the worse because even they had thought themselves a unit, together against the world, not against each other. But the rift was there and could not be bridged. One tried. The other said forgiveness could only be found in death. And death came in time, but there was no relief. Only grief and guilt. She pretended it was fine, that she was happy with the leftovers. Leftover husband, leftover love. None of it could replace the broken pieces, none of it could replace her sister. They had been so close, once. Sometimes, they even finished each other’s—

—lives.