Tear us apart? Baby, I would rather be dead

I have loved you since I was born. I have written this letter in my mind one hundred times. Looking over at you with drunken adoration in a sweaty nightclub while we dance as badly as only you and I can. In the midst of belting out Simply the Best with you at any and every karaoke opportunity — that time everyone asked for our autographs in the Gay Village. Sitting in the back of your brand new Ford Fiesta while you took me and dad out for a spin for the first time, Belinda Carlisle singing, “Ooh baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth” on the radio.

My love for you is the fiercest I have ever known. I would go to war for you. I have done: pub beer garden, circa 2004, when a boy kept shooting at you with his potato gun, so I tipped my entire glass of Coke on his head, and our whole family had to leave the premises. I would die for you: 2007, the first day of the summer holidays, when I knocked on for a boy you fancied and got hit by a car on my way back to give you the good news. All it takes for me to tear up is being mildly hungover and thinking about the possibility of you dying. This is starting to sound a bit like a Meatloaf song now, isn’t it? I’d fight for you, die for you, cry for you. See how I know you better than anyone.

In some ways, we couldn’t be more different. You drink tea, and I’ve always preferred coffee. You’re a girly girl through and through, and you cried when I asked mum to cut all my hair off and swapped my flowery denim sandals for Reebok Classics. You love Westlife, and I… what’s the antithesis of Westlife? Somehow, we still managed to stitch a tapestry together. Our simultaneous sexual awakening via Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Trying to perfect Allie and Martin’s handshake in The Parent Trap. Reciting every single line of Pretty Woman to one another right before it’s said in the scene. Responding to every earth-shattering event in our lives with a trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Our overlaps make up a small list of niches, but over the years, we’ve made it work.

At times, our relationship has been sheer violence. Mum never understood how we could craft our words into such cruel remarks and then brandish them like crowbars — coming to blows again, and again, before collapsing into laughter mere moments later. Other times, we were unrelenting in our grudges – ignoring one another so intensely, you could cut the atmosphere with a knife — before one of us would forget to be mad, or we’d cave for an inside joke. That’s the thing about sisterhood — we were forged in the same fire. You know all of my intricacies and vulnerabilities, and I know yours. My biggest weakness is knowing exactly how to hurt you, and giving in to it. My greatest strength has been growing up beside you.

You were the first person my imagination ran wild with, and our universe was the first I ever really lived in. Tying the front wheel of my bike to the back of yours with our skipping rope to make a tandem, and then immediately crashing into you and falling off. That time we played dungeons and decided ours wasn’t authentic enough, so you had the genius idea of hanging off the top bunk using our dressing gowns. You pushing me back over the edge to safety, but your belt slipping around your neck because I wasn’t strong enough to lift you; me running to get Mick before you choked to death (sorry about that one, bro). When we were gifted walkie talkies and I had the genius idea of putting one under Josh’s pillow at bedtime and keeping the other one for us to growl into (sorry about that one, bro).

Before I figured out who I was, I tried on different versions of you. Stole your Topshop tees and copied your eyeliner. Rubbed your Ghost perfumes between my wrists when you weren’t looking. I even tried drinking Malibu and cranberry juice for a while. Now, I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of your flowery dresses, and we’ll probably never find a cocktail we agree on in a happy hour. But sometimes I’ll catch a word leaving my mouth in exactly the same shape it forms in yours, and it’s like I’ve been possessed for a hot second. We’ll take selfies side by side and I’ll see the ghost of your face reflected in mine in the frame — the blueprint I’ve been working from my whole life. 

Being a little sister is a special kind of worship. I idolised you, and you ran with it. Remember when you dared me to cut my fringe off? I went and fetched the scissors straightaway, grabbed the full length of the hair on my forehead, and chopped from the top — no hesitations. It’s the same energy with which I’d walk through fire for you or take a bullet. No hesitations. 

You’re my speed dial in a crisis. The one who fields all of my stupid questions before the rest of the world has to deal with them. My emergency contact on every single form ever. The one who gets all of my good news first, and the one who knows how to smooth down my sharp edges. Thank you for balancing out my badness with your goodness. For teaching me just how many myriad ways there are to love someone. For being patient with my stubbornness and tolerant of my bad temper. For showing me nuance in all of its various shades, and the importance of picking your battles.

Know that if you ever get a song lyric wrong in my presence, I will never not jump at the chance to correct you. I’ll continue to embarrass you by reminding you about “that time” or other in completely the wrong setting (you get a free pass this time, don’t worry) — and I’ll never stop calling you a boomer. But there is nothing in the world that could ever make me let go. 

You’re simply the best xxx