‘Cal? How about we walk by the canal for a bit, yeah? We can reminisce a little…’

I nod willingly, adopting a fleeting, if slightly absent, smile. In all truth, reminiscing might well be the last thing I feel like doing. Too much pain and strife bridges my last visit to Justine and Camille’s home village, and walking a path trodden so many times in innocence and faith… I’m not sure I can bear it. Not today.

‘Oh my gosh, Callie, do you remember that series we filmed here, like five years ago now? And the ice-skating we did? I’ve still got the clips, you know. I edited them into that video I made of our best memories a while back, just cause… well, our imaginary TV dramas were undeniably iconic.’ Justine gestures towards a body of water semi-concealed from view by a weeping willow, just as gold-tinged leaves begin to twirl and dance in the dappled afternoon light. They float dreamily, and my gaze follows their descent on to the surface of the pond, sprinkled with vermillion and ochre hues. Bearing witness to such serenity, I feel I could burst in to tears at any moment. Or sit here forever. Alone, preferably. It’s hard to bypass the hurt this all provokes, but grinning, I give in to the allure of memory.

‘Of course I remember it, how could I not? That day was basically pure magic. Like, the walks in crisp white snow, and hot chocolates, and cinnamon rolls, then the movie night after… ahh! Can we celebrate Christmas like that this year, please? I actually beg!’ I’m asking a question I know is futile, though I couldn’t ever utter that part aloud.

They won’t be here at Christmas. In the few short years since I last walked this same canal path, taking in the boats and the hanging oaks and the long-grass fields we once ran through in summer, things changed. The sisters began spending days, then weeks, then months at a time in Paris. This was their father’s decision, a necessary one, he argued, for the sake of work. A balance was found, a compromise made, and so their lives, almost overnight, became divided between countries, split between friends and livelihoods.

I miss them each day. It’s funny, but as I meet Camille’s sad eyes, awaiting her response, I find myself missing them despite their presence. I miss US, the naive, vibrant souls we were, and each moment we cherished together. Devising adventure games, immortalising embarrassing replications of our favourite mystery series on film… It all felt endless, once. Time doesn’t pass quite the same way nowadays.

‘You know we’d love to… that would be literal perfection to spend Christmas all together. It’s just not the same with only one sibling!’ Camille smirks in Justine’s direction, and I laugh, thanking Camille for holding my company in such high esteem. The second sibling - that’s who I’ve always been for both of them. The older, slightly less wise, strikingly blonde sister, an honorary part of their home.

‘Yeah, showing you Paris would be insane. Bookshops, cafes, lights… we’ll send you so many photos, and hopefully, HOPEFULLY, you can stay with us next summer!’ Justine grabs my hand then, and it takes all my energy to conjure up a thankful and compassionate smile once more.

Send me photos, as always. The photos I collect in my treasured album, reminders and fragments of a life I wish I shared with those precious siblings of mine. I flick through those photos often, value them as a gateway into the days we spend apart.

I’ve needed these photos more than ever in recent years. Every time we’re reunited after months or more I’m always struck by a difference in their manner or appearance - dyed hair, deeper voices, more melancholy and dutiful demeanours. Each time we part, I ruminate over the distinctions. Mostly, I note how Justine and Camille have transformed since starting secondary school, becoming less carefree, more attentive, dedicated to study. Unquestioningly accepting of their parents’ clearly uttered wishes - for both Justine and Camille to enter the field of medicine. Their destinies being so precisely mapped out for them since the age of ten always left me to wonder when, if ever, I’d find my calling. If the inevitable career path split - I knew back then I had no interest in becoming a medical professional of any kind - would drive an irrevocable chasm between our sisterhood.

I wish, I pray fervently that nothing ever will. That our connection will grow stronger, that in the following months I’ll save enough to buy a ticket to Paris, surprise them at Christmas time.

It’s what we deserve, after all. But I keep my plan to myself, for now.

Moments later, we reach the overgrown wheat fields, laying down, taking in the cloudless sky, wistful piano melodies blending effortlessly with the birdsong and restless chirping of crickets.

We make daisy chains, dance the waltz, renew our vows to never break the sisterhood we’ve forged over the years.

The final thing I do before we inevitably part is take out my phone and snap a few last photos encapsulating the fleeting moments we’ve shared. Of Justine, laughing at Camille’s exaggerated dance moves. Camille, posing for the camera with a daisy behind her ear. Of all three of us, shot from overhead, lying between the blades of wheat, dainty and pure daisies threaded through strands of hair.

‘Oh, how I’ll miss you both’, I smile, and close my eyes to take in the last of the evening sun.