I feel so lucky to have been blessed with such a beautiful sister. I just wish you could have stayed with us for longer. It seems so wrong that you’ve gone forever.
I keep thinking about us growing up, and in every memory you’re beside me.

We were never lonely because we always had each other to chat to. You were my best friend. I was tidy, you were messy, but we loved sharing a bedroom – so Mum drew a line down the middle of the room so I could keep my side neat, and you could mess yours up.

I’ve been through Mum’s old photos. In every one, it’s the two of us together – from when we were little girls until we went to university. You were beautiful and vibrant, and everyone noticed you.

Remember that time on the train home from London on February 14, when we were about 15? A random man wrote a Valentine’s poem and pushed it into your hand. That was the effect you had on people. You were an inspiration to everyone who met you.

When you told me you wanted to travel, I knew it was the right thing for you. You had so much energy and life, and so much to give.

You loved the Einstein quote: ‘There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.’ The second described you.

I take comfort in knowing you never let anything hold you back. You did more in 25 years than most people do in 85. We were so proud when you went to Japan at 22 to learn the language and work as a teacher. You met your boyfriend Kentaro there. He adored you: you were perfect for each other.

When you started planning your trip to Africa to work as a volunteer teacher with underprivileged children last year, I thought how much you’d grown up.

You even sold your designer handbags to help fund your volunteer work! Making a difference to children’s lives meant much more to you than the best accessories and make-up.

Seeing people in Ghana who didn’t have basics like pencils, books or even fresh water was a humbling experience, and I know you did all you could to improve things for them.

I’m so glad we spoke a lot when you were out there. I was so excited about you coming home on June 14 this year.

The last time we spoke, you were full of excitement about your return to Britain with Kentaro to start a family of your own. I was so happy for you. Not many people find such a special love.

Then, all of a sudden, you were gone.

It’s weird but as soon as I got that call in May from Kentaro, I knew something had happened.

It sounds a bit ‘twinny’ but I had horrible pains in my stomach on the night of May 10, at the time you passed away. But I still couldn’t take in what Kentaro was saying.

He told me that you’d both been in a taxi when it was hit by a minibus. You were rushed to hospital, then given the all-clear after a check-up. But they hadn’t realised that you had internal injuries. A few hours later, you died in Kentaro’s arms.

Your funeral in Stockport in June was a celebration of your life. We played your favourite songs, including Rainy Night In Georgia by Gladys Knight, and I read the poem Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep.

Mum and I wanted to sing a duet – maybe Jack Johnson’s Better Together, because you loved it – but Dad made us promise not to!

We’ve set up a fund in your memory called Helen Makes A Difference. We want to raise money to build a library in Ghana named after you. You always had your head in a book, so we thought that would be a good way to keep your memory alive.

We chat about you all the time, but I feel sad for Kentaro because he’s back in Japan so he can’t share his memories like we can.

We speak to him almost every day and he tells us about the happy times you had together, and the names you chose for the children you hoped to have: Mai – meaning elegance – for a girl; and Nai for a boy, after a friend in Japan.

We went out for a meal for our birthday recently, and Dad raised a toast to his beautiful twins. I can’t believe we’re 26!

How scary is that? We laughed and cried all night. You’d have loved it. I never thought I’d have a birthday without you…

I can’t describe how I’m coming to terms with losing you because I don’t think I am. I just deal with it one day at a time. I love you more than anything, and I always will.

Every step I take from now on will be in your memory.

Rest in peace, sis,

Love, Sally xxxxxx

as told to rachel spencer photography: peter byrne Hair & make-up: emma fairfield at nemesis