“She’s just faking it for attention. She does this all the time.”
That was the first thing my sister said when the paramedics rushed into my apartment.
I remember the sound of their boots on the floor. The sharp smell of antiseptic. Someone asking my name. Someone else telling Eleanor to step back.
“No, seriously, she’s fine,” Eleanor insisted, arms crossed, irritation clear in her voice. “She’s been doing this since we were kids.”
Then one of the paramedics said something that cut through the room like glass.
“Her pulse is barely detectable. Ma’am, step away. Now.”
I didn’t hear Eleanor’s response.
Because my heart had already stopped.
My name is Clarissa.
Growing up with my sister Eleanor was like living beside a spotlight you could never step into—no matter how hard you tried.
We were only eighteen months apart, but our parents treated us like we came from different worlds. Eleanor was the golden child. Beautiful. Loud. Magnetic. The kind of girl teachers adored and strangers remembered.
I was the quiet one. The responsible one. The invisible one.
I didn’t resent her. Not at first.
I cheered at her cheerleading competitions, even when she forgot mine. I helped her finish homework she didn’t care about. I covered for her when she snuck out at night. I thought that’s what sisters did. I thought love meant shrinking yourself so someone else could shine.
But Eleanor always saw life as a competition—one where there could only be one winner.
And she was determined it would always be her.
The pattern followed us into adulthood.
When I got sick, she rolled her eyes.
When I was tired, she mocked me.
When I struggled, she said I was dramatic.
So when my chest pain started that night, I almost didn’t call her.
Almost.
The pain came out of nowhere—sharp, crushing, terrifying. My vision blurred. I collapsed near the couch and barely managed to dial her number before my hands went numb.
She arrived annoyed.
“This better be real, Clarissa,” she muttered as she unlocked the door.
Then I collapsed again.
That’s when she called 911.
Not because she believed me.
But because she didn’t want to deal with me.
As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I heard her voice over and over.
“She’s exaggerating.”
“She loves attention.”
“She’s wasting your time.”
Until one of the paramedics shouted.
“We’re losing her!”
Everything went dark.
I woke up in the ICU.
Machines beeped softly. My chest ached. A doctor stood at the foot of my bed, calm but serious.
“You went into sudden cardiac arrest,” he said. “If the paramedics hadn’t acted when they did, you wouldn’t be here.”
My heart had stopped for nearly two minutes.
Two minutes my sister insisted I was pretending.
Eleanor didn’t visit that day.
Or the next.
When she finally showed up, she looked smaller. Quieter. Her confidence cracked in a way I had never seen before.
“They told me…” her voice shook. “They told me you actually died for a moment.”
I nodded.
She sat down, hands trembling. “I thought you were lying. I always think that. I don’t know why.”
I did.
But I didn’t say it.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t rush to make her feel better.
That moment changed everything.
I stopped apologizing for being sick.
Stopped minimizing my pain.
Stopped shrinking.
And Eleanor—forced to face the truth that her need to win almost cost her a sister—finally saw the damage she’d done.
We’re not perfect now.
But for the first time, she listens.
And for the first time, I speak.
Sometimes it takes your heart stopping…
to finally start choosing yourself.