My Sister Had 18 Years Left. I Had None

Everyone could see the glowing countdown timer above my twin sister Clara's head. Everyone knew she was destined to die the year she turned eighteen. Because of this, Clara was the absolute center of our universe. The TV remote was always hers. The first bite of any delicious meal was always hers. And our parents' undivided, suffocating love was entirely hers. I knew it wasn't her fault. But I couldn't help the bitter envy that grew inside me. Finally, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, Clara made a wish. She wanted to die in a place closest to the sky. So the family planned a trip to Aspen. Everyone went—except me. Before they left, my parents looked at me as I lay in bed, coughing violently. My mother frowned, her voice cold. "Chloe, watch the house. And do not open the door for anyone!" I rasped out, "Mom, please... can you take me to the hospital? My chest hurts so bad..." My mother pursed her lips and sighed. "Chloe, where would we get the money for your hospital bills? Do you have any idea how expensive this trip to Aspen is?" "But my lungs... they burn..." No one answered me. The only response was the heavy thud of the front door locking from the outside.

The agonizing pain suddenly vanished. When I opened my eyes again, the breathtaking, sacred snow-capped mountains of Aspen stretched out before me. My parents were sitting in the first-class cabin of a plane. Premium meals were laid out on the trays in front of them, but every single plate was pushed toward Clara. My mother coaxed her gently, her voice dripping with warmth. "Clara, sweetheart, which one do you want to try first?" My father pushed a glass of fresh juice forward. "Here, Clara. Have a sip to wet your throat first." Clara looked at the gourmet food and offered a weak, fragile smile. She whispered, "Mom... Dad... did we leave any food for Chloe before we left?" The smiles on my parents' faces instantly froze. Clara continued softly, "Chloe was so sick. I'm worried she won't be able to cook for herself. And... she said last week that she was tired of canned soup." A pang of sadness hit my chest, but no tears fell. "She'll eat when she gets hungry enough," my mother answered dismissively. She scooped up a spoonful of creamy pasta and brought it to Clara's lips. "Come on, Clara, just eat. It breaks my heart to see you starving yourself." My father chimed in, "You are just too sweet, Clara. Even at a time like this, you're still worrying about her. But look at her—does she ever think about you? She knew we didn't have much money, yet she still threw a fit because she couldn't come with us." "She didn't even stop to think about how much time you have left..." My father sighed, cutting himself off. My mother started dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and Clara had no choice but to stay quiet. But I noticed Clara's clenched fingers. They betrayed her anxiety. Clara grew up surrounded by the family's ultimate devotion. Because of that, she was the only one who truly understood how deeply I was neglected. When we were kids, a neighbor brought over two beautiful dresses, saying there was one for each twin. But my mother took both and gave them to Clara. "Our Clara has so little time left. If she doesn't experience these things now, she'll never get the chance." That night, Clara asked me, "Chloe, do you want the dress?" I nodded. Without a word, Clara spilled permanent blue ink all over one of the dresses. With no other choice, my mother had to let me have the ruined one. But when I looked into Clara's eyes, I knew. She had done it on purpose. Even though I got the dress, Clara wasn't happy. She kept apologizing to me. "I'm so sorry, Chloe. I could only give you the dirty one. I always make you suffer..." We were so young, yet we both understood a cruel truth: only the broken, ruined things would ever be passed down to me. The suppressed resentment kept building inside me until it finally exploded when we were ten. On our tenth birthday, Clara and I went down to play in the backyard of our apartment complex. After just a few minutes, Clara got tired and wanted to go back inside. But I hadn't had enough. I threw a tantrum, demanding to stay out longer. My mother tried to reason with me, but I refused to listen. I couldn't understand why absolutely everything had to revolve around Clara. In a fit of rage, I shoved Clara hard, sending her crashing to the ground. I screamed through my tears, "I don't want to go home! I want to play! If you want to go back, go by yourself! Why do I always have to listen to you? Why?!" I can't remember what was going through my head back then. Maybe it was a sense of unfairness, or maybe it was just pure jealousy. I screamed and rolled on the grass, crying at the top of my lungs. Like any obnoxious, desperate child, I thought throwing a massive tantrum would get me what I wanted. But my mother didn't back down. She stared at me, her eyes turning bloodshot. She raised her hand high and slapped me across the face. "Chloe Miller! Do you have any idea that your sister only has eighteen years on this earth?! You have a whole lifetime to play! Why do you have to fight her for this single moment? How much time do you think she has left?!" My father stood by, his eyes red and watery. He didn't stop her. I wailed from the pain of the slap. Clara immediately threw herself over me, shielding me from my mother. She cried, "Mom! I want to play too! We don't have to go home. Please, don't hit Chloe!" That night, after my mother applied ointment to my bruised cheek, Clara crept into my room. I turned my head away, refusing to look at her. But then, a warm tear fell onto my shoulder. I turned back and saw her tear-filled eyes. She handed me a fancy mechanical pencil—one I had wanted for months. She whispered, "Chloe... I'm so sorry..." She didn't know what else to say, and I didn't know how to answer. An apology like that shouldn't have come from her. It shouldn't have come from me, either. It should have come from our goddamn fate. But fate was silent. So Clara had to carry the guilt. Back in the first-class cabin, my mother wiped her tears and put another piece of grilled chicken onto Clara's plate. "Clara, stop thinking about it. Here, eat." "You're such a good girl. But Chloe... she's just too rebellious." Rebellious? Was I? I didn't know. When I was little, I used to cry because of the favoritism. As I grew older, I learned to cry in secret. I wanted to scream back, to tell them that I was good. That I could stay home alone, cook for myself, and comfort myself when I was scared. But even though I spoke, no one heard me. Then, my final memory flashed through my mind. It was the copper taste of blood bubbling up from my lungs. Coughing it up onto the floor. And then, collapsing into complete darkness. Oh. I see. I was already dead.

I watched Clara quietly. The suffocating countdown timer that used to hover over her head was completely gone. When we were kids, that timer was the very first thing I learned to hate. I remember asking Clara what those numbers meant. Clara had bit her lip and told me, "It's a countdown for me to become a princess. When the time runs out, I'll turn into a princess." I had looked at her, confused. "Then why are Mom and Dad always so sad?" Clara stroked my hair, her voice incredibly soft. "Because once I become a princess, I'll turn into sea foam, just like the Little Mermaid. I won't be able to see you anymore." But back then, I refused to accept that. I knew what princesses were. Being a princess meant being happy. It meant having a prince who loved you, countless jewels, and all the expensive raspberry gelato you could eat. Every summer, my mother would buy gourmet raspberry gelato. But it was always reserved solely for Clara. My mother would tell me, "This is too sweet for you, Chloe. Don't eat it." "But I love sweet things!" I would argue. But my mother always pretended not to hear. I couldn't understand it. If Clara was going to become a princess and live in luxury, why did I have to give up my few miserable pieces of happiness to her now? So I ran to my mother and declared, "I have a countdown over my head too!" "When my time runs out, I'm going to turn into a princess!" "I want the raspberry gelato too!" The spoon in my mother's hand froze. She stared at me, her entire body trembling with rage. She rasped, "What did you just say?" I screamed, "I have a countdown too! I'm going to turn into a princess! When that happens, I'll leave you guys, and I'll eat tons of raspberry gelato!" Slap! My mother slapped me hard across the face. She broke down sobbing, "Are you trying to drive me to my grave?!" "Do you really think that countdown is a good thing?!" Clara heard the commotion and rushed over to pull my mother away. But my mother seemed to have lost her mind. She started slapping her own face, screaming. "I'm useless! I'm a terrible mother!" I watched in absolute terror, unable to comprehend why she was reacting this way. Wasn't becoming a princess a good thing? That night, I overheard my father comforting my mother in their room. "Chloe is still young... she doesn't understand..." My mother sobbed hoarsely, "But what am I supposed to do? There are only ten years left... In ten years, our Clara will be gone forever..." It was only then that I finally understood. The end of the countdown didn't mean becoming a princess. It meant leaving this family forever. Clara was actually going to die. Back in first class, Clara finished her meal and drifted off to sleep. My mother bit her lip and turned to my father. "David, how do you think Chloe is doing at home? Does her chest still hurt?" My father sighed. "There's no signal on the plane. I'll call her as soon as we land." My mother said softly, "Let's call her tomorrow... Today... is Clara's last day." My mother turned her head to look out the window, her voice cracking with emotion. "Chloe will understand. She's about to lose her sister forever."

The plane landed. My mother took Clara to the duty-free shops to distract her. My father hesitated for a long time before finally pulling out his phone to call me. The call didn't go through. His brow furrowed slightly, and he tried again. Actually, it was hard to tell if he was genuinely frowning. He frowned so much over the years that a deep crease had permanently etched itself between his brows. He always looked unhappy. The second call went unanswered too. He opened Snapchat and typed: [Chloe, are you awake? Did you eat anything?] I floated right in front of him, waving my ghostly hands. "Dad, I didn't eat. But I'm not hungry anymore. Please, just come home and check on me." [Chloe?] He sent another message. But he couldn't see me, and he couldn't hear me. Finally, he let out a long sigh and locked his phone. He muttered to himself, "If only I could make more money... If only we could have brought Chloe along too. Well, Chloe still has a long life ahead of her. I'll bring her next time." With that, my father stood up. I watched his retreating back and whispered, "Dad, I don't have a 'next time' anymore." "I only have the past." My mother and Clara walked out of the duty-free shop. My father immediately took the shopping bags from Clara's hands. My mother asked, "Did Chloe pick up?" My father pursed his lips. "It didn't go through." My mother sighed. "That girl... she's throwing a tantrum again." My father led Clara forward, while my mother pulled out her phone and sent me a text: [Did you eat?] Still, no response. She opened her Venmo. She had a little over seven thousand dollars left in her balance. She muttered, "Three thousand for the hotel, two thousand for food, two thousand for Clara's emergency medical reserve..." Gritting her teeth, she Venmoed me five hundred dollars with a note: [Chloe, stop being mad at me. Take this money and go buy some medicine.] But the money remained unclaimed, and the message went unread. My mother huffed in annoyance, "She's really getting out of hand!" She shoved her phone back into her purse and walked away with giant strides. I stared at her back and whispered, "Mom, I can't accept it anymore."

Clara had an amazing time. Through their eyes, I also got to see sights I had never experienced in my life. We lived in the warm south, and I had never seen real snow. But today, I saw the majestic, snow-capped peaks of the mountains. When they returned to the resort after a day of sightseeing, my mother's phone suddenly rang. It was the HOA representative from our apartment complex. "Hello, Mrs. Miller. We've received several complaints from your neighbors about a terrible odor coming from your unit." My mother's eyebrows knitted together tightly. "An odor?" My father muttered, "Could Chloe be doing something stupid just to spite us?" My mother's face instantly darkened. She opened our chat history. The five hundred dollars she had sent on Venmo had just been automatically returned to her account because it went unclaimed for too long. Tears instantly spilled from my mother's eyes. "She's doing this on purpose!" "She chose this exact moment to pull this stunt! She wants to ruin her sister's very last day! She wants to make sure Clara doesn't have a single moment of peace!" My mother sobbed louder and louder, and my father rushed to comfort her. The HOA representative on the phone sounded incredibly awkward. "Is there anyone home? We've been knocking on your door for hours, but no one is answering." "Also, several neighbors mentioned that your younger daughter hasn't been seen leaving the apartment for days." My mother lost her temper and screamed into the phone, "If she wants to stay inside, let her stay inside! Even if she dies in there, it has nothing to do with me!" I watched her quietly. She couldn't see me. I let out a soft sigh. "Mom, I actually am dead." The shouting woke Clara up. She pushed open her bedroom door, her voice groggy. "Mom, what's wrong? Why are you so angry?" My parents froze. My mother flew across the room and locked Clara in a desperate, crushing hug. "Clara... my Clara... you're still here..." "Thank God, you're still here..." She held Clara so tightly, as if she wanted to fuse Clara into her own flesh. Even my father, who always tried to play the tough guy, began to weep silently. The HOA representative, still on the line, asked, "Should we go ahead and open the door then?" My mother snapped, "Open it! I want to see what kind of sick game Chloe is playing!" The representative started a FaceTime video call to show them the entry. They unlocked the door and pushed it open. The moment the camera panned inside, the hysterical relief on my mother's face vanished. Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out. She could only make raw, choked noises from the back of her throat. "How... how..."

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