I was born with a heart condition.
Doctors said I wouldn't live past eighteen.
When I was ten, my parents brought home a blind child, telling me she was my twin sister, Iris.
My family doted on me relentlessly, yet they were always distant and cold towards Iris.
Everyone whispered that Iris was here to give me her heart.
I tried desperately to be good to this sister who looked exactly like me, hoping to soothe the guilt gnawing at my conscience.
Finally, my eighteenth birthday arrived.
I lay on the operating table.
But what they took wasn't my heart.
It was my corneas.
I died.
Iris gained sight.

The moment the heart rate monitor shrieked, I thought my life was over. My mind flashed through countless memories, finally settling on the first time I pulled open the door and saw Iris.
The day Iris arrived, I was sipping my imported medication, curled up on the huge cashmere sofa in the living room.
The door opened, letting in a whiff of dusty countryside air.
She stood at the entrance. Dark and thin, like a wild weed.
Her clothes were old, and she clutched a worn cloth bag in her hand.
Her eyes were a hazy gray, like mine, yet completely different.
"This is your sister, Iris."
Mom said, her voice flat, not reaching out to her.
Iris said nothing, her head bowed.
I quickly realized Mom didn't seem to like this sister.
Looking at this child, who was practically my mirror image, a strange tightness gripped my chest.
From that day on, I gave her everything I had.
New dresses, imported chocolates, my favorite plush bunny.
She got the small, north-facing room, while I had the larger one.
Everyone in the family clustered around me, laughing and talking. At dinner, they always made sure the best portions were on my plate.
When it came to Iris, Mom would just say, "She can serve herself."
Her tone was so flat, so indifferent.
I knew they loved me.
It was because of my heart condition.
Not living past eighteen was my biggest secret.
When I was ten, my parents brought Iris home, claiming she was my twin sister, and she couldn't see.
They told me Iris was a gift from above.
Everyone quietly informed me that Iris existed so I could live.
I believed them.
So I tried my hardest to be good to Iris.
I wanted to make amends, to compensate for everything with all I had.
Maria, our housekeeper, once muttered behind their backs, "Miss Aubrey is the darling, Miss Iris is just a nobody."
I heard her, and I gave Iris things even more often.
One time, I held her hand, guiding her slowly through the house.
"The curtains, they're velvet."
"The vase, it's glass, cool to the touch."
I led her to touch the piano. A jarring note startled her, making her flinch, but then curiosity quickly drew her hand back to explore.
That afternoon, we sat on the carpet in my room. The sunlight was beautiful.
For some reason, I suddenly took her hand and gently placed it over my left chest.
"Iris, feel this," I smiled, "That's a heartbeat."
Her small hand was a little cool, resting there quietly.
After a moment, she took my hand and placed it on her own chest.
Thump.
Thump.
It beat steadily and strongly.
Completely unlike my own fragile heart.
I froze.
We shared the same blood, the same face, even our heartbeats echoed a similar rhythm.
But my heart was dying.
And she, who was so vibrantly alive, couldn't see a thing.
I squeezed her hand, a sudden ache gripping my heart.
That phrase, which had haunted me for years"Iris is here so I can live"
Felt like a thorn, piercing me with agonizing pain.
In that moment, my heart wavered. Was all this "goodness" I showered on her truly saving her, or was I... killing her?



My memories grew hazy, blurring into a chaotic darkness where I thought I heard voices.
"It's done."
A calm male voice, tinged with post-surgery fatigue.
"Very smooth." Another voice responded.
They were the doctors.
So... the surgery was a success! I was alive!
Iris's heart was beating in my chest.
This realization brought tears to my eyes.
But the next second, a crushing wave of guilt washed over me.
It was Iris... the one who always quietly followed me, the one with a healthy heart, who had given hers to me.
What about her? Was she alright?
I used every ounce of my consciousness to try and open my eyes, to take one last look at Iris, who must be on the operating table beside me.
But my eyelids felt like they were soldered shut, heavy and unmoving.
Only endless darkness, and the increasingly clear voices in my ears.