The One You Sacrificed First

During a get-together, my younger sister suggested we play that viral whiteboard compatibility game. The first prompt: "Who has the hardest time getting out of bed in the morning?" My boyfriend, my childhood best friend, and my sister flipped their mini dry-erase boards simultaneously. Every single one had my name written across it in bold, neat strokes: "Iris." I couldn't help but chuckle. It was true—I was a notoriously heavy sleeper. The second prompt: "Who is the biggest hypocrite?" Again, it was me. Owen, my childhood friend, said, "Iris is addicted to playing the martyr." Larry, my boyfriend, chimed in, "Yeah, she never stops acting." And Chloe, my sister, wrinkled her nose. "My sister is totally fake." The smile froze on my face. Then came the third prompt: "If you were stranded on a deserted island, who would you sacrifice first so the rest could survive?" Three people. Three whiteboards. Still my name. Owen said, "Iris is the most sensible. She'd understand." Larry said, "She wouldn't hold it against us." Chloe curled her upper lip in disdain. "She eats the most. Obviously, we ditch her first." In that fraction of a second, an old memory hit me like a physical blow. Years ago, when a grease fire broke out in our kitchen, they had reacted the exact same way. Larry and Owen grabbed Chloe by the hands, rushing her out the front door into the fresh air. I was the only one left behind in the smoke, tripping over the threshold, choking alone on the floor. That night, when the game ended, I quietly wrote myself out of their lives forever. … The party carried on. No one noticed that in my corner of the booth, the smile had long vanished from my face. Chloe leaned across the table toward Owen, laughing mockingly. "Don't let her beanpole frame fool you—she's eaten like a horse since we were kids. An entire mixing bowl of rice in one sitting, I swear." Someone across the room piped up, "Seriously? She doesn't look it." "A mixing bowl? How big are we talking?" Chloe held her hands out, forming a wide circle. "Like one of those giant stainless steel dog bowls." The room erupted into laughter. Larry nodded in amusement. "Oh, absolutely. Back then, watching her shovel food down, I was genuinely scared she'd choke to death." Owen piled on without missing a beat. "That's why we used to call her 'The Human Disposal.'" Another wave of collective amusement washed over the table. Sitting in the dim corner, my fingers tightened around a chilled can of soda until the thin aluminum buckled inward with a sharp pop. Nobody asked why I wasn't laughing. They didn't know. They didn't know that the only reason I gorged myself on plain rice as a child was because every single piece of good food was placed directly in front of Chloe. The chicken drumsticks, the pork chops, even the savory bits left in the pan—they were all reserved for her. I wasn't allowed the juice boxes or the snacks in the pantry. Going through puberty, starving and hollow-bellied, I had no choice but to choke down mouthful after mouthful of dry white rice just to stop my stomach from cramping. And now, they turned my hunger into a party punchline. Someone tossed out the next question. "If the world was ending and you could only save one person, who would you choose?" Urged by the people around me, I picked up the black dry-erase marker. On the count of three, all four of us turned our boards around. Larry and Owen had both written: "Chloe." Chloe had written: "Larry." And on my board, squeezed tightly across the white surface, were three names: "Larry, Chloe, Owen." Beneath them, in smaller, hurried lettering, was a single line: "I hope the four of us never part." My handwriting was shaky and uneven; I had scribbled as fast as I could, terrified I wouldn't have enough time to include every single one of them. Yet on the three boards facing me, not one bore my name. My eyes burned as I stared at the plastic panels. Before I could say a word, Chloe slammed her board onto the table. "Iris, can you not follow simple instructions? The prompt said "one" person! What's with writing all three of us? Trying to show off how saintly you are?" Larry immediately reached over, covering Chloe's hand with his own before turning a glare on me. "Can't you just respect the rules for once? Do you really have to play the selfless martyr every damn time?" I parted my lips to explain. I wasn't performing. All three of them truly mattered to me. Owen clicked his tongue in disgust and shifted closer to Chloe's side. "What did I say? Iris is an actress. Addicted to her own drama." "Whatever, forget her. Let's play something else," Chloe dismissed with a flick of her wrist. The three of them turned away, instantly folding back into the chatter of the wider group. Chloe laughed so hard she rested her head on Owen's shoulder, while Larry reached over to brush a stray drop of soda from the corner of her lip. Not one of them looked in my direction. It was as if I didn't exist in the room at all. I looked down at the board in my lap. The ink on the bottom line was barely dry. "I hope the four of us never part." What an absolute joke. Just like me. A hot, stinging pressure built behind my eyelids. I set the board down on the table, slipped out of the booth, and walked out into the corridor. The heavy door swung shut, sealing the laughter behind me. I made my way to the restroom, locked myself inside a stall, and sank to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest, I broke down. No sound escaped. The sob remained wedged in my throat, suffocating and tight. I bit down on the sleeve of my cardigan, my shoulders jerking with silent, violent shudders. I had lost the ability to cry out loud years ago. When we were children, Chloe once snatched my favorite ragdoll. I chased her out to the balcony, where she tripped on the rug and scraped her knee. Her screams pierced the entire apartment complex. Our parents came running, one scooping her up, the other cooing sweet reassurances. Terrified, I started crying too. Larry had walked up and shoved me hard. "Why are you crying? Stop being so annoying." Owen had knelt beside Chloe, gently blowing on her scrape. "Seriously. Shut up, Iris. You're giving me a headache." I had stood there with tears dripping down my chin, forcing myself to swallow the sobs whole until my ribs ached. That was the day I learned: when Chloe cried, it was a plea for love, an endearing proof of vulnerability that demanded comfort. When I cried, it was merely noise—a burden that made people hate me more. From then on, I only ever cried under the covers at midnight or behind locked bathroom doors. I learned to fall apart in absolute silence, compose my face, and emerge with a gentle smile for everyone else. The screen of my phone lit up and faded, over and over. No texts. No missed calls. I refreshed the screen again and again, but the notification bar remained blank. I don't know how much time passed before the ambient noise outside faded away. When I finally pushed the stall door open, the bright fluorescent bathroom light was still buzzing, but the hallway outside was dimmed to half-power. Empty. Not a soul in sight. The lounge had closed for the night, and not once had anyone come looking for me. Standing in the desolate hallway, I let out a soft, dry laugh. The laugh broke into tears. For years, I had comforted myself with excuses—maybe they were just careless, maybe they just forgot, maybe next time would be different. Tonight, the fog cleared completely. It wasn't carelessness. They simply never saw me at all. ... It was three in the morning when I finally walked through my front door. In the entryway, three pairs of shoes sat clustered together: my parents' neat loafers and Chloe's sneakers tossed casually to the side. Mine were nowhere to be found, probably kicked under a cabinet. I walked in barefoot. The apartment was dead quiet, utterly indifferent to whether I had come home or vanished off the face of the earth. I washed up quietly and crawled into bed. But the second I closed my eyes, the scene from the private booth replayed behind my eyelids. Every word, every mocking chuckle, dragged across my nerves like a rusted blade. Chloe, Larry, Owen, and I had grown up side by side. Over twenty years. I had always believed we were an inseparable family, the closest of friends. It took until tonight to realize that in this tangled four-person dynamic, I was the only one desperately trying to hold on. Back in elementary school, neither Chloe nor I knew how to ride a bike. Every morning, Larry and Owen took turns carrying Chloe on their back pegs. I was left to jog behind them, breathing in the dust kicked up by their tires. I ran behind them like that for three whole years. Eventually, our parents bought me a secondhand bicycle. The paint was peeling and the bell was broken, but I was so ecstatic I couldn't sleep that night. I thought I finally didn't have to chase after them anymore. The very next morning, Chloe's eyes rimmed with red. "Iris knows how to ride now. Why won't she give me a ride?" With that single sentence, Larry's face darkened. "Iris, why are you so selfish?" Owen frowned deeply. "Chloe's your little sister." Nobody asked me if my lungs burned after three years of sprinting behind their wheels. So Chloe took up residence on my back seat. That clunky, rusted bike, carrying the weight of two growing girls, was heavier to pedal than running had ever been. In the sweltering heat of summer, my shirt would be soaked through with sweat. Chloe would complain that I smelled gross. In the biting dead of winter, the northern wind slashed against my skin, covering my knuckles in raw, aching chilblains. Rain or shine, I never missed a single day. Every morning, she sat securely behind me while I pedaled with everything I had. The moment we reached the school gates, she would leap off and sprint toward Larry and Owen. They would walk in together, chatting and laughing. Not once did any of them look back to see if I was catching my breath. In high school, Larry was diagnosed with chronic gastritis. The doctor strictly warned him to eat regular, gentle meals, but he always found it too much of a hassle. So, starting at five every morning, I snuck out of bed to simmer fresh oatmeal and warm broth for him. Because I had been in love with him for as long as I could remember. Once, during a torrential downpour, my bike slipped on a slick patch of road and crashed into a flooded ditch. Both my knees were torn open, bleeding profusely. But I didn't care about the pain. I clutched the insulated thermos against my chest, limped to school, and handed it to Larry the moment I walked into the classroom. Larry had merely frowned at his desk. "Why are you so late today?" Not a single word of concern for my soaked clothes or bloody knees. Instead, he grumbled, "You always have to make everything into such a dramatic ordeal." After college, Owen launched his startup. Nobody believed in his vision. I was the only one who sat beside him until four in the morning, reworking his pitch decks. When he had client meetings, I built his presentations from scratch. When he couldn't handle his alcohol at networking dinners, I stepped in and drank for him until I ended up hospitalized with an acute stomach bleed. The night his first major contract went through, they threw a massive launch dinner. Owen raised his glass high, thanking the investors, the partners, and Larry for standing by him through thick and thin. I sat near the front, catching his eye with a proud, tired smile, waiting for the wrap-up—waiting for the mention I had earned with my own health. Instead, his gaze slid right past me, cold and indifferent, and landed on my sister. "And a special thanks to Chloe, for always being on the other end of the phone to chat whenever I felt overwhelmed." The room erupted into thunderous applause. It was as if I had never bled for a single inch of his company. They remembered every shred of each other's kindness. But no one cared what I liked. No one cared what I wanted. ... The next morning, I went into the office on autopilot, my head throbbing with a dull, persistent haze. In the middle of reviewing a spreadsheet, my phone buzzed violently. "Larry." I stared at the name on the screen, frozen for two seconds. Had he finally realized? Was he calling to check on me? To make things right? The tight knot in my chest loosened just a fraction. Taking a slow, measured breath, I swiped to answer. "Iris, do you have a single shred of empathy in you?" The fury in his voice hit my ear like an explosion. "Chloe drank too much last night and her stomach flared up! She was up crying in pain all night! And you just waltz off to work like nothing happened? Are you even her sister?" I struggled to find my voice. "I... I didn't know her stomach was hurting..." "You didn't know? Are you blind? Did you not see how much she was drinking last night?" Larry's words rained down on me, merciless and sharp. "She mentioned she wasn't feeling well before you left, and you just took off without a backward glance?" My fingers clamped around the phone, the knuckles turning paper-white. "Get your ass back here right now," Larry barked. "Chloe's been throwing up all morning. She can't even keep water down. She's miserable. Get back here and take care of her." My mind spun in a vacuum. "I have a presentation due this afternoon—" "Is your presentation more important than your own sister? Iris, go home and look after Chloe. I have a meeting. Bye." The line went dead. The harsh drone of the dial tone pierced straight through my skull. I sat at my desk, my ears ringing with white noise. Then the phone buzzed again. "Owen." The exact same accusations. The exact same scolding tone, followed by the abrupt click of a disconnected call. I stared at the blackened screen, my throat closing up so tightly I could barely draw breath. A coworker leaned over the partition, asking softly, "Iris, are you okay? You look like a ghost." I blinked hard, forcing the burning sensation down into the pit of my stomach. "I'm fine. Just... a family emergency. I need to take a half-day." Just like countless times before, I stopped by the pharmacy to buy antacids, heating patches, and a mild electrolyte solution, then detoured four blocks to pick up the gentle pumpkin soup Chloe liked best. When I rushed into the apartment, Chloe was curled into a tight ball on the sofa, whimpering. Like so many nights in our past, I rubbed her back while she heaved, wiped down the bathroom floor, and sat by her bed with a warm washcloth, terrified to step away. At three in the morning, she finally fluttered her eyes open and murmured softly, "Iris, you're the best." Just four words. And like a fool, that tiny crumb of affection seemed to smooth over all the raw bruises in my chest. My nose stung. I told myself that maybe what happened at the party wasn't that big of a deal. Chloe was just immature. Larry and Owen were just thoughtless with their words. Deep down, they still cared about me. I even began to turn the blame inward. "Was I being too sensitive? They grew up with me. How could they not love me?" When I woke up the following morning, Chloe was gone. Just as I pulled out my phone to dial her number, our mother walked through the front door with groceries. "Mom, where's Chloe?" "Oh, she went on a road trip with Larry and Owen," Mom replied casually. I froze. "Where?" "Big Sur. They planned it a while ago. They said Chloe's been stressed with finals, so they took some PTO to take her for a weekend getaway." A violent shudder went through my fingertips. The name hit my chest like a lead weight. Six months ago, I had stumbled across a travel feature on Big Sur. I had excitedly brought my phone to Larry, showing him the cliffside ocean views. "When can we go together?" He hadn't even looked up from his tablet. "Don't have time." I asked him three more times over the following months, and every time the answer was the same: too busy, no time, impossible. I had genuinely believed he had no time. It turned out he just had no time for "me." I stood rooted to the hardwood floor, motionless for a long time. The apartment settled back into its suffocating quiet. On the coffee table lay the empty medicine boxes I hadn't had time to throw away. In the kitchen, the pot of pumpkin soup I had made from scratch was still half-full on the stove. I had stayed up all night nursing her. When they packed their bags and walked out the door, nobody woke me. Nobody even thought to send a text. Slowly, I unlocked my phone. At the very top of my social feed was Chloe's latest post, uploaded ten minutes prior. A carousel of photos: misty coastal cliffs, towering redwoods, artisanal coffee, and a shot of the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder on an overlook. Chloe was nestled right in the center, flanked by Larry and Owen, beaming radiantly. Her caption read: "Nothing beats traveling with my favorite people in the world." I stared at the screen for an agonizingly long time. My vision blurred into a smear of gray and green. They stayed along the coast for an entire week. Every single day, my feed was inundated with their updates. Chloe riding on Larry's shoulders making peace signs while Owen held her ankles, laughing up at her; Chloe tracing letters in the sand while Larry and Owen squatted on either side, framing their three names inside a giant heart. In the past, whenever they posted anything, I was always the first to leave a like and a supportive comment. It was my pathetic way of pretending that if I cheered loud enough from the sidelines, I hadn't truly been left behind. This time, my thumb hovered over the glass screen for minutes on end, yet I couldn't bring myself to tap the heart. I knew that all it took was a single comment—a bright, breezy line pretending nothing was wrong—to keep the fragile illusion intact. They would assume everything was just as it had always been. Instead, I pressed the lock button and set the dark phone down on the counter. ... A week later, I dragged my exhausted body home from overtime. The moment I stepped into the entryway, I saw their muddy hiking boots and Chloe's canvas shoes. They were back. This was supposed to be my home. Yet in that split second, an overwhelming urge to turn and run seized my throat. I stood frozen by the front door for five full minutes, until their voices drifted clearly from the living room. "What is my sister's problem lately?" Chloe's voice was sharp with annoyance. "I posted dozens of stories and photos, and she didn't react to a single one. What, is she sulking because we didn't invite her?" Owen let out a dry sneer. "Let her pout. She'll come crawling back in a couple of days anyway. She always does." "Exactly," Larry agreed smoothly. "Her whole life, the more you ignore her, the harder she tries to please us. Just ice her out for a few days." Chloe giggled. "Do you guys think Iris has, like, a textbook people-pleaser complex? Pressing her warm face against a cold ass for fifteen years straight without getting tired of it." Owen chuckled. "Hey, if she enjoys being our unpaid maid, who are we to complain? Works out great for us." "Shh, keep it down, what if she walks in?" Chloe said, though her tone was dripping with amusement. "Not that it matters. Even if she hears, what's she gonna do? Throw a silent fit for two days and come right back." I stood in the entryway, the leather strap of my purse cutting into my white, trembling knuckles. Without a sound, I shoved the living room door open. The three people on the couch turned to look at me in unison. Chloe was sprawled out horizontally, her head resting in Larry's lap, her bare feet draped casually across Owen's knees. The coffee table was littered with takeout containers, three sets of takeout chopsticks, and three boba cups. Chloe was the first to offer a breezy smile. "Oh, you're back, Iris? We were literally just talking about you." I didn't look at her. My eyes were locked entirely on Larry. Noticing my bloodless face, his brows pinched slightly together. "Larry," I said, using his full name for the first time in years. "Do you actually love me?" Nobody expected me to ask that, let alone with everyone present. Owen rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. "Iris, we just drove six hours back and we're exhausted. Can you not start—" "Did I ask you?" I snapped, my voice ringing out louder and sharper than it ever had in my life. All three of them visibly flinched. Larry finally pushed Chloe off his lap and stood up. "Let's take this outside." "No. We're doing this right here," I said, my vision swimming behind burning tears as I held his gaze. "Larry. Do you love me? Yes or no." He lowered his head, a heavy silence hanging between us for several seconds before he muttered, "Of course I do." "What do you love about me?" His mouth opened, but no sound came out. "Do you know my favorite food?" "Do you know what I'm allergic to?" "Do you even know what day my birthday is?" He went completely, utterly silent. "You don't know a single one," I said, my voice shaking under the weight of years of swallowed pain. "But I know you can't stand cilantro. I know you freeze in the winter. I know you can't touch ice water because of your ulcers. I memorized every single detail about you. And you couldn't be bothered to retain a single thing I ever told you." "Iris..." "Don't call my name," I cut him off. His brow furrowed deeper, irritation bleeding into his tone. "Are you really going to make a scene over this? Just because we didn't bring you on one weekend trip? Is that worth blowing up like this?" "This has nothing to do with the damn trip!" The scream tore from my throat, cracking with absolute heartbreak. "It's because you have "never" seen me! Not once! In every situation, with every single choice, Chloe comes first. What the hell was I to you all these years?" On the couch, Chloe crossed her legs, looking entirely unfazed. If anything, a smug, untouchable superiority gleamed in her eyes. Larry dragged a hand down his face, letting out a heavy breath. "I love you, okay? I really do. Stop acting crazy." A hollow laugh slipped past my lips. "Well, I don't love you anymore." I looked right into his eyes. "We're done, Larry. We're over."