Then everything went black.
When I woke up, there were machines. Beeping. Cold lights. The smell of antiseptic burned into my nose.
A doctor stood beside my bed.
“Good to see you awake,” he said. “I’m Dr. Chen. You’ve been here two days.”
My voice came out broken.
“Everything hurts.”
He pulled up a chair.
“You had a massive heart attack, Ms. Reynolds. A severe one. The first 24 hours were critical. We weren’t sure you’d make it.”
A heart attack.
At thirty-four.
I stared at the ceiling.
That was supposed to happen to someone else. Older. Unhealthy. Not me.
“Am I going to be okay?” I asked.
“You’ll recover,” he said carefully. “But this is a serious warning. Your body has been asking you to slow down—and you ignored it. If your coworkers hadn’t called 911 when they did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
That’s when I cried.
Quietly.
Because I realized I could’ve died on an ordinary morning… over a presentation that someone else would’ve fixed a week later.
I could’ve died without ever living in a place that was truly mine.
And worst of all…
Without knowing if my family would come.
“Doctor,” I said, my throat tight, “please call my parents. And my sister.”
He hesitated.
Just for a second.