I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, conflicted about the social assault from Annabelle and Morgan earlier. At least I had a cozy place to think it over.
It’s one of the rare coveted single dorm rooms with its own bathroom. No roommates. Wooden desk and nightstand, a thin blue mattress on the bedframe, white walls, a classic freshman dorm setup. And I used none of it.
I actually live in a Barbie Dreamhouse I bought off Amazon, situated on the desk. With some help from maintenance, I was able to turn it into more of a Ken’s house. I won’t call it a dreamhouse, but it works. I bought a mini weight set and posters for the walls. I have a solid workstation setup, too. Apple engineered a miniaturized iPhone (miniPhone) and MacBook (MicroBook) for me (but still charged me full price). Everything else for the interior was sourced from other dollhouses on Amazon. I have a small living area with a doll-sized couch, a functional kitchenette where I can heat tiny meals, a working bathroom (thank you maintenance for setting this up), and the bedroom where I now lie, a cozy bunker shielding me from the vast, scary, unpredictable world outside.
This dollhouse is my respite. Technically, I’m a homeowner now. I have comforts. And yet, something feels missing. I know it isn't a real house. I want real things in my life, like real social connections. But that means venturing beyond these walls, facing the chaos of the world.
This comfort zone of mine allows me to process everything in silence. I’m constantly worried about what others think of me, how I come across. My therapist called it a Social Anxiety Disorder: craving acceptance and belonging but paralyzed by the fear of reaching for it.
I replay today's interactions. What’re they thinking? Do they find me cute? A toy? A weirdo? Morgan seems dismissive, her sarcasm biting. Annabelle, she is prettier, more engaging. But does she really like me, or is it like high school, where popular girls "adopted" the awkward kid for laughs or pity?
On one hand, I need friends, need to socialize. Annabelle seems eager to spend time with me. I like feeling wanted. On the other hand, they probably wouldn't have noticed normal-sized me, my head buried in my phone. I’m likely just a novelty, an oddity. Right? But it’s better than nothing. It could be practice for being social. I'll get something out of it, right?
My miniPhone buzzes, lighting up the dim dollhouse interior with a soft glow. A text from +1(815) 184-1941. My heart skips a beat. It has to be her. I open it:
"Hey James :) I had soooo much fun getting to know you today!!! Morgan too! You should come to Clapp Library tomorrow evening and study with us! Top floor, back left!"
Again? My social battery is drained; I was planning on studying alone in the library tonight. I don’t want anything to derail my focus. But what will they think if I say no?
I distract myself with a couple of hours of writing about Nikita Khrushchev for my Cold War class, the MicroBook's screen illuminating my tiny plastic desk. But the text lingers, unanswered. Am I making it worse by delaying? Or does she not care?
Grades come first. She probably sees me as a toy anyway. I can't let them distract me. My social anxiety wins, and I reply:
"Hey thanks for the invite! So sorry, I have this tough paper to work on so I'll be in my dorm but maybe another time!"
Perfect. I hit send. Situation avoided.
She replies an hour later:
"Aww :( No worries! When can we study together?"
She’s persistent. I wasn't expecting another offer. I thought that would end it. I push off replying. People are busy, right? She'd understand.
—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---
A few hours pass and I start to feel a little cooped up. The dollhouse is good, sure, but sometimes I like to stretch my legs and get a change of scenery, so I head to Clapp Library to tackle the rest of my Cold War paper.
I beeline for my usual spot on U-Level, the hardcore underground study zone. Unlike the lively Levels 1 through 3, with their cafe chatter and communal tables, U-Level is a windowless sanctuary of focus, lined with individual reading cubicles. I don’t need a full cubicle, so I claim a little nook in a shelf deep in a row of books, nestled among old psychology textbooks. My perch is atop Theoretical Psychology, 4th Edition by Dr. Jacob Jenson, 1985. The soft pages offer a cozy platform for my miniPhone, MicroBook, water bottle, and laptop. I’ve never seen another human being walk through here. It’s an introvert’s dream study space.
I dissect the Cuban Missile Crisis, fingers flying over my MicroBook, when a petite blonde silhouette flickers in my peripheral vision. I shrug it off. U-Level visitors are usually as antisocial as I am. But the figure sharpens, and my stomach lurches. Annabelle? No way. She isn’t the type to be in a dungeon like this. The student athletes congregate upstairs and seemingly get no work done. She said they’d be upstairs, top floor.
Our eyes lock. Caught. My worst nightmare. I lied and she’s caught me.
“Well, hello there!” she whispers, her voice a playful tease. She leans in, hands planted on the shelf, rising on tiptoes to peer at me. Her library outfit is effortlessly captivating: loose gray sweatpants slung low on her hips, revealing a sliver of toned midriff; a navy Wellesley track sweatshirt that hugs her gentle curves, flip-flops exposing slender feet with red painted toes. Her blonde ponytail swishes and her eyes sparkle with mischief.
I yank off my noise-canceling Bose headphones, cheeks burning. “Uh, I get tired of my dorm sometimes and upstairs was too crowded, so I–”
“What a cozy little nook!” she says, inspecting my setup. Nobody comes back here, you nerd.”
She rests her chin on the shelf, her gorgeous features filling my vision. “I need the book you’re on. For my thesis.”
I’m stunned. I misjudged her. Guilt stings for assuming she’s some student athlete who coasts academically. “Sorry, I’ll move,” I mumble, scrambling to pack my laptop, headphones, and bottle.
“No, don’t go! Let’s study together!” Her eyes flash with delight. Before I can protest, she skips off to grab her things from upstairs. Panic surges. My social battery is drained, and now I’m trapped in a “study date” I dodged. I type frantically about JFK’s Soviet maneuvers, desperate to make progress before this forced socializing kills my productivity. I am ahead of schedule, but inefficiency gnaws at me. Still, I tell myself, socializing is a muscle I need to flex, even if it feels like bench pressing with no spotter.
Annabelle returns, her black Adidas track backpack slung over one shoulder, a white Stanley mug clipped to the side. “OK, up we go!” she chirps, scooping up the open book, with me still atop it, sending me sliding toward its center. I clutch my gear, praying nothing tumbles off. She carries the book in both hands, striding deeper into the library to a secluded, forgotten mahogany cubicle. No one is around; the administration might not even know this corner exists. She sets the book down gently, my tiny form still perched on its pages, and unpacks her laptop, mug, and notebook. I mirror her, spreading out my mini setup, half-hoping for silence, but her presence crackles like a live wire.
“So,” she says, stacking her hands on the desk and leaning over me, her figure towering like Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. Her gaze bores into me with an intensity that feels both caring and predatory. “You were so nervous at the cafeteria, then dodged studying with us. Why?”
I want to hide behind my paper excuse, but her piercing gaze strips away my defenses. “I’m, look, I’m just a reserved guy, sometimes anxious, that’s all.”
Annabelle raises an eyebrow. “And?”
How does she know there is more? She’s peering into my soul. I’m scared to open up…but I do it anyway.
“And I don’t really belong here. The Dean was kind, but I just need to get my degree and move on. Hopefully, the scientists figure out a cure to make me normal again before then.”
“You do belong, James,” she says firmly. “You’re so brave for doing this. I couldn’t imagine it. Even with a…social anxiety disorder.”
Why did she just use that phrase? I don’t talk about this stuff with anyone other than my therapist. “How do you,” I start, but she flips open her notebook, pointing to meticulously handwritten notes on anxiety disorders. “You fit it to the letter. I’m a psych major. I know. It’s OK.”
My face burns, a wave of exposure crashing over me. She sees the messy, hidden parts of me, fears I’ve never voiced to anyone. I feel exposed. Naked, seen. I feel my anxiety spiraling. I want to run. To hide. To get away. My breathing becomes rapid and shallow. I think I’m about to have an anxiety attack.
“Hey, it’s OK,” she soothes, brushing my hair back with a gentle finger, her touch grounding me like an anchor. “It’s ok, don’t worry. You’re ok. You’re fine. You know, you’re not the only one dealing with stuff…”
I’m not sure what magic spell she was casting, but it halted my spiraling. She loosens her ponytail, letting her blonde waves spill over her shoulders, and leans closer, her rose perfume enveloping me in an invisible swirl. She flips her notebook to a page titled “Depression.” “There’s no cure yet,” she says, tapping the page. “Therapists can provide coping mechanisms, but no true solution. I’m going to figure it out.” She points to the book beneath me. “Jenson was onto something with his new approach in the ‘80s, but Reagan-era cuts to the National Institute of Health killed his research.”
Her passion is magnetic, her depth shattering my assumptions about her. “You’re depressed?” I ask. “You don’t seem like it.”
She laughs softly, a melodic sound. “It comes and goes. I’m good at keeping up appearances. But it sucks not having control of myself sometimes. Track and academics own most of my life, and then my mind betrays me. I need some control…over something…” Her beautiful eyes lock onto mine. She cups her hands around me, creating a gentle enclosure, her presence both overwhelming and comforting. She pauses for a moment and looks me up and down intensely.
“I have to be brave like you,” she adds, clapping her hands together giddily, breaking the tension. I blush, trying to deflect. “Well, the gym helps with being strong.”
She grins, refusing to let me sidestep. “Strength isn’t just physical. But since you mention it.” She extends a finger like a pull-up bar. “How long can you hang for?”
I used to practice this back when I was normal-sized. “Maybe two minutes?” I say, unsure. “Prove it.”
It feels cheesy, even cringeworthy, to try impressing her physically, but a part of me wants to play along, to show I can keep up. I grab her finger, and she lifts me skyward. Fear grips me as the ground falls away. I hated heights even at my normal size! “ANNABELLE, WHAT–” I yell.
“It’s OK,” she murmurs, gently settling me on her shoulder, my feet resting against her sweatshirt on her prominent collarbone. From this intimate vantage point, I can see her blonde hair draped behind her ear like a golden curtain, her jawline defined but soft, and a side profile that belongs in a modeling magazine. Her perfume scent is even stronger now. “Let’s read a little together. You might find it interesting.”
We read in silence for a few minutes. I can hear her gentle breaths and feel her body heat radiating through her sweatshirt. She leans to take notes, her movements gentle but dizzying, but I manage to cling. She glances at me from the corner of her eye, her gaze both protective and possessive. “Do you think depression will stop you from going pro in track?” I ask.
She chuckles. “I’m not going pro. We’re D3. Track’s not my passion anymore, just social, and it helps with depression actually. It was my life in high school, but I’ve realized there’s more out there. I do it for the perks,” she says, gesturing to her Adidas bag. “My research is my passion.”
“That’s incredible,” I say, genuinely. “You clearly have the drive to make a real difference.”
Hours melt away, 10 p.m., then 11, our conversation flowing effortlessly. We bare our souls: our passions, our challenges, our fears, our hopes. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice soft and sincere. “It’s refreshing to have a guy ask real questions and listen. Usually, it’s just ‘where are you from?’ or ‘what’s your mile time?’ or ‘what’s your number? Not to sound stuck-up.”
I hesitate, nerves tingling. Complimenting her feels risky, what if it breaks this fragile connection? But her openness disarms me; she isn’t judging. Could she be a friend? “I can see that,” I say cautiously.
“Oh yeah?” She rests her head in her palm, turning to look at me expectantly, a playful trap set. I walk right into it.
“Yeah, I mean, you’re gorgeous, so.”
Her mouth drops in mock shock. “Oh my gosh, thank you! And you, mister, are one handsome guy. And so strong, holding onto my finger all the way up here!”
“Well–”
“And smart! The Cold War? Tell me about it.”
“It’s the Cuban Missile Crisis,” I say, energized by a topic I knew a lot about. “It led to the U.S. pulling missiles from Turkey.”
“I never knew that. You should be a history professor!”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing. “I’ve always loved the past.”
“See? We’re learning so much! Depression, the Cold War.” She pauses, her eyes softening. “And we learned you belong here, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I’ll try to be brave.”
“Good. There’s no reason to be scared. I know it’s a big scary world for you and that can handle yourself, but...” She brings her hand to her shoulder, offering a platform. I step on. “I’ll protect you, too.” She lifts me gently to her face, her minty breath washing over me.
“You’re safe with me,” she whispers, her face inching closer. Her lips, glossy crimson, four feet wide from my perspective, loom like a soft, inviting horizon. I lean in. Her eyes flutter closed, and I close mine.
Her lips meet me, a soft, moist, warm impact that envelops my entire body, arms, chest, neck, and waist, in a tender, loving caress. It’s just a peck, but her touch, her affection is intoxicating, a gentle giantess kiss that sends shivers through me. She pulls back slightly, her narrow green eyes half-lidded, probably checking to ensure I’m ok. I’m grinning like an idiot, and she mirrors my smile, a silent chuckle sending a balmy gust from her nostrils across my face. She leans in again, faster this time, her lips pressing deeper, tilting at a slight angle for a full ten seconds of blissful connection. A low “mmmmm” rumbles from her throat, vibrating through me. Her fingers curl upward, forming a soft, supportive wall behind me, and she presses me against it with her lips, the force surprising. We’re truly making out now, and I focus on her bottom lip, its velvety texture enthralling. Her steamy heat coats my legs, arms, and chest, then engulfs my face in a loud, smushing, squelching kiss that fills my ears with its wet intensity. I feel a strong tingling in my lower stomach and thighs, the arousal like nothing I’ve ever experienced. For a moment, I open my eyes, and my vision is consumed by her modelesque features. I am utterly under her control, ensnared in her dominion, cradled by her hands and lips. She pauses, then dives in for one final kiss, and I feel something even hotter and wetter than her lips graze the size of my head, leaving it covered in saliva. Oh my gosh, was that her tongue?
I’m dizzy, drunk on the moment. “See? I can’t believe you turned down a study date, James. Let’s see each other again soon, hmm?” she purrs.
I nod, unable to form words, my heart racing. She saw the real me, and seemed to accept it. God, it feels good, like something real, maybe more than just something. “I have a track meet tomorrow, so I need to go to bed,” she adds.
“Good luck! You’ll do awesome Annabelle,” I manage.
“Text me when you get back, James.”
—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---—---
That evening, I climb up the stairs in my dollhouse on the dresser. Annabelle lingers in my mind. No woman has ever kissed me like that. Her lips kissed nearly my whole body. Her touch was special. And her rose perfume, her hair, her figure, and the way I felt protected and safe in her hands. I shoot her a text:
“Made it back in one piece. Sorry for boring you with the USSR stuff.”
In my tiny bathroom, the makeshift shower sputters. I slip into bed, the dollhouse’s plastic nightstand shadowed in the dim glow of a lamp. Unlike last time, when I dreaded a text from her, now I crave it. Will she text back? Is she thinking of me? Can I see her again? My miniPhone buzzes, lighting up the cozy interior:
“I enjoyed every second of it, James. Get some rest. You’ve got to rest that brain to finish that essay tomorrow. Talk soon :)”
I reply:
“Sounds good! Good luck at track”
Her words summon her scent, her warmth, her spell in that library cubicle. I drift off easier than I’ve in weeks.
Morning comes. I rise, and my anxiety with it. I want her to reply, to confirm she wants me. I sent the last message. Double-texting feels desperate, right? Do normal people without social anxiety obsess like this? She’s my only “friend” at Wellesley, maybe ever. In two days, we hit a raw intimacy, emotional, intellectual, that would probably take other people months. Yet even after last night, I still worry: what if I’m just a toy to her, a fleeting amusement? We opened up to each other, but would this have happened if I were regular size? Is she just opening up to me because she knows I’ve no friends? That I’m this shrunken novelty, this nobody, so who cares? It seems like she does, but I’m torn. I want a guarantee, but I know when it comes to people and relationships, there’re no guarantees. Am I just a toy in her story?
I distract myself with my Cold War paper, Professor Pastman’s critical eye in mind. At my dollhouse desk, I lose myself in Khrushchev’s gambits, the plastic chair creaking under my weight. Hours later, I surface and check my phone. No text from Annabelle. Oh no, I think to myself. Does this mean she doesn’t want to see me again?
The day drags on. I lift my mini weights. I have to stay strong in case a bird or rat sees me and starts salivating. As I lift, I think back to the previous week where a pigeon tried to grab me off the ground, but I was just able to punch and thrash enough for it to get away. If only Annabelle had been there. She’d have protected me.
Later that day, in Economic History of Latin America, I perch on a textbook in the Knapp Center’s lecture hall, a stadium from my perspective. My Public Policymaking seminar follows, the adjacent smaller classroom still a colossus to me. For lunch, I stay behind and eat a few pieces of Magic Spoon protein cereal. I’m not going to attempt to navigate the cafeteria’s chaos alone.
My phone buzzes. Finally, is it her? No, just an email from the Science Center. The unshrinking machine they’re developing faces “delays.” Great. It was already delayed. The delay is delayed? My mind snaps back to Annabelle. How long is a track meet? Am I crazy for fixating on this? Can I even be sane at this size?
Approaches to International Law drones on for 90 minutes, legal minutiae numbing my brain. How do people enjoy this? I check my phone again. Still no text.
Then I head to Clapp Library, finding my nook on the shelf and spreading my stuff on a copy of Advanced Zebra Biology, Part II (1892), its coarse, yellowed pages less cozy than the book Annabelle took. I half-hope she’ll find me here, interrupt my solitude, a first for me. I want her to want me.
But to be open, vulnerable, and then tossed aside… I’d hate for it to mean nothing. Come on, Annabelle. You know I’m not a toy or a pet. Right? Morgan thinks so. That’s how I’d assume most giant girls would see me. So why would Annabelle be any different?
Maybe she’s bragging to her track friends or sorority sisters about making out with the tiny guy. “I pretended to like him! It was so funny! He’s just this anxious little weirdo who studies useless stuff,” I imagine her saying. The thought is torture. My walls, my ramparts, exist for a reason, especially now, so small and vulnerable. I failed myself, let her in too fast.
I check my phone one more time. 10:37pm. A full day passes. Nothing. At least if I go to bed, I won’t have to be awake ruminating about all this.
10:38 p.m., my phone buzzes. My heart flutters, elation, then dread. Is it that text you get after a first date that’s not as serious as a breakup text but goes like, “last night was fun, but I’m not looking for anything serious right now?”
I open it:
“Hey, hope you had a great day! Just finishing
up the track meet. Are you around tomorrow?”
Relief floods me. I throw myself back on my bed. This means I’m not nothing to her. Not wanting to seem desperate, I plan to reply in the morning. The weight off my shoulders is enough to lull me to sleep.
First thing in the morning, I reply:
“Yeah, probably! What’s on your mind?”
Her response is instant:
“Come to the track to run with Morgan at 9 tonight!”
I hesitate:
“Doesn’t Keohane Sports Center close at 9, though?”
Another rapid response from Annabelle.
“Yes, but I work there part-time and close up, so Morgan and I usually have the place to ourselves after everyone leaves. Don’t worry, nobody’ll step on you. The track’ll be mostly empty. I’ll keep you safe, my little guy ;).”
I think I trust her. I reply:
“Looking forward to it!”
Another text pops up, a group chat with me, Annabelle, and Morgan:
“Laps at 9! See you guys then.”
Morgan replies:
“Uhh, what’s your mile time, James? 5 hours?”
Annabelle shoots back:
“Omg, so mean! He’s probably really fast!”
Morgan responds by “disliking” the message. Morgan’s jabs still sting, but less with Annabelle’s defense.
I’m looking forward to seeing Annabelle again, but it’s weird. Keohane closes at 9, people are herded out by 8:45. Am I allowed there? I’ve always played by the rules; the thought of breaking them makes me worry. I heard about a few kids who snuck into the Davis Museum and Cultural Center once and they were expelled! If Wellesley kicks me out, no other school’ll take a 4-inch student. Staying in the administration’s good graces, and by extension, the Science Center’s, is my only shot at normalcy. But Annabelle says I’ll be OK. My desire for her, for her connection, for her body, just edges out my fear.