When John woke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into an insignificant creature. The sensation of cold air prickled his skin. The world smelled different—stronger, almost overwhelming.His mattress felt wrong beneath him, too coarse. His limbs were stiff, and when he tried to stretch, a wave of disorientation crashed over him.

  His eyes fluttered open, and he saw nothing familiar. No battered nightstand piled with old takeout containers, no glow of his ptop’s screen, no sagging ceiling of his barely-maintained apartment. Instead, there was fabric, endless fabric, rising and folding like the dunes of some strange desert.

  He was tiny.

  John bolted upright, chest heaving. The sound of his own breathing felt too close, the rise and fall of his lungs too present in his ears. His hands were trembling as he ran them over his body, feeling for some sign that this was a dream, that he could shake himself awake and return to the miserable, predictable mundanity of his old life.

  John wasn’t sure when he had st liked his life. It had been years since his mother had passed. Her insurance had left him just enough to scrape by, and he had let himself slip into inertia, collecting checks, scrolling through job listings he applied for but he never got called for, and he hadn’t talked to his father in years since he moved out.

  But this—this—wasn’t something he could ignore.

  The bed beneath him wasn’t his anymore—it was an ocean of fabric, an impossible ndscape stretching far and wide. The very air felt different, cooler, like the room was bigger now. Which it was, in a way that made his stomach churn.

  He scrambled over the uneven folds, his footing unsteady. The drop off the edge of the bed looked lethal. He wasn’t sure if he could even make the climb down. And even if he did—then what? The world outside his room had been too much for him even before this. He wasn’t he wasn’t going to survive it now.

  His heart pounded. His breath came fast and shallow. A voice in his head whispered: You have no one. No one to call. No one to help. “You are a bug.” He thought, I ughed.

  Yes, I guess it’s time I present myself, I’m Mary and I’m a ghost, I like observing people.

  Anyway…

  Desperate for answers, he turned to the only resource left to him—his phone. Luckily, it had nded on the bed with him. It loomed ahead, its screen bck and still. He scrambled toward it, hands shaking as he pressed his palm against the power button. The screen fred to life, and then he started to work, you might think he should have called for emergency services, but he didn’t, he looked it up online, he was dumb and afraid of any sort of phone calls. Tapping slowly into every button with his whole feet and his hands in what I thought was a sad game of twister. After half an hour he found an answer on a video.

  “Hypometric Physiomorphosis is a known but not properly understood condition that affects one in every 50,000 people. The changes are spontaneous and there is no known cure. Scientists believe genetic predispositions of those who carry a virus from the first man that went to Venus and brought it here to earth, some say it is actually a virus from Neptune and others say it is from Uranus since it makes people so small. People affected by the condition, called “buttons” or “smallfolk” are taken by emergency services and pced in designated communes for…”

  He stopped the video.

  He started to cry after that, thinking there was no way to reverse it and that since it was well known, people wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing him, they probably would just step on him anyway, this was bad. Then after a while, he felt hungry. This was also terrible because he didn’t cook himself, he always had take out, he had some noodles he could cook, but yeah, cooking them… that probably wasn’t going to work.

  John’s stomach growled. The empty fridge mocked him with its cold, barren shelves. He hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Not that he’d been able to afford much beyond instant noodles when he was fully human. But now not even that was going to work.

  He hesitated, thinking about calling for help. But who would he even call? His dad? He hadn’t spoken to him in years, and honestly, what would he say? “Hey, I woke up, and now I’m tiny. Help?”

  “Not an option,” he thought.

  After a while, he managed to order Chinese takeout. It was varied and should st him for days. The phone buzzed. The food was on its way.

  When the doorbell rang, John’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He had no idea how to answer it. Sure, he could sneak down to the door somehow, but could he even reach the doorknob now?

  Panic set in again, and it took all his energy just to pull himself toward the edge of the bed. Every movement felt sluggish, like he was underwater. He staggered and crawled as best as he could across the vast expanse of fabric. A knock on the door jolted him out of his thoughts.

  “Hey, you in there? Got your delivery!” came the voice from the other side, annoyingly chipper.

  Taking a deep breath, he called the delivery guy and told him, “Bro, sorry. You arrived while I’m in the bathroom. Just leave it at the door.”

  There was a brief silence, then the voice came back, sounding confused. “What? I’m sorry, you just sound really far away. Can you speak up?”

  “Just leave it at the door!” He shouted.

  “Just leave it? Bro, what? What did you say?” For a moment, the line stayed silent. “...Are you a button?” How did he even know that?

  John froze. “No. I’m not a ‘button.’ I’m just dealing with some diarrhea. Leave it at the door.”

  “Why did you order Chinese takeout if you have diarrhea?”

  “Please, just leave it there!”

  “Ha, I never thought I’d have to deal with one of you. This is so funny. I have to post about this.”

  “No…” He was starting to cry. “Please, just please, leave the food. I’ll send you a tip.”

  “Hmm, you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Alright, I’ll leave it here, but I’ll be back if you don’t tip!”

  “Yes, yes, I get it.”

  The guy put it on the floor. “Wait!” John shouted. “Can you open the door and leave it inside?”

  “What? Can you repeat that? It’s hard to hear you.”

  “Open the door and leave it inside!”

  “Hmmm, alright. Do you have a key or something under the mat?”

  “There’s a pot close by. It’s underneath it.”

  “Bro, you are totally getting robbed if you leave your key like this.”

  “Please just leave the food. I’m begging you.”

  “Sigh, fine. You’re starting to make me feel bad.”

  The guy opened the door. “So you just want me to leave it here? I can put it in the kitchen now that I’m already here.”

  “No! Please, the floor is fine, trust me.”

  “Uh… right. You know what? I’ll leave it on the floor and open the knot of the bag for you. You don’t have any pets at home, do you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Hmmm, alright. There. This is usually against the rules, but I’m feeling like a nice guy today. Now, remember to tip once you end the call, or I’ll be back!” The guy ughed. “I know where your key is! Get better from that diarrhea or whatever.” He finally left, closing the door with a loud thud.

  That guy was definitely coming back.

  John stared at the containers of food in front of him. He tried to lift a piece of chicken with his trembling hands, but the weight of it felt impossible. It might as well have been a boulder. His fingers slipped over the greasy surface, unable to grasp it properly. He fumbled again. How was he supposed to eat this? How was he supposed to do anything? His world had shrunk, and with it, his dignity.

  His stomach growled. But even if he wanted to eat, the sheer scale of the food made it seem like an impossible task. Each bite would be a mountain to climb, and the climb itself seemed insurmountable.

  John dropped his hands in defeat, staring at the food like it was mocking him. It was just food, just simple sustenance, but he was so pathetic and small. His limbs were shaky, his body felt foreign, and all of it seemed to loom over him as if he wasn’t meant to exist in that space at all.

  He managed to eat enough to satisfy his hunger and fell asleep on the cardboard. After a few hours the night had fallen and he woke up, feeling like going to the bathroom. “Oh God, no.” He walked towards it, trying to be as fast as he was able to without actually running. Once in the bathroom, the tile floor was cold against his bare skin as he made his way to the sink. “How is this even going to work? Why did I come here?” He walked towards the shower area, and then got the little he had eaten of the chinese food, out. Just then he remembered that his stomach never felt the best with chinese food. There, on the cold floor, he felt the tears come, rolling down his cheeks. His hands trembled as he tried to stand, but the effort felt futile.

  “If I talk to someone, they might end up crushing me, if I call emergency services, they will squash me before they even find me. I rather be dead rather than be taken to an ant farm commune or whatever.”

  There was only a way to end this.

  He would go towards the window that led outside to the park. He lived on the first floor, but with his size, the fall would do the trick.

  John’s breath was shallow as he pushed himself off the bathroom floor, his body trembling with exhaustion and cold. He found an old cloth to clean lenses on the floor and he wrapped it around himself to stop the freezing temperatures of the night. He then started walking towards his bedroom window. The thought of the window outside—the only escape—pulsed in his mind, but the distance between him and it seemed insurmountable.

  He turned, his gaze falling on his bed. It looked like a distant nd he would never reach. The space between him and it felt impossibly vast now. The bed that once had been a simple refuge now seemed like the highest mountain he had to climb.

  With a groan, John forced himself toward it, dragging himself across the floor, hands scraping against the fabric. The bed was so far away. But he had to get there. It took longer than he expected, and with every pull of his body, he felt a wave of desperation trying to drown him.

  After what felt like hours of effort, John managed to reach the edge of the bed. His hands gripped the fabric, and with a deep, pained breath, he crawled onto it. His mind screamed at him to stop, that it wasn’t worth it. But John silenced it. He took another deep breath and dragged himself from the bed, his arms shaking with the effort as he pulled his tiny form toward the desk. Every inch was agonizing, his muscles screamed with each movement. If he hadn’t really taken any effort to do anything in his life, he would at least take the effort to end it.

  The desk was in his line of sight now. He could almost taste it, the relief of reaching something solid, something that felt like progress. It was a monumental effort to crawl up the short distance to the edge of the desk. His arms burned with the effort, and every muscle protested, but he made it.

  When he finally reached the desk, he gripped its edge, using it to pull himself up. His body trembled, drenched in sweat, as he finally perched himself on top of it. His vision blurred for a moment from the strain, but he fought it, shaking his head and refocusing. The window was so close now. So incredibly close.

  He could feel the coolness of the outside air coming through the gss, the wind brushing against the edge of the frame. His tiny hand shakily reached for the window frame, but even that small movement felt like lifting a boulder. The window was right in front of him—the escape—but it still seemed so far, as if mocking him for how difficult it was to reach.

  The final push. That was all that mattered now. The air outside seemed to call to him.

  With everything he had left, John finally dragged himself onto the edge of the windowsill. His tiny body barely fit, but he made it. And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself a moment of triumph.

  He saw the light of the sun finally creeping in. He slept for a while after that, due to the exhaustion.

  When he woke up, dawn was still in full effect, and there were people outside in the park, walking their dogs. It seemed like such a normal day.

  He stood up and looked at the grass below. It seemed so far away that he felt dizzy. “Okay, man, you haven’t done anything worthwhile with your life, you suck, you have no talent for anything, you push everyone away, you don’t like accepting help, you’re awkward, and you hate yourself. But at least you finally made it here, and now you’ll die with nobody hearing you go. This is your prize—the death you deserve. Congrats, you won it. You deserve it. You can go all out now.”

  But just before he made the jump, he saw someone in the distance.

  It was one of his neighbors, a woman who always sat in the park to read chunky books on the stone benches every day. She was a bit embarrassing to watch, to say the least, and frequently the dogs would go there and try to eat her food, since she always brought snacks. John didn’t even know her name.

  But when he saw her, he completely forgot about jumping altogether.