John cried himself out for what felt like hours. Or at least to me, he cried, and cried, and cried.

  He felt thirsty, and when he looked around, he realized that there was a small plastic bottle cap filled with water at his side. The woman pushed it towards him slowly with her left hand. He had been crying so much, holding her finger, that he hadn’t noticed when she brought it up.

  “It’s from my water bottle,” she said, her voice softer now—deliberately so. “I change it every day, so it should be healthy for you to drink.”

  Even though she was trying to be gentle, the sound still rattled him. It was too much—too full, too deep, carrying a weight that pressed against his ears and settled in his chest. Each word came with a slight vibration in the air, a presence that couldn't be ignored. His shoulders tensed involuntarily, his breath catching for a brief moment. It wasn't fear exactly, but a raw reminder of just how much larger she was.

  She noticed his reaction and hesitated, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, she simply rested her hand beside him, offering no more movement, as if afraid to startle him further.

  He tried to hold her finger while he squatted to reach the water bottle, but it was a bit too heavy and awkward to handle, so he finally let it go.

  He tried to raise the cap at first, but it was too big and awkward for him to handle, his fingers slipping against the smooth plastic. Defeated, he simply cupped his hands inside and started drinking from it, bringing handfuls of water to his lips. It was clumsy, inefficient, but he drank and drank until his throat finally calmed down, the tight ache easing just a little.

  Then, suddenly, he felt his chest tighten again. A fresh wave of humiliation swelled in his throat, hotter than before, and he let out a shaky breath as his vision blurred.

  "Look at me," he muttered between sips, voice cracking. "Drinking water like a dog."

  As he lifted his head, he found her watching him. She hadn’t moved, her hand still resting beside him, fingers curled slightly as if to shield him from the world. Her expression was soft—kind, but undeniably sad. Not pitying, not mocking, just… sad.

  The weight of her gaze pressed into him, and for a moment, it was too much. Her eyes were so impossibly big, full of something he couldn’t name, something overwhelming. He tore his gaze away, looking down at the water still pooling in his hands, but the lump in his throat only grew.

  He swallowed hard, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out.

  "It would be easier if you just stepped on me. If you got me out of this misery." His voice was hoarse, flat, but not quite steady. "You wouldn’t even have to try. I’d just—" His breath hitched. He clenched his fists, pressing them against his knees.

  Silence.

  A shadow shifted over him as her hand moved, and for a moment, he tensed—was she actually going to—?

  No. The touch, when it came, was barely there. Just the faintest press of her fingertip against his shoulder, light as a breath.

  John flinched, but not out of fear. It was too gentle for that. Just warmth, solid and real, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

  "I’m sorry," she said softly. Her voice still rumbled in his chest, but the edge of it was hushed, like she was trying to keep from startling him again. "I can see it’s hard for you. But I won’t hurt you. And I won’t let anyone else hurt you either."

  The words stung.

  His shoulders shook. He lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and then—he was crying again. Eventually, his sobs grew weaker. His body, utterly exhausted, sagged against her touch until he could barely keep his eyes open. She didn’t move him at first, only waited and then, he fell asleep.

  When John finally woke, groggy and sore, the first thing he noticed was the softness beneath him. The next was the enormous walls of the shoebox around him and the scent of fabric.

  And then—he noticed something else. His skin felt cool, damp in places, the faintest trace of something clean lingering in the air. His face, which had been tight and sticky from dried tears, felt fresh. A strange sensation, as though something had touched him in his sleep. He blinked in confusion, his fingers brushing over his skin.

  Beyond the shoebox, he saw her. Watching him. Waiting.

  John's breath hitched. Now that he was waking up and had calmed down, her size felt as if out of a dream. Her face was impossibly vast, looming over him like the sky itself, her features so large they felt almost abstract—her eyes the size of windows, her lips a great curve of flesh that could swallow him whole if they parted too wide. Even in stillness, her presence pressed down on him, as if gravity itself bent toward her.

  And those eyes.

  They watched him with quiet patience, but their sheer scale made his stomach twist. Her pupils, deep and dark, reflected his entire world in miniature. He could see himself in them—a trembling, pitiful thing, dwarfed by the enormity of her gaze. There was nowhere to hide. Even if she meant no harm, even if her expression was gentle, the sheer fact of her existence bore down on him like an unspoken weight.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Are you hungry?" Her voice, though soft, still rumbled in the air around him, vibrating through the walls of the shoebox. "I have some ham here."

  She placed a piece beside him on a plate, he was startled at how carelessly massive it was—like a slab of meat laid at an altar. It was raw. His stomach clenched. He noticed that the ham had already been torn into pieces. He didn’t even have to struggle to break it apart.

  "I also passed a wet wipe over you," she added, tilting her head slightly. "You looked all sweaty. I didn’t dare put you in water while you were asleep."

  John swallowed hard. His skin still felt cool, faintly damp where she’d wiped him. His face burned with the thought of her enormous fingers passing so close, tending to him while he lay helpless and unaware.

  His gaze flickered back to the ham. His stomach ached, but still, he hesitated.

  The moment John reached for the ham, his fingers trembling with hesitation, he realized just how empty he felt. His stomach was a hollow knot, an aching void that clenched tighter at the scent of the food before him. He had been running, crying, breaking apart for so long that hunger had been buried beneath exhaustion.

  The saltiness hit his tongue first, sharp and rich, the smooth texture of the ham yielding easily between his teeth. He chewed too fast, barely registering the taste before he was swallowing, his throat working hard to get it down. His stomach cramped in protest at the sudden influx, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed another piece, stuffing it into his mouth, hardly caring how desperate he must have looked.

  It was soft, easy to tear apart, but he still ate with the frantic energy of someone who feared the meal might vanish at any moment. His fingers grew slick with the sheen of fat, his breaths coming faster between bites. The salt only made his thirst return, but he didn’t pause. Not until the edge of his hunger dulled, not until the initial storm inside him settled into something steadier, something that no longer made his hands shake with need.

  He was licking the remnants from his fingers and his palms when the air from the window brushing against him made him aware of his own skin. He couldn’t look at her. Not when he was like this. Not when her gaze—massive, weighty, inescapable—was still on him.

  A rustle. Then her voice, low and deliberate:

  “I don’t have anything your size, but… here.” She talked slowly, and as low as she could without turning her voice into a whisper.

  A shadow fell over him. He dared to glance up just in time to see her hand lowering, a fold of fabric pinched delicately between her fingers. It was soft, pale, something that must have once been part of an old shirt or maybe a pillowcase. The edges were uneven, hastily cut, but clean.

  “I wasn’t sure what would work, so I just—” She hesitated, watching his reaction. “It should be better than nothing.”

  She shifted slightly, her fingers fidgeting as she looked away. “The, uh… the pants were trickier,” she admitted. “I wasn’t sure how to sew something that small, so I… kind of cheated.”

  She reached over and picked up a small pair of makeshift pants from the desk. They were crude but functional—two pieces of fabric, cut and tied together at the sides with delicate knots. The material was soft, the same as the ruana, but loose enough to be pulled on without needing a waistband.

  “I cut the legs from the sleeve of my shirt," she explained, her voice quieter now. “And then I just tied them at the sides. I figured… you could adjust the knots if they’re too tight or loose.”

  She hesitated before adding, almost sheepishly, “I didn’t really know how else to do it.”

  He glanced up at her, at the sheer size of her looming presence. Even sitting, even motionless, she was an overwhelming force, something beyond comprehension. He felt like a specimen under a microscope, something small and fragile and entirely at her mercy.

  A shiver ran through him. Without another word, he grabbed the makeshift pants and turned his back to her as quickly as he could. His hands fumbled as he pulled one leg in, then the other, expecting discomfort—rough fabric, tight seams, something that would make this worse than it already was. But instead… It wasn't bad. The cloth was worn and soft, moving easily with him. The knots at the sides didn’t dig in or restrict his movements. If anything, it felt… oddly comfortable.

  He exhaled shakily, letting himself adjust for a moment.

  Then, cautiously, he turned back around. His heart still pounded, his body still tense, but at least now he wasn’t exposed. His arms curled around himself instinctively, as if bracing for whatever came next.

  She was watching. Not mockingly, not smugly—just watching, her massive eyes unreadable.

  As she shifted toward the bed, John felt it before he saw it.

  The air changed first—a subtle pull, like the world itself was tilting in her direction. Then came the creaking of the mattress,, the muted thud of her weight settling. Every movement carried a weight far beyond anything his body could produce, each shift of hers sending small vibrations through the surface beneath him.

  His fingers curled into the ruana as he forced himself to stay still. The rational part of his mind told him she wasn’t doing anything threatening. She wasn’t even looking at him. But the sheer scale of it—the weight of a body that could crush him without effort—was impossible to ignore.

  And then, finally, stillness.

  She leaned back, bringing her phone up, the glow of the screen casting faint light onto her face. She was absorbed in it, her attention far away, no longer looming onto him.

  John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  Her fingers movements were slow, absent swipes across the screen. The glow of it cast a faint light on her face, illuminating her features in the dim room. She wasn't looking at him, wasn't looming over him—just there, nearby, absorbed in whatever distraction her phone provided with a sad smile. It was enough to make John breathe a little easier.

  The distance helped. The silence helped.

  He pulled the ruana more securely around his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric. It smelled faintly of her—something warm and human, something oddly grounding. He let out a slow breath and lowered himself onto the soft fabric beneath him, stretching his legs out, testing the feel of it. It was... okay. Not comfortable in the way his bed had been, but softer than the raw ground, warmer than the cold air against his skin.

  He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He didn't know what she wanted from him, if she wanted anything at all. But for now, she wasn't reaching for him, wasn't staring, wasn't making him feel like some specimen under a magnifying glass.

  She just sat there, scrolling.

  It was a strange, fragile kind of peace.

  After a while, he let himself fall asleep again.

  When he woke in the middle of the night, the room was quiet, cast in soft, shifting shadows. He turned his head, and there she was.

  She was asleep.

  The dim glow from her phone, left forgotten on the sheets, bathed her face in pale light. Her chest rose and fell in steady, powerful motions, a rhythm so immense yet so unknowingly gentle. The vastness of her presence had not changed—she was still something towering, overwhelming—but like this, in sleep, she seemed… softer. Less a force of nature, more just a person.

  John swallowed, his throat dry. He didn't know what he was looking for in her expression, only that he couldn't look away. “Well today went better than expected.” He thought.