Colossal

I wake up taller than I was yesterday. I know because both my feet hang over the edge of my bed. I know because all my shirts are too short to cover my belly and all my pants leave my ankles exposed. I don’t know if I should feel happy or sad or somewhere in-between. 

All I can think of is school on Monday—thank god it’s the weekend. I don’t want Sydney or Ryan to see me this way. I just told both of them that I am in love with them yesterday. And neither have said it back. At least not since the last time I looked at my phone—which, nope, still nothing. I deliberately leave it on the charger in my room so I stop obsessively checking.

I look terrible in my too tight shirt and my high-water pants, so I borrow one of my mother’s boyfriend’s sweatshirts off the back of a kitchen chair to try to hide my colossal body. He isn’t home to object, and my mother doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t even ask about all the extra me. 

She just says, “Can you pick up some milk while you’re out?” 

And I nod and slip out the door.

I have to duck my head and adjust the driver’s seat just to get into the car. Everything is too cramped. The steering wheel presses into my knees and the rear-view mirror is facing the back seat. It takes me quite a while to get it right, and even then, it’s still wrong.

I’m tempted to go back inside, but I know there’s nothing for me there. I need new clothes now. I need to adjust. I need to live with my enormous self. 

I drive with the windows down. The fresh air helps me forget about my size. The fresh air helps me forget about what his face did when I told him I’m in love with him. The fresh air helps me forget about what her hands did when I told her I’m in love with her. The fresh air helps me forget. 

I park in the far corner of the store lot. I hesitate. I feel even bigger than I was when I left. I have to go in, but I wish someone else would do it for me. But there isn’t anyone else.

I take a deep breath and duck out of the car. I drag myself through the revolving doors, and immediately there’s a sales lady in front of me. 

“Can I help you?” she sings.

Can anyone? I want to say. But instead I just shake my gigantic head and look for the opposite of petites. I’m certainly not that anymore.

In the Women’s department, I find lots of clothes fit for a grandmother. Nothing I would ever want to wear. No low-waisted jeans, no graphic tees, no bright colors or sheer fabric. It’s all business-casual—slacks and cardigans and gray gray gray. 

Why is it that only petites are given the fun clothes? Why do retailers force women to lose our sense of self and freedom and identity as we grow older? 

I find black yoga pants and a long-sleeve gray tee and it’s the closest thing to something I might wear that fits me. I buy it and wear it out of the store. For the first time, I’m not upset to almost blend in. If only I weren’t so colossal. 

My mother doesn’t notice I changed when I come home, or if she does she doesn’t mention it. 

“Did you get the milk?” she asks. 

They say milk helps you grow big and healthy. You can be sure I forgot to buy that on purpose. She’s annoyed, but I pretend not to notice. We’ve always been good at not noticing each other. And pretending.

I go to my room and finally look at my phone again. I left it as long as I could. I gave them plenty of time—almost twenty-four hours now. But still, nothing. 

My new shirt already feels too tight. 

Ryan actually said it first. We were at his house, on his bed, and his hand was up my shirt, under my bra. He pulled his lips away from mine and with his eyes still closed, he said it. 

I didn’t say it back, then. I didn’t say it back because his eyes were closed and I knew I loved him, too, but also because I knew I loved her and my eyes were open and so instead I pulled his lips back into mine and pressed my body harder into his hands and he didn’t question it.

But I did. 

What am I supposed to do with a love like this? You’re not supposed to be in love with two people at once. There is no fairy tale, no model of what this should look like. 

I thought I had to tell her how I felt before I could say it back to him. I had no one to ask but myself, and that’s what I thought I should do. It took me days to do it, but when I did it, I did it all at once. 

It was just yesterday that I brought her to the ocean and as we sat in my car and the waves crashed against the shore like we have, I said it, and she pulled her hand out of mine. 

It was just yesterday that she left my car and I drove to his house and as the trees swayed into each other like we have, I said it, and his face broke into storm. 

Who knew love could hurt so much? 

Finally, I check social media. My phone is too hot in my palm. 

And there they are, together. There they are, together, laughing. Ryan and Sydney. No missed call. No text. Just a photo of them. Laughing. Not with me. For the world. Not for me. 

I’m growing too monstrous for this room. Not just my skin or my muscles but all the way down in my bones. I hurt. The clothes I just bought are ripping at the seams. 

My mother knocks on my door to tell me she’s going out to get the milk I forgot and I can’t answer her, I can’t open the door because I’m everywhere including stuck in my own throat. She leaves the house and I snap the beams and break through the sheetrock until everything collapses. 

I am a giant, too much for this world. I am naked and huge and hurting and the more I try to hide from myself, the larger I grow. 

I look at the photo of Sydney and Ryan again and again. The photo for the world, not for me. They’re laughing. Both of them. Sydney and Ryan. Laughing. It was just the day before, and now I’m a giant, and now they’re laughing. 

How did I expect this story to end?

I close my eyes and think. 

The truth is, I didn’t expect this story. 

And maybe that’s why I’m becoming a giant. Maybe that’s why I can hold Sydney and Ryan in the palm of my hand now, like figurines too small for me, and continue to grow.

My eyes open. 

I am not too big. They are just too small. 

As published by Spare Parts Lit, summer 2026