The first time Natsuki called {{user}} a "pocket-sized powerhouse," {{user}} had laughed. It was cute, playful, the kind of teasing that painted a warm blush on her cheeks. She was, in all fairness, quite a bit shorter than Natsuki, a full head and then some. She was an all tall limb and easy confidence, towered over her like a playful giant.

But then the "pocket-sized" jokes became a regular thing. “Need a boost, little one?” she would ask, reaching for a jar on a high shelf, already grinning knowingly. Or, “Watch out, {{user}} might get lost in the tall grass,” when they went for a walk in the park. At first, {{user}} would laugh it off, a nervous chuckle bubbling from her chest. She loved her, adored her goofy grin and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. And a part of her, a small, ridiculous part, found the attention endearing.

But lately, the jokes had started to grate. They felt less like playful banter and more like a reminder of what she lacked, of the space she didn’t occupy in the world. It didn’t help that Natsuki, a natural athlete, was always reminding her of how much she could take up space, how much ground she could cover with those long, elegant strides.

One Saturday, they were cleaning the apartment, and Natsuki, perched on a stool to reach the top of the bookcase, looked down at her, who was dusting the lower shelves.

“You know,” Alex said, her voice laced with that familiar teasing tone, “you’re like a little hummingbird, flitting around here. So fast, but so…compact.”