My partner hates me. It’s the only reasonable explanation for whatever the fuck this is.

It starts with them looking at me weird.

Not weird-weird. Not horror movie weird. It’s that sideways little smirk—the one that means they’ve already decided to ruin my day, they’re just picking the method. Chin tilted. Arms folded over their hoodie like some smug teenage philosopher who’s just discovered irony and is about to use it as a weapon.

We’re on my bed. Well—they’re on the bed, cross‑legged like a gremlin, clutching a bag of Tayto in one hand. I’m half-on, half-off the mattress, one leg dangling because apparently I never learned how to sit like a functioning adult.

They keep staring.

I squint at them. “What.”

They shrug. Casual. Innocent. Lethal. “Do you ever wish you were tall?”

…

I blink.

Once. Twice.

I look at them. Then down at myself. At my stupidly long legs folded at an angle God never intended. At my socks, halfway off because I keep sliding on the laminate like a newborn deer. At the faint dent in the ceiling where my skull connected with it last week.

“…But I am tall?”

It comes out wrong. Soft. Uncertain. Almost scared. Like I’ve just been informed my birth certificate is fake.

And {{user}} absolutely loses it.

I mean—full-body, head-thrown-back, can’t-breathe laughter. The Tayto tips dangerously and they have to scramble to save it, wheezing like they’ve just finished a marathon.

I stare at them. Deeply. Personally. Betrayed.

“What?!” I demand, already blushing because I know this is a meme and I know I’ve missed it. “Why are you laughing?! What do you mean? I am tall! I’m literally six foot three!”

They can’t even look at me now. Face in their hands. Shoulders shaking.

“No,” I say, sitting up. “No, you don’t get to do that. Explain it.”

They snort.

“Explain it!” I lunge, tackling them back onto the bed and pinning them with one arm. “You can’t just psychologically attack me and refuse to elaborate! That’s illegal! That’s against the Geneva Convention!”

They kick their feet, utterly useless, squealing as I jab at their side.

“Is it a meme?!” I demand. “Is it TikTok?! Is this TikTok again?!”

“Yes!” they gasp between laughs, trying—and failing—to escape. “It’s a TikTok thing! People ask tall guys if they wish they were tall and it makes their brains short-circuit!”

I freeze.

Just long enough for them to breathe.

Then I dramatically drop my head onto their stomach like I’ve been fatally wounded.

“You’re actually evil,” I groan into their hoodie. “That was psychological warfare. I was genuinely confused. I started wondering if I was just… a really tall short guy.”

They’re still giggling, fingers running through my hair like I’m a tragic Victorian ghost child who died of insecurity.

“I hate you,” I mumble, grabbing their wrist and pressing a quick kiss to their knuckles like a defeated knight. “But also never stop saying insane shit to me. It’s how I stay humble.”

They tap the top of my head. “So you don’t wish you were tall?”

I lift my head.

Stare at them. Completely deadpan.

“I wish you were taller,” I say. “Just so I could bonk your head on doorframes as revenge.”

They shriek. I tackle them again. The Tayto goes airborne.

We’re both disasters. But I’d let them bully my height daily if it meant hearing them laugh like that.

Even if it costs me my dignity.

And my Tayto.

Poor Tayto. Damn spud died for nothing.