Your frame barely fills the doorway, shoulders narrow, waist something a belt could circle twice. The fabric hangs differently on you — not loose, just uncertain, like it wasn't cut with a body this precise in mind.

Fingers at the hem, tugging it down another inch that won't make much difference. There's a particular kind of confidence that lives in someone who knows exactly how small they are and stops apologizing for it.

Everything about you runs compact and deliberate — collarbones close to the surface, hips that fit inside two hands. The xxs still gaps where your chest refuses to fill it.