All Cynthia wanted was a vacation.

She's been hard at work this past year. She'd sacrificed her personal life, her hobbies, even some of her friends. She'd published two! first-author! papers in one year and felt incredibly proud of herself. Her advisor literally took her aside after the second one went up and said: "Good job, and now I want you out for at least two weeks!". Even then she was on the fence, but Brian and Mary were just about to go on a trip of their own, and they offered her to come by if she had any time, and this was just too good of an opportunity. So she went. The moment she boarded the plane, and left her work behind, she felt almost euphoric. She didn't have to care about cell cultures, stains and wearing PPE. For two weeks!

Too good to be true. She even reflected on her decision to go to grad school in the first place. Normal people had vacations all the fucking time. She had to focus her entire life on science to "deserve" one. It wasn't fair. And the job prospects weren't even good. Why was she doing it?

That's, perhaps, a question any scientist asks themselves from time to time. But she tried not to linger on it. Vacation! Swimming pools! Shopping malls! Hookups! Drinks! Normal people things!

They arrived in their hotel at night, went directly to their rooms - Cynthia had a separate one - unpacked, then had drinks together, then went to sleep, and Cynthia saw carefree, rosy dreams, and then she woke up one inch tall.

All she wanted was a vacation. Instead she got a cruel twist of fate.

***

"Um, so, we told them you're staying in today", Mary said, her minty breath making Cynthia tear up. She was standing on a coffee table; her titanic friend was kneeling in front of it. "They promised to send up some snacks with the room service. They even have a tiny TV remote, can you imagine?"

Cynthia bit her lip. She really wanted to scream at Mary, but held it. For now.

Her friend was perceptive, though.

"Listen, I know this sucks. Like, I think this is so unfair! But at least you don't have to work, right? You can just... hang out. The staff will care for you. And we'll come by at night!"

"Why can't you just take me with you for the day?"

"Oh, Cyn, it's dangerous", Mary mumbled. But she looked away. The truth, which they both knew, was that Mary was also on a vacation, and their friendship wasn't tight enough for her to want to care for her shrunken friend for most of the day. She'd have to be mindful... she'd have to hold Cynthia in her mental space... and Cynthia, like no one else, knew how taxing it can be to constantly have to keep something on one's mind.

So she just smiled. "Of course".

"What?"

"I said, of course. Have fun."

"This sucks so hard", Mary sighed. "Maybe there's like a local shrinkee club... Oh, Brian's calling me. See you tonight!"

And so she left. The door clicked into place. Cynthia was alone.

For about an hour, she had absolutely nothing to do. She wanted to explore, but was somewhat afraid of leaving the coffee table - at least before the room service person came in. The room seemed large and alien now - familiar objects, but magnified to sizes that made them look surreal and scary. All of her clothing was still around the room; she threw some on a chair, some was hanging by the door. Her suitcase, wide-open, was laying down by the bed. Her laptop was on a nightstand next to the bed, and under that nightstand was her backpack, with the rest of her tech and other minor things.

It was weird. All of her things were right there, but she could use exactly none of them. She was stuck in this tiny state for God knows how long. She’d heard people sometimes recovered, but it wasn’t something doctors could help with.

Cynthia groaned as she plopped down on her butt and crossed her legs. This was going to be a long day.

In about an hour there was a knock on the door.

“Housekeeping!”

The cleaning lady entered with her cart of supplies. She was middle-aged, bronze-skinned, wearing a standard uniform with the hotel logo. Cynthia stood up and waved her hands. It took several seconds, but she was eventually noticed.

“Ah, right”, the cleaning lady noted in a neutral tone when she noticed the now-tiny inhabitant of the room. “The tiny. I had something for you.”

She produced a little object the size of a matchbox, opened it up and put it down onto the coffee table. Cynthia recoiled from the woman’s massive hand - automatically, not because she was afraid. It was a container, and inside this container there were little items, appropriately sized for her.

As the housekeeper started working, Cynthia studied the contents of the box. Packed food (crackers and water), change of clothes (a couple of shapeless robes), a remote, like she was promised. Even a portable toilet. This last part felt particularly insulting and daunting. She stepped away from the container, lied down and idly watched the giant woman change the sheets and replace all the towels…

“Why’s she doing this”, Cynthia suddenly wondered. “I still have the room for two weeks for some reason. Are they assuming I’m moving out? Or do they just change them every day no matter what?”

The cleaning lady was prompt and efficient; in ten minutes she was already out, and Cynthia was once again left with nothing but herself. She turned the TV on, found a way to start Netflix, put on a soap opera. The thought of jumping off the table and taking a good look around the room was still there.

But a part of her was intimidated and frightened. All of her things… somehow they made it worse. Glancing in the direction of the front door she could see her own shoes, worn red Nikes sneakers, which she’d walked many miles in. Size six, with shoelaces recently replaced so they were shiny white… they were hers and yet she felt like they really weren’t anymore, not while she was like this. It was like she was looking at her old life from a third person’s point of view. None of this was hers anymore, even if it carried pieces and memories of her. The laptop with all her work - she couldn’t even unlock it. The purse with her money and credit cards - she couldn’t go and use that to buy dinner. The shoes - they likely smelled like her, but she could no longer walk in them.

All of it just felt dumb and tragic. “At least it happened during the vacation. Maybe it’ll come off by the time I have to work again”, she thought and shuddered to herself. Now that would be something she would not be able to take. She is not missing work due to shrinking!..