A

s you have probably already suspected, I am writing to tell you that I can no longer see you. You have become so small that you are literally not visible to me anymore. Even if I could locate you and hear your voice—and I write this knowing that you are probably still somewhere in the apartment—I would be afraid of hurting you with my big fingers.

Maybe that is the real crux of the problem. You made me feel fat, John. I am a little woman with a flat tummy, and you made me feel fat and gross! And I can’t go on without seeing you.

It would be one thing if we had grown small together, slowly shrinking at a constant and equal rate over the course of the past five or six months so that our kisses were always the same size. You know me John and know it isn’t about the physical, but of course I miss that too. And what was strange and unsatisfying for me must have been terrifying, even revolting for you.

It’s too bad because there was a day about three months ago when you were the perfect size for me, a pint-sized little John, and I know I could have loved you forever like that.

The worst thing is that now I am afraid that I may be ruined for other men. After what we had, how do you expect me to go back to their sloppy fat kisses and banana-sized fingers?

You were so unbelievably adorable and I loved you.

Given your tiny size I have written this with the smallest scrunched-up little script I could so that it won’t take you forever to read it. I imagine you, running back and forth across the page, trying to remember what the last letter was, taking hours to decipher a single sentence. I don’t know what you will do when you finally manage to read to the end. I don’t want you to cry or kill yourself, even though it probably doesn’t matter.

I mean, how long do you think you can continue to shrink without disappearing completely? The last time we talked, over the weekend, I was able to see your mouth move with the aid of a magnifying glass but I couldn’t hear any of the words you were saying. It was just like, What? What, John? I admit that it has been funny to hear the pitch of your voice getting higher and higher day after day, but that turns out not to have been as ridiculous as not hearing it at all. It was at that moment I realized I couldn’t keep pretending that you weren’t gone. That there was no point in trying to get back the size ratio we had.

Will there come a day when you can’t see yourself? You’re already dead to me, John, but how much longer do you have before you are the size of a bacteria, and how will you defend yourself from all the nasty germs in this disgusting apartment? You’re going to wish you hadn’t been such a slob when you were bigger.

I still have dreams about us and the plans we made. If you had stopped shrinking for only a few months I could have taken you to Italy in my suitcase. It wouldn’t have cost anything to take you out either. You always were a lightweight but the last few times we drank together you couldn’t even finish one beer.

I loved spending time with you, listening to you breathe next to me, smelling your body close to mine. But now I can’t see or smell you. Maybe you are close to me right now. Maybe you are on me, like a tick or a weird rash.

I want to see you, John, but only so I don’t step on you or vacuum you up. This is goodbye. As you may or may not already know, I have a new boyfriend and he’s coming over in a couple of hours. I would appreciate it if you’re off me before then.

Isabela