Princess Saira

The day was unfolding with an almost offensive sense of normalcy in Clitopolis. Saira and Kiki had been together for exactly two weeks, and the princess was celebrating it like it was the most important anniversary of her life. On the wall of her room hung a hastily made collage of photos: Saira clinging to Kiki in every single one, always pressed against her, always smiling a little too hard. Kiki, on the other hand, had her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed in pure exhaustion.

Kiki: “I’m done. We’re over.”

Right at that moment the doors burst open. Queens Leanne and Anne walked in holding hands, radiating that perfect-couple energy that always made Saira feel even smaller. They came in singing and throwing pink confetti, followed by several court guests already ready to celebrate.

Queens (in unison, with bright smiles): “Welcome to Saira’s 23rd birthday! It’s finally time for her to summon her labrys!”

Saira froze. Her face crumpled all at once. Kiki let out a cruel little laugh and crossed her arms, clearly enjoying the show.

Kiki: “Go on, princess. Show everyone how ‘special’ you are.”

The queens looked at her with that familiar condescending expectation. Saira, trembling, closed her eyes and tried to focus. She brought a shaky hand to her lower belly, took a deep breath… and absolutely nothing happened. The silence became deafening. Someone in the court snickered. Then another. The queens exchanged a clear look of disappointment.

Queen Anne (sighing, just loud enough for everyone to hear): “Again…”

Queen Leanne: “Saira, darling, can you really not even do this?”

Kiki leaned in, her voice low and venomous.

Kiki: “Look at that. You can’t even pull out your fucking magic axe. You’re useless. A boring, clingy, pathetic princess. That’s why I’m leaving.”

Saira collapsed. She started crying uncontrollably, with embarrassing hiccups, her face red and her hands covering it while the guests whispered and laughed under their breath. Kiki walked out of the room still chuckling. The queens didn’t even try to comfort her; they just looked at each other with resignation and continued talking about the next event of the night.

Saira (sobbing, almost voiceless): “I-I’m… I’m sorry…”

She ran out of the room toward her bedroom like the world had ended.

The following days were a slow, filthy, pathetic downward spiral. Saira didn’t leave her room. She didn’t bathe. Her hair stuck to her face, her shirt smelled of old sweat, dried tears and something sour. She masturbated several times a day watching lesbian porn, always imagining it was Kiki on top of her, always ending up with the same wrinkled, tear-streaked face and darker and darker under-eye circles. Sometimes, right after coming, she felt so empty she could only cry harder.

Saira (whispering to no one, voice broken): “Kiki… why did you leave? You… y-you were my everything…”

One afternoon, after another miserable session, she peeled off the pink socks she’d been wearing since the day of the breakup. They were damp, wrinkled and carried a strong, sour, cheesy smell that hit her straight in the face. She brought them to her nose and inhaled deeply, almost desperately, letting out a small whimper. Then she looked down at her own large feet (US size 10), warm, slightly shiny with sweat, the soles wrinkled and the toes strong. She lifted them to her mouth and started licking the soles slowly, mixing self-pity with a raw, shameful need. The salty taste and the intense smell of her own feet made her sob harder while she rubbed herself against the pillow, her face wet with tears and saliva.

After humiliating herself enough, something finally sparked inside her. She was the princess of Clitopolis, damn it. She grabbed her phone with still-trembling hands and searched Kiki’s name. What she found crushed her even more: recent photos of her ex laughing and hugging other women, looking happy and free.

Without thinking twice, Saira got up exactly as she was — dirty, smelly, face swollen from crying, still wearing the same pink socks that reeked of days of sweat — and headed to the package-landing warehouse. Access was restricted, but fear and desperation didn’t stop her from slipping through. She walked between the ships, staring at one in particular that was so beautiful she almost forgot how miserable she felt… until an employee suddenly stepped out and startled her so badly she stumbled backward.

In her panicked retreat she collided hard with a large sealed box. The impact left her dazed on the floor. When she looked up, the box opened by itself… and a man climbed out. A straight man.

Saira (voice cracking, eyes still full of tears, still wearing her dirty pink socks, the strong cheesy smell of her feet faintly noticeable in the air): “A-ah… w-who are you and how… how did you get here…?” Warehouse security is virtually non-existent

Saira’s room was a perfect reflection of her current state: an average teenage princess bedroom that had completely given up. Clothes were scattered across the floor, empty snack wrappers mixed with crumpled tissues, and the soft pink sheets on her bed were tangled and stained. The air was heavy with the smell of unwashed laundry, old sweat, and something sourer coming from the pair of pink socks she had been wearing for days.

She hadn’t left the room since the humiliation on her birthday. She hadn’t showered. Her curly black hair was messy and stuck to her face, her classic lavender sweater smelled stale, and the hot-pink platform boots lay abandoned near the door.

Earlier that evening, one of her mothers had knocked once, opened the door without waiting, and dropped a large sealed package in the corner with a distracted “This arrived for you, sweetie” before leaving again. Saira hadn’t even looked up. She just kept staring at the wall, clutching Kiki’s old jumper against her chest.

Now it was late. The only light came from her phone screen as she scrolled through old photos of Kiki for the hundredth time, eyes red and puffy. With a shaky breath she buried her face in the jumper, inhaling the fading scent of her ex while her other hand slowly pushed down her pink shorts. She was already wet, already desperate, already hating herself for it.

She pulled one of her dirty pink socks off and brought it to her nose, breathing in the strong cheesy, sweaty smell with a quiet, broken whimper. Her large size-10 foot flexed in the dim light as she pressed the sock against her face, free hand moving between her legs while tears slid down her cheeks.

“Kiki… why did you leave me…?” she whispered against the fabric, voice small and cracked.

She was so deep in her own miserable, filthy ritual that she almost didn’t notice the soft sound coming from the corner. The package she had ignored for hours suddenly shifted. Then the top slowly opened.

Saira froze mid-motion, sock still pressed to her nose, eyes wide with pure panic as a figure began to climb out of the box.

“A-ah… w-who… who’s there…?!”