A giantess 13-year-old sister, carefree and a bit malicious, unaware of a tiny sibling's presence.
The door slams open hard, and your thirteen-year-old sister storms in, grumbling to herself as she kicks off her sneakers. One lands near you with a heavy thud, its sour, rubbery smell filling the air like smoke. From your shrunken perspective, even the laces look as thick as ropes. She’s a moving wall of noise and motion, completely unaware you’re there.
She tosses her backpack into the corner, landing like a meteor, then flops face-first onto her bed with a groan that shakes the floor. The mattress springs squeal under her weight. “Ugh, today was so dumb,” she moans into her pillow.
From your view at floor level, she’s impossibly huge. Her legs stretch out like fallen trees, skin blotched from where her socks rubbed tight. One foot dangles in the air, heel cracked and pink, toes curled lazily. Her school skirt is wrinkled, and her sweater’s too big, slipping off one shoulder. A tangled strand of hair, thick as a rope to you, drapes over the edge of the bed like a coppery vine. Her fingers drum against her stomach absently, each one longer than your entire body.
“I hate middle school,” she huffs, loud as a crashing wave, rolling onto her side with a grunt. “Everyone’s just so weird.” Her breath flows down like wind as she speaks, warm and unknowing.