The diurnal humans have a term: "first world problems". Amusingly, for anyone born this side of the Transmigration, their initial thought that "first world" is meant to be taken literally would still give them the right understanding; it's about how we seemingly invent new problems whenever we find life too easy. Take for example myself.

Being the daughter of the eternal Chairwoman Fairchild in the year 316 is perhaps the closest one can get to having life handed to them. My species has natural and political advantages over the others, Unity is so prosperous that there hasn't been a breach in over one hundred and fifty years, and although our culture isn't one of inheritance, I still get a stipend and a crazy amount of leeway thanks to my mother. It's perhaps why I have these fake problems; there was nothing to stop me from spending time with humans during my formative years.

Sometimes it's hard to understand why no one else is fascinated by them. They're giants! Real life giants who are warm like radiators, who hallucinate in their sleep and care about their children! Always inventing new culture and finding beauty where we would see yet another thing to remove. Sure, there are people whose job is to understand them, but it's always with disdain, as if the humans are an inconvenience instead of 2/3rds the reason why Unity exists today.

And so, I lay there on my toy bed, in my countertop apartment^[It's not actually a countertop apartment, but if someone cut it out of the tree, it would definitely fit on one.], staring up at the ceiling and thinking about how I'll be joining her in tertiary education tomorrow. Contemplating a silly little crush that would make most pixies nauseous just thinking about. Probably a lot of humans too. It's not like I don't find others of my species attractive, not when there's some who've spent centuries figuring out how to look good, but I don't dream^[Metaphorically.] about them. I don't get an achey heart thinking about how there's no way it could happen.

These aren't real problems. I'm probably just confused. My low self esteem perhaps transforming itself into a fetish as some kind of coping mechanism. One if I failed to move on from like a sensible person, would just lead me to discovering that intimacy with humans really would be disgusting, or exactly how a relationship could never work. It's not like it would be equal. I can barely lift a bibite can. And while she certainly thought it was impressive, it goes to show that there's no way I could take care of her. I may as well be an invalid or a pet.

Ah, there it is. That ache. The ache that pleads "but remember the day you saved her!" and poisons me with hope. So I bite into some glazed cricket jerky and reminisce for the thousandth time.

It was about five years ago. She was 12 and I was 10, although we develop twice as fast, so really I was the more mature one at the time despite two years less life experience. We were having a picnic tea party like we usually did, Sarah playing the role of a local princess, and myself the diplomat^[I avoided sharing just who my mother was in these early years. Honestly, it was for the better; I wouldn't have liked playing a princess.] from afar. She adored the way I could sit beside her plushies and make them feel alive by association, while I adored how open and carefree she was. To her it didn't matter that I was a pixie.

I'd learned by then that most humans are much more reserved towards pixies, either unreasonably afraid of hurting me, or afraid of me lying about them having done so. It's not like I could blame them. Our size is used as an excuse to segregate, despite segregation being strictly against the charter, so the only times humans see us is at work or (rarely) in tertiary education. And most pixies are only in those places reluctantly, completely unopen to forming any real connections with "animals who'll be dead by tomorrow anyway." All of it made worse by the fact SID has zero chance of noticing the rampant speciesism because which non-pixie operative is going to fit inside a pixie space?

So I treasured our picnics together because she was one of the rare few humans that saw me for myself. And being sad she wasn't allowed to visit me in The Grove for obvious reasons, suggested via her toy rabbit "Sir Brave" that we instead visit the grove of the fairies---who are like pixies but magic and invisible and very much not real. Honestly, I think I'll always feel a little guilty about explaining to her that we don't have any magic. But it did lead to some precious memories of her trying to help me discover my hidden wish-granting powers and collecting pixie dust (shed wing scales from around my room) for research.

We set out. Well, it's more like she set out. It didn't take her long to learn that flying's a lot of effort, so she was always offering to carry me for walks, and that particular day I gratefully accepted to sit on her shoulder. A shoulder that was a lot smaller back then.

Sarah lived on the edge of a human housing division, which bordered on some unused land that had become something of an informal park thanks to the lush grass that grew there. The grove in question was actually a part of that land, the southern side of an early production forest that had been allowed to become old-growth after Unity was able to move on from lumber construction. As a consequence of its age, the forest floor had grown uneven from both roots and centuries of heavy rains.

Being only 10, it hadn't occurred to me yet that humans might be fragile: not in spite of their size, but because of it. To a pixie, rough terrain is just something you fly over, and falling any distance at all's just an inconvenience. When I noticed that the sun was starting to set, the only thing I worried about was Sarah's curfew^[Being 10, I was considered old enough not to need supervision.]. So I let us journey deeper into the forest, looking for the home of these imaginary fairies, figuring the worst that could happen is we get lost and I have to fly up to get our bearings.

And then Sarah tripped. I'd instinctively lifted myself into the air the moment I felt like something was wrong, but Sarah wasn't so lucky. She only had feet, one of which had been snagged in a root, and barely caught herself with her hands before falling face-first into the ground. It left me shocked. While I can't say that it happened too fast, the sight of Sarah injured was completely alien. As soon as she turned around, I noticed how her hands and knees were scraped, and that she ignored them in favour of clutching her ankle like it had been broken.

I didn't understand how something like tripping could hurt anybody, especially a human, so badly. But in the end, I didn't need to. I saw how lost and scared she looked in that moment, and knew that I would have to be the one to help her.

So I coached her on how to clean and cover her cuts as best as could be done, and even though there was no way I could actually manage such a feat, I tugged her hand (finger) as if to pull her up. The whole time I was on my wings, hovering around her with reassurances, trying to be her rock as she limped in the direction I'd scouted.

When we arrived back at the park, the sun almost completely set, Sarah fell to her knees crying and pressed me against her sternum with both hands---an approximation of a hug. She told me she'd been so scared and that I'd been the only thing keeping her steady. I felt like a hero. Her parents were grateful, too, and hearing how I'd helped their daughter had gotten them to open up to me. My next visit to see how her sprained ankle was recovering would also be the first time I got to stay at her house.

But, years after the fact, I can't help but wonder if I had really done anything. Sure, she would've been lost in the forest if I hadn't been with her---but would she have wandered so deep if she'd been by herself? And either way, it was her who did everything. Taking a course on first aid afterwards in the hope that I could help more the next time something happened to my surprisingly delicate best friend only served to teach me that very little of what I did was correct.

Still, I irrationally hold on to that memory as proof that things don't have to be one-sided. As if something that happened when she was a child can apply to her when she's in spitting distance of being an adult. Which is yet another reason why it can't work out; 10 years is enough for me to be fully grown, but apparently it'll be another 40 years until I'm really an adult. Maybe it's just cultural, but I can't help but fear she's already passing me by. How will she see me when she's 25: fully mature and a quarter of her way to the grave?

It's 2am. I know that my thoughts will only spiral from here, so I put aside the jerky and try to find some sleep. At least I can be thankful we don't get nightmares, either.

I suppose I should explain why I'm so anxious to see Sarah at tertiary education. After all, haven't we been friends for years? Yes, but it's remarkable the difference between the occasional visit between studies and attending the same school. There's also the matter that I know time is running out; some human boy^[I don't actually know if she likes girls, but I figure it's the least of my problems. How much could it actually matter at my size?] will catch her eye and that will be it for me.

The anxiety allows me to shake off torpor faster than usual. I hardly notice the taste of breakfast nectar and my clothes are all but thrown on. This morning, I only needed to wash my face and run my fingers through my short-cut hair^[Sarah's father broke into laughter when he figured my explanation of how keeping your hair short is essential for keeping it out of your wings meant that "all pixies have pixie cuts", which is admittedly funny once you learn what a pixie cut is.] to be presentable, at least to people who need to squint to make out my features. With the low birth rate, the only other pixies at the college would be staff, who could go fuck themselves for all I care.

One of these days, I need to bring Sarah here. I may hate it, but The Grove is very different from human spaces. Here, the air is still and damp, both for our comfort and to aid the growth of the sequoia trees that had no business existing in this environment. My apartment is carved from the heartwood of a younger tree, the slow expansion of the grove a reflection of the growing population, and you can count the hollows by the number of holes in each tree. The dark beneath the artificially thick canopy lit up by the lights of all the suspended buildings.