~*~
From the moment I entered this world, I saw it through a different lens than most babies. But no matter how different I was, my parents loved me fiercely and without hesitation, from the very first breath I took. Their love wrapped around me like a warm, unbreakable shield, reminding me every day that I was cherished just as I was.
I was a Labubu baby.
My hair started growing when I was two: full, fluffy, and soft, a sage-colored Labubu fur that felt like moss under fingertips. By the time I turned five, my little ears had grown pointy, twitching at the slightest sound.
My parents weren’t scared: they embraced me wholly, as their child, their special child. Together, we journeyed to secret places made just for Labubus like me. Hidden sanctuaries run by our own kind, safe from the wary eyes of most humans. These places were alive with laughter and light, filled with fields where we chased glowing fireflies, markets bursting with colorful trinkets crafted by Labubu hands, and cozy festivals where music floated on the air like magic. Every trip was an adventure, a celebration of who I was, and the world felt wide open and full of possibility.
But, unfortunately, we couldn’t live there forever. My parents were still human, bound to a world that didn’t truly belong to us. So, each time, we had to leave; returning to a place where being different came with its own heavy price.
When I was five, I went to a special school for Labubu children. That was when the shrinking began. Slowly at first, then all at once. It wasn’t graceful or easy. My bones ached as they twisted into new shapes, joints locking up for days at a time. My skin stretched and shrank, my voice cracked in unfamiliar tones. There were nights I screamed into my pillow from the pain, and days I could barely lift my head without dizziness.
By ten, I was the average size of an adult Labubu: small enough to fit in a coat pocket or be carried in the pouch of a backpack. My mother, who never once flinched at my changing shape, made me tailored outfits: tiny, intricate garments sewn with patience and so much love. She said being a Labubu meant I was rare, meant I was magic. And for a little while, I believed her.
That was the year my parents had another baby, a girl. A perfectly human girl with soft skin, round cheeks, and eyes that didn’t unsettle anyone. She cried like a normal baby, cooed like a normal child, and everyone adored her for it.
I was happy for them, I told myself. But they started doing things I only dreamed of: family trips to the beach, birthday parties at the skating rink, simple strolls in the mall without glares or whispers. Places where I had once caused discomfort, embarrassment.
But the world didn’t always agree. Discrimination hung over us like a dark cloud. Labubus were barred from voting, banned from public schools, and forbidden from using regular human spaces like libraries, parks, and public transport. We weren’t allowed to hold many jobs, especially those involving trust or authority. Owning property was nearly impossible, and many businesses refused to serve us. Even healthcare was limited... often segregated or denied entirely. My parents hated it all, but I only minded sometimes.
when I turned sixteen my teeth had sharpened by then, glistening like tiny ivory daggers whenever I smiled. My eyes had grown wide and glossy, almost luminous in the dark, like a forest animal watching from the underbrush. My voice had thinned into a whispery rasp. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I was no longer “just different.” I was fully Labubu.
They said they loved me still. But their love grew quieter. Less present. Their voices softened when they spoke to me, careful like I might break. Or lash out. Or disappear.
I already had.
At sixteen, you’re supposed to be finding your place in the world. Instead, I felt mine shrinking around me: just like my body had.
I swore I’d move out at eighteen, but I never made it that far.
When I was seventeen, I played with my Labubu friends in our secret park. But one day, humans came. They kicked one of our own so hard that he passed away before sunset. When I told my parents, they didn’t seem to care much. They only worried about my sister, who was learning new things, growing in their favor. They blamed the other Labubus for speaking out too much and grounded me.
But the cage wasn’t strong enough. I slipped out through the cat door they’d installed for me and went to a candlelight vigil for our fallen friend. The other Labubu welcomed me, held me, made me feel less alone. So I told them of my troubles with my family. Some of the Labubu understood gave me great advice even. But Some of the Labubu did not agree.
When the vigil ended, I returned home, heart heavy but hopeful. I had Ideas about how I could sit down and talk with my parents and fix what was broken. But hope shattered the moment I stepped through the door. Horror waited there- my family, torn apart by the very ones I thought were my kin. The other Labubu, driven by grief and rage, had come for revenge. They left in a flash, leaving me with my grief.
They slaughtered my whole family, my home soaked in their blood and silence. On my knees, tears flowed down my face burning like fire as I cradled their lifeless bodies, my cries swallowed by a merciless world.
I called the police, desperate for justice, but when they arrived, the world turned on me. Instead of compassion, I found suspicion. Instead of safety, I was accused. Blamed for a crime I never committed. There was no Candle light vigil for me.
The trial was a mockery. A public performance dressed up as justice. They paraded my grief like it was evidence, twisted my silence into guilt. The truth, fragile and trembling: was buried beneath fear, bias, and human revulsion. I lost. Of course I did.
They said I was too young for prison, too small to be punished like an adult. But not too small to hate. Not too small to fear. So instead of a cell, they called me unstable. Labeled me mentally ill. Dangerous.
They didn’t want to understand a grieving Labubu. They wanted to erase me.
And so they sent me here.
To be fixed.
To be corrected.
To be broken.
That’s when the real nightmare began.
I have been tortured ever since: trapped in a nightmare that never ends. Every few days, cold, unfeeling hands drag me from whatever fragile rest I find. They poke and prod at me relentlessly, as if I’m nothing more than an experiment, testing the limits of my pain and fear. The burns on my fur sting like wildfire, raw and unhealing, and the jagged gaps where teeth once were are a constant, gnawing reminder of my torment.
They strip away my dignity piece by piece. Starving me, isolating me, whispering lies meant to break my mind. The walls close in, suffocating and endless, a maze of sterile white halls and locked doors that swallow hope whole. The screams of others echo through the night, blending with my own silent cries.
Every day, they demand I confess. Admit to a crime I never committed. But I won’t give them that victory. I cling to the shards of my innocence, even as they try to shatter me entirely.
Riots rage outside these cold, suffocating walls: Labubu rising, fighting fiercely for the scraps of rights we’re cruelly denied. The air is thick with fear and fury. My friend, slipping in like a shadow whenever they can, whispers of a terrifying truth: the humans have decided we’re too dangerous, too much to control. Their plan is clear and horrifying.
They won’t just silence us. They intend to wipe us out. Every last one of us.
Labubu babies, once cherished, are now ripped from their homes the moment they’re born. No longer allowed to live among humans, they’re dragged to secret facilities hidden from the world. Places where the light never reaches, and no one ever returns.
They vanish. Erased. Forgotten.
This is our history. This is our nightmare.
So I write this letter, trembling but determined, in the hope that one day; somewhere, somehow, someone will find it. Someone who will see beyond the lies, beyond the shadows cast by fear. Someone who will know, without a doubt, that I did not murder my family.
That this world can be a merciless cage, especially for those of us born different, marked by fate and fur.
Soon, I fear, I will be stripped of my very soul, turned into nothing more than a stuffed keychain. Another forgotten relic, a toy with no voice, like so many before me.
But I was more than that.
I was a Labubu.
Not just by shape, but by heart. Small, strange, and full of wonder. I collected shiny things, believed in magic, and laughed at shadows. I asked too many questions. I felt too much.
I wasn’t dangerous. Just different.
But sometimes, that’s all it takes.
Sincerely, A Sage colored Labubu named Anna
