Next to Barbie

Where Beauty First Confused Us Both

This is about the first time—

a girl holding a doll, a boy falling for a girl—

and not knowing why our chest suddenly felt too small.

The Doll

She came in a box with cellophane skin.

Glossy, pink, and perfect.

I peeled the tape slowly,

afraid I might ruin her—

afraid she was too beautiful for me.

She wasn’t just a toy.

She was something else entirely.

An invitation into a world I didn’t understand

but already longed for—

quiet, polished, untouchable.

I sat with her for hours,

brushing her hair, dressing her gently.

Not quite playing.

More like studying.

Learning how to hold something fragile.

I whispered to her.

Nothing much—just breath.

She never answered.

But I swore she listened,

still as glass, soft as dreams.

That night, I placed her beside me.

Too nervous to sleep.

Afraid I’d mess her up,

or she’d vanish if I blinked—

some beauty isn’t meant to stay.

The Girl

I saw her and forgot how to be normal.

She wasn’t doing much—just laughing.

But something in me clenched.

Not in pain—

in awe.

She wasn’t perfect in the movie sense.

But she was perfect to me.

Frighteningly perfect.

The kind you can’t stop seeing

once you’ve seen her.

I didn’t speak to her.

Just talked to her in my head.

Played out conversations.

Practiced being near her

without needing words.

Sometimes I dreamed

she was lying next to me.

Not doing anything—just breathing.

That was enough.

That was everything.

I didn’t know what it meant.

Only that I didn’t want it to go away.

Not the beauty.

Not the ache.

Not the soft confusion of it all.

The First Time

Whether she was made of plastic 

or made of breath,

the feeling was the same.

The heart doesn’t know the difference

between a doll and a girl.

It just knows beauty.

And fear.

And the impossible urge

to protect something

we don’t yet understand.

That was first love.

Barbie, or someone real.

Maybe both.

She never spoke—

but somehow, she said everything.